I Met Banksy

I met Banksy on the street. He had been nonchalantly spraying paint over some cut-up discarded plastic as I walked past eating a meat pie. He stopped his activity and looked at me; I looked back—first at him, then at what he had been painting. The moment was strangely anachronistic; abstract expressionist in a world that had rejected manifestos, and yet here he was making up one his own in contrast to all that he had done before.

As we stood there—he with his spray can and I with my pie—everything turned suddenly dark with thought and history—as if an injustice was depending on us to cause its solution.

Banksy seemed to care and so did I. Whatever he was working on, it now had a scope and significance beyond just another project to be photographed, while I had my own share of trivial work impatiently waiting. With that understanding, the light returned and we went our separate ways, but something would be done now, and the world seemed to understand this more than we did.


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