‘Krystell’. A new name. First place I saw it was down at the docks. Then in a bad alley—long, dark, only one way in. It was a dangerous place for painting alone.
Her stuff wasn’t old school. It was like graf’ meets design—she borrowed from Mondrian, Malevich, Pollock. No one seemed to know who she was but after a while I came to recognise her patterns, anticipate her progress. I moved in her wake. Two lone wolves on the night streets. Next to each new piece of hers I’d spray a stencil—the blind Madonna. I was so close I could almost feel her.
2:00 am at the stadium carpark—she was working fast. Masking tape lines. Dot stencil textures. Incredible precision. Rake thin and sickly white, everything about her was desperate.
I watched, mesmerised by the way she built things up. I’d never seen anyone like her. By five the piece was done.
I cut a new stencil—abstract, hearts exploding, with the words ‘use me’. I knew where she’d go next. I put the stencil up and waited. At three she came, took one look, glanced around, unzipped her bag and began obliterating me exquisitely.
small stories about love 