(All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.)
I was born at South Bay Hospital. I grew up here. The South Bay is an interesting place to grow
up. It’s a very small town- Every time I
am out I run into someone I know. I like
that small town feeling. So many of us have
gone to school here and send our kids to the same schools. When my son is skating about town, there are
people keeping an eye on him (It takes a village). The South bay is also a very
big place- spread out (like the rest of Los Angeles) for miles. Sometimes it doesn't seem like a community at
all- Los Angeles is the city without a center and the South Bay is a community
with many hearts.
I've lived in most of the cities that are included in the
term “South Bay” but Hermosa has my heart because of its artist culture.
Hermosa was the center for Jazz music, the center for Punk Rock. 35 years ago I
saved my money to buy a pair of purple suede roller-skates from Wild Wheels- the
skate shop on the strand. I bought my first pair of Doc Martins at Re-Style, I
bought my first Bukowski book from Either-or-Bookstore. I worked graveyard at Denny’s, worked a few
days at Uncle Stavros, worked for years at Rocky Cola.
At 3:am when my shift was over at Rocky Cola, after serving
drunks on one side of the restaurant, and “friends of Bills” on the other, I
was often too wound up to head straight home to bed. My friend and I started going down to the
pier to draw with chalk. We would bring
coffee for the police and they would hang out and drink it while we drew murals
with chalk. The next day we would go down to the strand and listen to the
comments- “I wonder who did that?” “I
liked what it says” “That’s pretty” “It’s
only chalk”. I felt encouraged.
My room-mate and I started to draw on the brick wall that
blocked our front door from Inglewood Ave.
In the morning, cars would wait for the light to turn green on Artesia
as they headed to the freeway. This was back in the day when no one was looking
down at cell phones at every stop. We
drew flowers and hearts and stars and smiling faces. We wrote messages like “Hootenanny is my
magic word” or “Smile today” or my trademark saying “Wake Up and Frolic”. In the years that we communicated with the
increasing traffic, our chalk never caused anyone to lash out at us, or wash it
off, or find our chalk a “Gateway to graffiti”.
In fact, when the messages faded and were no longer legible or
attractive, we would wash it off ourselves, in order to have a new, clean
canvas to work with. My neighbors began
to leave chalk on our doorstep, and I interpreted that as encouragement to
continue.
When my son was young, I started doing things like the “WaxLips Brigade” “Google Eyes” and “Toy tagging”.
The toy tagging evolved into leaving tiny plastic mermaids around. Once
I started posting photos on Facebook, and others participated, it turned into
an international game. It is much bigger
than me, and anyone can play. It made
the world a smaller place. See: “GlobalMaids”.
The Wax Lips Brigade, Toy Tagging, Mermaids.. All of these things
(concepts? Projects? Movements?) can be filed under the heading “FUNism”.
FUNism- the
ideology of FUN, the Religion of FUN.
Playing with chalk is part of FUNism. I've been doing it for over 20 years. My chalk activity increased when my son was
young. We left messages on friend’s driveways, on sidewalks, near elementary
schools. The messages were well received.
We made a difference in people’s days, helped
to cheer people up and that made us feel good.
I was encouraged. So I took my
chalk back to the places where I spend the most time- primarily Hermosa Beach.
The first time someone
passed by me and yelled “That’s graffiti” I was sad and a little shocked. I don’t
want to upset anyone. I never for a
moment figured that anyone would be against CHALK. The reason I was down on the strand with my
chalk was because I wanted to give the world a gift. I wanted to give back to the community that I
love so much.
I sat back and anonymously watched others viewing the
chalk. 95% of the people who noticed
would smile, or stop and take a photo, or comment about how much they love
seeing these little surprises on the strand.
But I don’t even want to upset 5%, because those 5% have a right to
peace and happiness as well. So, I
thought a compromise would be to come around regularly and wash off the chalk
messages, as soon as they began to fade, or when they were there too long.
At this point, the chalk thing has become such a big deal. I have divided a community that I
want to unite. I was never trying to be
subversive. But in a strange way, I feel
the chalk part of FUNism is almost “a calling.”
On Thanksgiving of 2012 I was going for a walk with a dear
friend of mine. While she stopped to get
a drink, I wrote on the face of the stairs that lead to the bathroom: “You don’t
have to know where you are going, just take the first step.” A dog came up to investigate and while I was
petting him, his owners asked me if I was the person who leaves chalk messages
on the strand. I gave them the reply people
more “mature” than I have advised me to give- “I cannot confirm or deny my involvement
in that activity.”
“Well, we just love it and want to say thank you.” She said
to me. “You’re welcome. It is me”, I said.
“Happy Thanksgiving!” My friend
next to me told them about how I left chalk messages on her driveway every week
while her husband was recovering from a hit and run car accident and unable to
walk. As soon as he was able, he sat at
the computer and ordered a big box of chalk from her teacher’s supply catalog.
That was Thanksgiving day 2011, exactly a year before.
“If you are not opposed, I would love to get your phone
number and donate some chalk to you” the man said.
“I can always use more chalk, that would be fantastic” I
gave them my phone number and a hug.
Two days later I got a call, saying my chalk was ready to be
picked up. I got their address and took
my son there after school. Their home
was one I recognized, because they live on the strand and I always liked a
particular piece of art they have decorating their yard. I was gifted a big
brown grocery bag full of chalk and told when I need more to give them a call. As
we walked away my son said to me “Mom, you have a chalk sponsor” and we both
thought that was exciting and cool.
I have had other interactions with people that I can only
interpret as encouragement. One time a
lady came up to me and said “I have always wanted to catch you in the act, so I
can thank you. Your messages mean so
much to me and have helped me in my darkest days. One day I came down and read “Don’t stumble
over something behind you”… she couldn't complete her sentence, tears welled up
in her eyes. I stopped chalking, stood
up and hugged her. “I am so glad you
like it. Thank you for telling me, YOU
just made MY day brighter.” Situations
like that are more common than you know.
I hope to write about more of them in the future.
Some people believe artists suffer to bring meaning to their art. I believe I make art to bring meaning to my suffering.
