A Graffiti Artist Is Not A Street Artist
Wes opens the 10-gallon plastic storage box to expose it full of MTN 94 spray cans. He grabs the color orange, and sprays lines. Just orange lines. They cross each other, abruptly making a right or a left turn, creating multiple “V” and “L” shapes on the “buffed out” baby blue background in the space he paid for in advance this time around, because, “it’s for a good cause. It’s to keep the event alive.” No one knows except him what he’s doing. Like a kid with a crayon in hand. Except a child’s scribbles are often with vacuous intent. Wes’ lines, however, have a specific motive. You can just tell.
So the only thing graffiti enthusiasts at Calwa Recreation Park can do, is watch and wait.
Father and husband, Wes Abarca, 40, is quick to correct that he is not a street artist. Nor is he just a “tagger.” He’s a graffiti artist, assuring that “letters” is what differentiates Graffiti from, say, today’s trend of street art comprised of murals or in some cases just patterns on walls.
An act unknown to the graffiti world, Wes today isn’t spraying his writing-name--which also happens to be his first name--and crew. It’s the word “Zeal,” with the shape of the letters hinting at some serious cubism and abstract art. There’s a cartoon-like Captain America replacing the letter “A,” an addition that would only make sense to a trained (graffiti) eye making his piece otherwise completely unreadable. And sealing the piece is a “Wes 77” signature on the bottom right-hand corner, and his wife’s writing-name of “Opia” below his.
“Zeal” isn’t written just because it’s a nice looking word, with it’s sharp edges lending themselves aesthetically. It’s the message defining a contrasting passion that Wes, a tall, medium-built man whose edgy comb-over is dark and beard is white, now lives by. Originally with graffiti or tagging, the goal for enthusiasts has always been to acquire some form or fame, first locally then globally.
“Graffiti is literally the most self-fulfilling, self-centered, egotistical thing a person can do...you put your name on a wall, you want everyone to see it, you want it to look dope, you want everyone to give you props. It’s self-glorification.”
But in 2005 Wes quit exalting himself the way graffiti and tagging is truly all about, and began exalting God and a positive message. Three years later he helped create ISI Crew--standing for Iron Sharpens Iron Crew--a group of Southern California graffiti artists with a passion for spreading the gospel though graffiti.
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On this breezy Saturday morning Abarca arrives at Calwa Recreation Park in the city of Fresno, California with fellow graffiti artist Adam Hageman, 26. The huge park with its long brick wall on its west side, is the location for the annual Bizare Art Festival honoring the well-known graffiti artist known as “Bizare.” Initially it was an event put together by “Rain,” Bizare’s sister, as a way to honor her brother’s artistic legacy. Artists from all over California would attend, and do their usual unbelievable pieces on the perfect brick wall. Today in its 5th year, though, it’s become somewhat of a networking event as well, where graffiti artists fangirl over other artists they admire but have never met. Piecebooks are getting passed around, plans of visiting each others cities are made, and lots of pictures are being taken on cell phones. It’s become a festival complete with Bboys, MC’s, a few after-parties in the area, and a dinner the day after the event put together by Rain for the artists who participated and their families. Abarca is excited to finally be able to attend this legal form of graffiti where he can not only mingle, but spread a message of hope through graffiti the way he desires to.
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Wes credits his older brother, ten years his senior, for introducing him to graffiti. He’d spend his summer vacations away from Wes and his immediate family in West Covina, and go to his grandmother's house in the city of Bell where the L.A. River became his backyard and the perfect location to practice graffiti. The 80’s were the breeding ground for Hip-Hop and everything it entailed-- rap, break dancing, DJing and graffiti--things his brother embraced and taught little Wes to do likewise. One afternoon in the garage of his parents house Wes recalls a distinct event that bred his fondness with graffiti. His brother and his friends were breakdancing on a plexiglass sheet big enough to headspin and “kick up.” While tagging and graffing the sheet, one of his brother’s friends handed him a marker.
“Color that in, just like you do your coloring books.”
Wes admits he didn't know what he was doing at the time, but pursued the art and the street fame ever since.
In Middle School with films such as Beat Street, Wild Style, and the graffiti documentary Style Wars serving as heavy inspirations, Wes became more serious with graffiti. He remembers imploring his friends “to come up with names so [they] can go tag,” and assigning names such as “Bane” and “Soot” to one another. This fascination was temporary to his buddies, however, but Wes’ artistic improvement only drew him in all the more.
High School proved to be a more tangible pivotal moment. Not only was he refining his skills, but he did not get to attend the same high school as his junior high friends, which meant he found himself alone, angry, but with more heart.
“I was just upset about it, so much, that I didn't want to make friends. And that’s when I started tagging more.”
This lack of friends, however, also led 14-year-old Wes to friends from the White Fence gang, a violent gang that originated in East Los Angeles in the 1930’s that is still active today. Luckily, these gang members’ did not share with him the same passion for art.
“The dudes I was with were always scrapping...so I was constantly like ‘dude I can’t be hanging around you guys.’ This is dumb, I don’t wanna be a gangster.”
Wes tried to find connection through another love he had, sports. He’d play in his high school Baseball team, but somehow still could not make friends to relate to. And so the loneliness continued.
Sophomore year in 1993 Wes and his family moved to the city of Walnut and he found himself, yet again, attending a school where he knew no one. One day during math class as Wes was writing inside a “Black Book” (or often called a “Piece Book,” which is a hardcover sketch book with blank pages for writers from all types of crews to unite and share “pieces” with each other.), a classmate approached him and asked, “what do you write?” Wes remembers fondly that this was the first time he was ever asked what he wrote, what his writing-name was, and that he hadn't quite chosen one at the time. The boy told him he had a younger brother, a freshmen, that did graffiti too and that they should meet. He was indifferent to his classmates motion, but the boy grew eager day by day to introduce them and eventually invited Wes to his house. Chris, whose writing-name was “Krome,” was the freshmen younger brother. The two brothers lived in a mobile home park where a big brick wall divided the homes and the train tracks. They jumped over the fence to the wall that featured all of Krome’s work, ten giant pieces that astounded Wes. The pieces featured characters, letters of all styles, and a full range of color that encouraged 15-year-old Wes to catch up to the artistic skills of his new friend. Krome and Wes from then on practiced almost everyday after school, in broad daylight, free from anyone’s interruptions.
Wes had finally found a friend. They shared a new inner confidence in their capabilities that caused the three boys--with the addition of an Ontario newbie who went by “4ser”--to worry very little about a large clique and affirmation from the rest of Walnut High. They shared a secret love for this rebellious art form which they continued to master on Krome’s wall, public street walls, and his favorite freeway, the 60. After some time they joined well-developed crews, such as OCP from the city of Ontario, and YNK, a branch from OCP, and attended meetings where hundreds of members met in parks to encourage each other. The number of members, their devotion, and their protection of each other when any form of “beef” arose, continued inspiring Wes who by this time had finally decided on his own writing-name.
“I would go in the dictionary. You see, some writers pick letters that flow well, that they can put together nicely, and they create a name. I was opposite. I wanted a meaning. So I saw the word “Dower” which meant “a natural talent,” and I was like ‘there it is.’ ”
Junior year of high school Wes’ parents decided to send him away with his uncle, an ex-military man who’d spent two tours in Vietnam, to Salt Lake City, Utah in the hopes of straightening out, what they thought, a graffiti-obsessed teen. His grades and a toxic girlfriend he’d acquired at the time didn't help his case either. But interestingly, 17-year-old Wes did not resist. He felt he wanted something new and was stressed with adolescent issues that crews, secrecy, and “beef” only accelerated. Salt Lake City, however, did not decelerate anything. A city where Whites primarily inhabit, Wes being a Mexican-Native American from Los Angeles became a popular dude alongside his cousin of the same age.
He’d discovered the graffiti scene was different than Los Angeles’. There wasn't the same type of violence that accompanied graffiti back in L.A. High-schoolers here dealt with beef through graffitti where the best piece won the rights to the writing-name, as well as a duffle bag full of spray paints. The sense of style, Abarca noticed, seemed to be stuck in the 80’s too, with Run DMC Adidas seen everywhere. And the “Straight Edge” trend, which was a large group of punk rock teens who purposefully abstained from alcohol, tobacco and recreational drugs, surprised Wes.
Generally, he liked Salt Lake City and his love of graffiti did not by any means slow down. In order to fund their writing without asking adults for money, Wes and his cousin began “racking,” meaning, they stole from large, expensive stores in bulk. Racking became a routine practice where they’d wear black hoodies, bring with them all the backpacks they owned, fill them, and walk out. The bedroom closet they shared was overflowing with cans, consuming their clothes, and making their names easily spreadable throughout Salt Lake City since supplies never became a factor.
Wes remembers introducing his cousin and the Straight Edge boys the methods of writing on freeway bridges; a custom they weren't used to doing or seeing. He remembers climbing on moving trains, doing his pieces, then jumping off. And remembers sneaking out of his uncle and aunt's house while they slept at two, three a.m., regularly.
“And then we got in trouble.”
One night when Wes and his cousin were climbing back into their bedroom through their window at 2am, per usual, his aunt was sitting in bed waiting for them. She had seen all the spray cans in their closet, and told Wes’ uncle, who mostly scolded his cousin. That same week the boys went into a local Kmart for a routing racking session, but got caught for the first time via undercover employees. Police officers were called, and Wes was on the next flight, literally, back to Los Angeles.
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Wes didn't get to graduate high school. Instead, he acquired a GED through an adult-school oozing with troublemakers he didn't feel he belonged with. After high school, however, he didn't stop graffing, which eventually led to an arrest for violation of penal code 594 (prohibits maliciously defacing, damaging, or destroying someone else's property), followed by a DUI, and a fine for carrying spray paint tips, defining the ultimate low of his life.
He went to court and was certain he’d go to prison the way many of his friends, and truly many graffiti writers had gone at a time when the government was its harshest towards graffiti and tagging in the late 90’s. To his surprise the charges were dropped. Instead, he was given house arrest complete with an embarrassing ankle monitor, a few fines, was required to attend DUI and drug & alcohol classes, and was on probation for three years.
Wes was grateful, relieved, and determined to no longer walk the path that led him to the disappointment he was currently feeling. He describes seeking some form of spirituality afterwards, visiting buddhist temples trying to find some form of inner peace and hope. Finally he was invited to church by a girl he began dating. At church he described feeling a sense of pride, abstaining from openly participating, but feeling at home with everything the pastor said. After a few visits, he gave his life to God privately, not wanting to go to the altar like others were doing, but instead closing his eyes and talking to God on his own, vowing to never practice Graffiti ever again. He began bad-mouthing the art, promoting its corruption, but still somehow craving the markers he would use on Black Books as well as the gratification he felt seeing his dope ass piece complete. One day, laying on his side on top of his bed, he began drawing on a piece of paper with a pen.
“Why did I ever stop doing this?”
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In 2005 Wes decided to stop running away from what he felt was his calling--to use graffiti as a tool to reach guys (and girls) just like him.
“[There’s] Guys who dont wanna be made fun of, and are putting up a persona, like ‘yeah I’m down, I wanna do something illegal,’ but in reality they’re struggling because they know it’s not right.”
He hadn’t quite figured out the orchestration of this ministry since graffiti was/is relatively viewed as vandalism. Trying to use something tabooed as wrong to uplift a people was something not many in his milieu believed in. But Wes still participated in the creation of ISI Crew in 2008. Popularity regarding their ministry spread, and suddenly the members--made up of guys from Hawthorne, Crestline, Chino, and Guatemala City, among others--found themselves being sought after to display their art live at art walks and art events, at local churches and well-known Christian Universities, for no compensation at first but now almost always for a compensation. Early years proved fairly successful both internally in the self-confidence of the members, and externally with the many gigs emerging. Contrary to Wes and ISI’s initial fears, it seemed conservative believers were accepting graffiti.
Even among the secular graffiti community Wes states that he and ISI began to gain respect.
“The whole motive behind graffiti is self-glorification and if we’re not doing that, then what are we doing?”
Glorifying something higher is what they began doing.
This acceptance, though, quickly seemed to give birth to accustomation for Wes and ISI and even amid these events and the Christian community. A new perspective of graffiti widely accepted as “cool” and no longer a rebellious form of art discouraged Wes for a long time, making faith-based events mundane, boring, but most importantly contradictory to the belief of winning the lost.
The way Jesus ate with tax collectors and so-called sinners, Wes wanted in. His method had evolved as he was no longer interested in a cookie-cutter ministry.
“If we’re going to a lot of Christian events...they may or may not need encouragement as much. There’s so many ministries and outlets for people that are believers to be edified and be lifted up...but our work is really, really effective towards other graffiti artists. ”
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The Bizare Art Festival Wes and Sythe were on their way to, in Wes’s family car, a Subaru Outback, is a representation of this new path. The path he and Sythe are yearning to tap into once again where men in love with graffiti can guide other men in love with graffiti to a relationship with God.
“Our crew was birthed off of street painting. And i'm not talking about illegally. Im talking about when we started doing things legally and for a positive reason. And I wanna go back to the street.”