Walls as a place of healing!

To enter the arena of a mural, is to enter a place of return, of safety, of peace and of hope that the wall will release the story and art from your hands.

Sometimes in your hands the art flows freely and the wall bends to your vision. But sometimes the wall is harsh. The bricks refuse to reveal the image, and the wall wins.

The story is left in your eyes and the viewer stops and questions your work. Judgement and criticism of what they see from the sidewalk, not understanding the part they see is 30 feet away and out of your reach. That mystery is what makes murals so intriguing, the size, the surface is like our skin. Sometimes tough and weathered and sometimes thin and sunburnt auburn and sienna brown, fragile and blistering from life.

The love of public art is to let the layers reveal the story, to return to the art, the connection of that community and sometimes forgetting the creator who orchestrated the paint.

The worn bricks will hold that pigment for awhile, the brushes will lay in the boxes, lined with old rags and crumpled coffee lids, like museum drawers of old lace, not quite remembered to what it was attached to.