OV

ERGRO

UN

D 3

BERLIN COPENHAGEN HAMBURG LIÈGE LONDON MILAN PARIS PRAGUE STOCKHOLM

OVERGROUND 3

TRANS EUROPE EXPRESS

AMAN APOLLO CAVE CHOB CLINT OCLOCK CAKES RAGE TOX

�AMAN

AMANSTOCKHOLM

Malcolm Jacobson

It is 4.00 pm and the afternoon rush hour has begun. The centre of Stockholm is crawling with stressed-out people. They all have their duties: business meetings, trains to catch, shopping, get the

kids, make dinner.You can relax for a bit on the Märsta commuter train. It takes 36 minutes to travel the 40 kilometres from Stockholm centre to the suburb of Märsta, which marks the end of northbound local rail traf-fic. The landscape outside changes. Houses appear less frequently. The train passes woodland and industrial zones, and towards the end, farms. It’s already dark outside. In early December, two and a half weeks before the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, the sun is only up for six hours a day.Aman makes use of the early afternoon dark. He has checked out a wall under a viaduct across the Märsta Line. At the station a hund-red metres away, commuters await the following train. On the other side of the tracks, buses wait to drive passengers further, to smaller localities. It is an unusually dark winter: there is no snow to reflect the sparse street lighting. Aman waits for a few cars to go by. Then he makes his way through a bushy thicket, ties a scarf around his face and waits. The tracks are lit by yellow light, but it is dark and quiet by the wall. Aman is pleased to note that the commuter trains in both directions have crossed each other after a short time, and then the Arlanda train passes too. Now it will be quiet for a few minutes. He jumps over a fence to the tracks and produces a can of silver paint. A few minutes later, he has written a tag and painted a number of bubbles over a ten-metre brick surface. He throws the can on the tracks, looks around and jumps back over the fence.A few minutes later, we are on the train heading back to town. Aman blends in. He is dressed in practical, comfortable clothes: jeans, an anorak and walking boots. Nothing remarkable. What you notice are his wide-open, observant eyes.Aman has a special relationship to the Märsta line. He has been paint- ing its trains and walls for more than two decades. In the late 80s, he and his friends used the trains as a cross between youth centre and bar. They would travel back and forth, drinking beer, and writing their names on the walls and seats of the train. “There can be a type of safety in a line. You decide on a stretch that you return to,” he says. “There are several places along the Märsta Line that carry a posi-tive charge for me and generate creativity. So much has happened around here. I like the commuter train, it’s relaxed. There’s always been more surveillance on the subway.”

Stockholm was founded in 1252, on the little island now known as Gamla Stan, “The Old Town”. This is where tourists go to get a romantic picture of the medieval trading city with a

strong German influence, as Stockholm would be for centuries.In the late 19th century, Stockholm was rapidly built up. The Paris-

ian grid system with promenades and broad streets served as a pat-tern. The settlement grew to include the hills around Gamla Stan un-til the turn of the previous century, and still characterises Stockholm’s inner city, an area with a diameter of only five kilometres.The mid-20th century was plagued by a great housing shortage, and many Swedish homes were of a poor standard. In 1964, with the so-called ‘million programme’, Parliament decided to build a million apartments in ten years. City planners placed out suburbs like satel-lites around the inner city. Unlike the previous tight grid system, the suburbs were given many green areas, and car and pedestrian traffic were separated by footbridges and tunnels. The subway, that had been inaugurated in 1950, was extended in tandem with this, with several new lines. In a typical Stockholm suburb, rock formations and pine forests separate buildings, reminiscent of the wilderness that still formed large parts of Stockholm hundred years ago.Roads and tracks are laid out like veins from the heart of Stock-holm to the suburbs. As you move outwards, the pulse drops. In the sleepy citadels of the suburbs, you find the same quiet as in a small town. As in many other countries, capital city dwellers are conside-red haughty, but much of the population of the city moved in from the rest of the country. There isn’t one kind of Stockholm resident, or one kind of Stockholm. Income, values and backgrounds vary greatly both between parts of the city and within them. Stockholm is segregated, and ‘housing careers’ are a constant topic of discussion. Housing careers means obtaining an early 20th century inner-city apartment, or buying a shared freehold cheaply, sell it at a profit and move into a high-status suburb house. There are a few exclusive suburbs containing houses designed by architects, but mainly they consist of mass-produced million programme flats and statistics on income, unemployment and health are patchy.Aman moved to a suburb along the Märsta line in the mid-80s, when he had recently started writing graffiti. Nug lived there too. When they both did their first panels at the age of 12, they couldn’t reach the windows of the commuter train.At first, Aman mainly went writing with Nug or on his own. Later, he has periodically painted a lot with Cang, Reson and the members of Vandals In Motion (vim) or writers from vim’s European co-op crews.Aman describes vim as a combination of letters loaded with the pos-itive energy of what the members have experienced. The crew is one of deep friendship and identity, a strong formation of security and fellowship that he can count on.Aman and Nug changed the way trains are painted, both in Sweden and abroad. “When I was out painting commuter trains, you’d stand there for two or three hours,” says Akay, who was mostly active in the late 80s. “But in the early 90s, I remember once standing between Nug and Aman. As I was sketching, I noticed how quickly they were pro-ceeding on either side of me. They kept each other informed all the time: ‘sketched up, outlining’. When they started their outlines, I’d

�AMAN

AMANSTOCKHOLM

Malcolm Jacobson

It is 4.00 pm and the afternoon rush hour has begun. The centre of Stockholm is crawling with stressed-out people. They all have their duties: business meetings, trains to catch, shopping, get the

kids, make dinner.You can relax for a bit on the Märsta commuter train. It takes 36 minutes to travel the 40 kilometres from Stockholm centre to the suburb of Märsta, which marks the end of northbound local rail traf-fic. The landscape outside changes. Houses appear less frequently. The train passes woodland and industrial zones, and towards the end, farms. It’s already dark outside. In early December, two and a half weeks before the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, the sun is only up for six hours a day.Aman makes use of the early afternoon dark. He has checked out a wall under a viaduct across the Märsta Line. At the station a hund-red metres away, commuters await the following train. On the other side of the tracks, buses wait to drive passengers further, to smaller localities. It is an unusually dark winter: there is no snow to reflect the sparse street lighting. Aman waits for a few cars to go by. Then he makes his way through a bushy thicket, ties a scarf around his face and waits. The tracks are lit by yellow light, but it is dark and quiet by the wall. Aman is pleased to note that the commuter trains in both directions have crossed each other after a short time, and then the Arlanda train passes too. Now it will be quiet for a few minutes. He jumps over a fence to the tracks and produces a can of silver paint. A few minutes later, he has written a tag and painted a number of bubbles over a ten-metre brick surface. He throws the can on the tracks, looks around and jumps back over the fence.A few minutes later, we are on the train heading back to town. Aman blends in. He is dressed in practical, comfortable clothes: jeans, an anorak and walking boots. Nothing remarkable. What you notice are his wide-open, observant eyes.Aman has a special relationship to the Märsta line. He has been paint- ing its trains and walls for more than two decades. In the late 80s, he and his friends used the trains as a cross between youth centre and bar. They would travel back and forth, drinking beer, and writing their names on the walls and seats of the train. “There can be a type of safety in a line. You decide on a stretch that you return to,” he says. “There are several places along the Märsta Line that carry a posi-tive charge for me and generate creativity. So much has happened around here. I like the commuter train, it’s relaxed. There’s always been more surveillance on the subway.”

Stockholm was founded in 1252, on the little island now known as Gamla Stan, “The Old Town”. This is where tourists go to get a romantic picture of the medieval trading city with a

strong German influence, as Stockholm would be for centuries.In the late 19th century, Stockholm was rapidly built up. The Paris-

ian grid system with promenades and broad streets served as a pat-tern. The settlement grew to include the hills around Gamla Stan un-til the turn of the previous century, and still characterises Stockholm’s inner city, an area with a diameter of only five kilometres.The mid-20th century was plagued by a great housing shortage, and many Swedish homes were of a poor standard. In 1964, with the so-called ‘million programme’, Parliament decided to build a million apartments in ten years. City planners placed out suburbs like satel-lites around the inner city. Unlike the previous tight grid system, the suburbs were given many green areas, and car and pedestrian traffic were separated by footbridges and tunnels. The subway, that had been inaugurated in 1950, was extended in tandem with this, with several new lines. In a typical Stockholm suburb, rock formations and pine forests separate buildings, reminiscent of the wilderness that still formed large parts of Stockholm hundred years ago.Roads and tracks are laid out like veins from the heart of Stock-holm to the suburbs. As you move outwards, the pulse drops. In the sleepy citadels of the suburbs, you find the same quiet as in a small town. As in many other countries, capital city dwellers are conside-red haughty, but much of the population of the city moved in from the rest of the country. There isn’t one kind of Stockholm resident, or one kind of Stockholm. Income, values and backgrounds vary greatly both between parts of the city and within them. Stockholm is segregated, and ‘housing careers’ are a constant topic of discussion. Housing careers means obtaining an early 20th century inner-city apartment, or buying a shared freehold cheaply, sell it at a profit and move into a high-status suburb house. There are a few exclusive suburbs containing houses designed by architects, but mainly they consist of mass-produced million programme flats and statistics on income, unemployment and health are patchy.Aman moved to a suburb along the Märsta line in the mid-80s, when he had recently started writing graffiti. Nug lived there too. When they both did their first panels at the age of 12, they couldn’t reach the windows of the commuter train.At first, Aman mainly went writing with Nug or on his own. Later, he has periodically painted a lot with Cang, Reson and the members of Vandals In Motion (vim) or writers from vim’s European co-op crews.Aman describes vim as a combination of letters loaded with the pos-itive energy of what the members have experienced. The crew is one of deep friendship and identity, a strong formation of security and fellowship that he can count on.Aman and Nug changed the way trains are painted, both in Sweden and abroad. “When I was out painting commuter trains, you’d stand there for two or three hours,” says Akay, who was mostly active in the late 80s. “But in the early 90s, I remember once standing between Nug and Aman. As I was sketching, I noticed how quickly they were pro-ceeding on either side of me. They kept each other informed all the time: ‘sketched up, outlining’. When they started their outlines, I’d

34 APOLLO 35APOLLO

Todism and Nutmeg, Liège inter city train 2006. Nutmeg, Brussels regional train 2007.

Nutmeg, Antwerp inter city train 2004.

Apollo, Huy inter city train 2003.

I-Spy, Barcelona cercania train, Spain 2006.

34 APOLLO 35APOLLO

Todism and Nutmeg, Liège inter city train 2006. Nutmeg, Brussels regional train 2007.

Nutmeg, Antwerp inter city train 2004.

Apollo, Huy inter city train 2003.

I-Spy, Barcelona cercania train, Spain 2006.

60 CAKES 61CAKES

Cakes, Point, Read: Sound compilation, Prague 2001.

Tron, Bior and Cakes, Prague 2008.

Cakes and Bior, Prague 2008.

Pointik, Prague 2006.

60 CAKES 61CAKES

Cakes, Point, Read: Sound compilation, Prague 2001.

Tron, Bior and Cakes, Prague 2008.

Cakes and Bior, Prague 2008.

Pointik, Prague 2006.

66 CAVE 67CAVE

have been exchanged for foreigners. Here, newly-arrived immigrants live side by side with hip thirtysomethings who sit in cafés with their Apple computers. Thronging commerce goes on along Nørrebrogade, the main street. The shops are small, and anything from new sneakers to gold to islamic fashion is on offer. Just like any large street, it is divided into three fields: pavements for pedestrians, cycle paths for cyclists and the road for cars. Woe betide any transgressor!New residential areas are being built along the water. Opposite the Amager district to the east is Den Sorte Diamant, the Black Dia-mond, Copenhagen’s beautiful newly-built library. Unlike Nørrebro, where even the backyards are full of life, the Black Diamond glim-mers dimly after closing-time. There is no room here for improvisa-tion. Everything was ready, from the start.We pass quiet backyards in 19th-century working class environs. Brick buildings with narrow stairwells both at the front and back, and outhouses. But no longer. We find a wall full of old carvings. b.j. and g.a. hung out here once, sneaking cigarettes, kissing and writing their initials on the wall. It is red and grey. Brick and asphalt. Nørrebro was quieter and slower when Cave was growing up.“Everybody was Danish. Butchers and kiosk owners. The shops closed early. The town was greyer.”Copenhagen was a place of unrest in the early 80s. The bz movement occupied houses, and with the group Kulörte Klat, colourful splash, they wrote slogans in various colours on the walls. But above all it was a dark time, marked by Punk, New Wave and the slogan “No Future”. With hip-hop culture colour came to town. Cave was ten when he discovered one of the first pieces in Denmark.“Superials was painted on the Islands Brygge area in Amager. Su-perials was a break group that Kyle from Whap Gang wrote for. It was made before the famous Whap from the book Danish Wildstyle Graffiti. I was motoring with my grandfather when I saw it. I remem-ber asking him if they were allowed to paint it. He didn’t know, but we agreed it looked nice.”Cave continues to remember. Names are dropped as he recounts his first piece, which he made in 1986. As if to exculpate himself, he says he was not big enough to hold a spray can earlier.Nørrebro station lies at the west border of Nørrebro. We continue a bit and arrive at Bispebjerg station on the anonymous f line, the only one of the seven s-train lines that does not pass through Copenha-gen Central. As a graffiti beginner, Cave used to play on these large tracks. Now, tall trees grow between the railway sleepers. Two tall, heavily-designed tenement buildings rise above the station, looking as arrogant as a tag on a train car.A little further south, by Frederiksberg station, we turn into a park. Darkness has fallen, and mist is creeping over the path. A series of green diodes mark the cycle path with a mystical glow. In the early 90s, the only train yard among tenement buildings lay here. It was surrounded by a low fence, with a police station across the street. No trace remains of the two tracks.

Cave in Copenhagen 2000.

66 CAVE 67CAVE

have been exchanged for foreigners. Here, newly-arrived immigrants live side by side with hip thirtysomethings who sit in cafés with their Apple computers. Thronging commerce goes on along Nørrebrogade, the main street. The shops are small, and anything from new sneakers to gold to islamic fashion is on offer. Just like any large street, it is divided into three fields: pavements for pedestrians, cycle paths for cyclists and the road for cars. Woe betide any transgressor!New residential areas are being built along the water. Opposite the Amager district to the east is Den Sorte Diamant, the Black Dia-mond, Copenhagen’s beautiful newly-built library. Unlike Nørrebro, where even the backyards are full of life, the Black Diamond glim-mers dimly after closing-time. There is no room here for improvisa-tion. Everything was ready, from the start.We pass quiet backyards in 19th-century working class environs. Brick buildings with narrow stairwells both at the front and back, and outhouses. But no longer. We find a wall full of old carvings. b.j. and g.a. hung out here once, sneaking cigarettes, kissing and writing their initials on the wall. It is red and grey. Brick and asphalt. Nørrebro was quieter and slower when Cave was growing up.“Everybody was Danish. Butchers and kiosk owners. The shops closed early. The town was greyer.”Copenhagen was a place of unrest in the early 80s. The bz movement occupied houses, and with the group Kulörte Klat, colourful splash, they wrote slogans in various colours on the walls. But above all it was a dark time, marked by Punk, New Wave and the slogan “No Future”. With hip-hop culture colour came to town. Cave was ten when he discovered one of the first pieces in Denmark.“Superials was painted on the Islands Brygge area in Amager. Su-perials was a break group that Kyle from Whap Gang wrote for. It was made before the famous Whap from the book Danish Wildstyle Graffiti. I was motoring with my grandfather when I saw it. I remem-ber asking him if they were allowed to paint it. He didn’t know, but we agreed it looked nice.”Cave continues to remember. Names are dropped as he recounts his first piece, which he made in 1986. As if to exculpate himself, he says he was not big enough to hold a spray can earlier.Nørrebro station lies at the west border of Nørrebro. We continue a bit and arrive at Bispebjerg station on the anonymous f line, the only one of the seven s-train lines that does not pass through Copenha-gen Central. As a graffiti beginner, Cave used to play on these large tracks. Now, tall trees grow between the railway sleepers. Two tall, heavily-designed tenement buildings rise above the station, looking as arrogant as a tag on a train car.A little further south, by Frederiksberg station, we turn into a park. Darkness has fallen, and mist is creeping over the path. A series of green diodes mark the cycle path with a mystical glow. In the early 90s, the only train yard among tenement buildings lay here. It was surrounded by a low fence, with a police station across the street. No trace remains of the two tracks.

Cave in Copenhagen 2000.

114 CLINT 176 115CLINT 176

some years, when the buffing budget is spent before the year is over, and subway stations are filled with tags. Clint 176 talks lyrically about how various places looked just ten years ago. He tells of the old trams, and the East Berlin quarters with their ramshackle houses and worn back yards. Conscious of the fact that they are disappearing, he now always photographs his pieces with as much of the surroundings as possible. The mood around the piece is important, he says. What he says of Berlin makes me think of Moloch, the monster city of old German silent films. A pitch-black skyline with smoke issuing from every hole.We enter a backyard and reverently look at an old crumbling wall.“Old houses have character. I stroke them with my pieces. The new, high-gloss places have no feeling at all. They get bombed more ag-gressively.”He looks at me and says:“I’m so happy to live in Berlin! It’s an amazing city. Old streetlamps and old houses. I grew up with riveted bridges and yellow street-lights. Along the tracks are cool places where you can suck up the atmosphere. I look up places, because graffiti is about laying claim to the city. It’s about the tracks, the backyards, the city at night. Gain-ing access. The environment valorises the graffiti. And the illegality regulates graffiti, making it more mysterious.”

As we make our way through Berlin at night, we bump into a late supper. Some people have moved a table out onto the street from a studio. They are eating and drinking. It is 1

a.m. on Wednesday night.“There’s a golden age in Berlin right now. Everything I want is here. Forget Paris. Forget London. The surface here is ugly, but the content is good.”The last bit is true. Berlin will never win any beauty contests. It is far too ravaged for that. But it makes up in personality what it lacks in beauty.There is a freedom for the individual in Berlin that you rarely find elsewhere. The laws are very generous, which has made the city one of the great meeting-points in Europe for artists, graffiti writers and musicians. There are all sorts of opportunities for doing something yourself, without the intervention of the authorities. And there is an agreement among residents that it is all right to be out late. Parties in the narrow backyards often go on until the wee hours. At the same time, the Prussian spirit of civil service remains, as I ex-perience when we are going to photograph one of Clint 176’s throw-ups behind Alexanderplatz. A guard interrupts our shoot and is not becalmed by our insistence that we are taking fashion pictures.“Of that fellow?” He looks sceptical and wants us to produce identi-fication. When Clint 176’s friend finally produces his photographer’s id, the guard becomes very friendly and departs without further dis-cussion.The only thing that threatens the Berlin golden age is that apartments and premises may become too expensive.

Clint 176 and Alize, Warschauer Strasse, Berlin 2006.

114 CLINT 176 115CLINT 176

some years, when the buffing budget is spent before the year is over, and subway stations are filled with tags. Clint 176 talks lyrically about how various places looked just ten years ago. He tells of the old trams, and the East Berlin quarters with their ramshackle houses and worn back yards. Conscious of the fact that they are disappearing, he now always photographs his pieces with as much of the surroundings as possible. The mood around the piece is important, he says. What he says of Berlin makes me think of Moloch, the monster city of old German silent films. A pitch-black skyline with smoke issuing from every hole.We enter a backyard and reverently look at an old crumbling wall.“Old houses have character. I stroke them with my pieces. The new, high-gloss places have no feeling at all. They get bombed more ag-gressively.”He looks at me and says:“I’m so happy to live in Berlin! It’s an amazing city. Old streetlamps and old houses. I grew up with riveted bridges and yellow street-lights. Along the tracks are cool places where you can suck up the atmosphere. I look up places, because graffiti is about laying claim to the city. It’s about the tracks, the backyards, the city at night. Gain-ing access. The environment valorises the graffiti. And the illegality regulates graffiti, making it more mysterious.”

As we make our way through Berlin at night, we bump into a late supper. Some people have moved a table out onto the street from a studio. They are eating and drinking. It is 1

a.m. on Wednesday night.“There’s a golden age in Berlin right now. Everything I want is here. Forget Paris. Forget London. The surface here is ugly, but the content is good.”The last bit is true. Berlin will never win any beauty contests. It is far too ravaged for that. But it makes up in personality what it lacks in beauty.There is a freedom for the individual in Berlin that you rarely find elsewhere. The laws are very generous, which has made the city one of the great meeting-points in Europe for artists, graffiti writers and musicians. There are all sorts of opportunities for doing something yourself, without the intervention of the authorities. And there is an agreement among residents that it is all right to be out late. Parties in the narrow backyards often go on until the wee hours. At the same time, the Prussian spirit of civil service remains, as I ex-perience when we are going to photograph one of Clint 176’s throw-ups behind Alexanderplatz. A guard interrupts our shoot and is not becalmed by our insistence that we are taking fashion pictures.“Of that fellow?” He looks sceptical and wants us to produce identi-fication. When Clint 176’s friend finally produces his photographer’s id, the guard becomes very friendly and departs without further dis-cussion.The only thing that threatens the Berlin golden age is that apartments and premises may become too expensive.

Clint 176 and Alize, Warschauer Strasse, Berlin 2006.

96 CHOB 97CHOB

Chob sits at the window looking out at the courtyard. He lights a cigarette and discusses the development of Italian graffiti.With one of the most distinctive styles in Italy, he clearly differs from dominant writers in the rest of the country. He thinks Italian graffiti lacks personality. “You should develop the style of your home town and use its stylistic history,” he says. “There are traces of the Bologna writer Rusty in my pieces. My letters look completely different, but there are influ-ences. At the same time, and now I’m contradicting myself, I’m very much inspired by Finnish graffiti. But I try to do it in an Italian way, developing it into my own thing.”Chob talks about the irregularity of Finnish graffiti, the Roman writ-er Panda’s open view on colouring, and employing differently-sized elements in your letters. A free form of graffiti. Chob is sure of one thing: writers depend too much on a template. He goes on to talk about train writing. This is what he loves best, even though he is starting to feel a bit split about it.“I feel a bit silly running around among the trains sometimes, and that I’m too old,” he says. “But at the same time, it’s not an imprison- able offence. And I don’t need to sink all my time into it any more, I just tag along with those who do it instead. It’s highly likely that they bring me and nobody else along just because I’m Chob.” He laughs.

It is a warm afternoon. A train car looms outside a broken win-dow. The regional train is parked by the side of a large station in central Milan. By sneaking through an abandoned building

stretching along the tracks, you end up barely ten metres away from the train.Two other writers are painting a couple of cars away and the plat-form on the other side is deserted. Chob sketches up a piece that stretches well into the windows. The sun is dazzling as it shines in over the train roof.Everything is quiet when the two who were writing further away come over to chat and watch as Chob works on his piece.Twenty minutes later, he has finished. “the”, in large, colourful let-ters, decorates the outside of the train. He writes his friends’ tags by the side of the piece and looks at it for a while. Then he photographs it from various angles. The others disappear into the abandoned building, and Chob climbs in after them. They quickly check that no guards or policemen are waiting for them before they go out into the street. Chob says goodbye and walks back to the car.“I try to be nice to everyone I meet. I’m not the sort who disses toys. Younger writers often ask me for my opinion about their pieces. I usually say what I think is good first, and then sneak a little criticism in, what they should change or do to make it better. Often they show they understand what I mean. That makes me happy. I’m proud that they value my opinion.”Chob is aware of what is special in his own style, but doesn’t mind other writers using elements of it.“My close friends are probably quite influenced by some of my piec-

es. Especially my brother. It’s probably not easy for him to be my brother and try to create something personal. Like having Picasso as a father and attempting an art career of your own,” he laughs.By eight, the sun has gone down, and Chob is on his way to pick up his girlfriend in the small town of Bergamo, about an hour northwest of Milan. He stops at an Autogrill for an espresso. In the car, he plays Depeche Mode loudly. He says he has designed a line of bags for an Italian clothes company, and hopes to get other similar jobs. The designed bags are sold at expensive interior boutiques in Milan, but their pattern is graffiti.“Designing stuff with graffiti is ok, but my own graffiti has to be illegal,” he says.“I think it’s a good thing to paint the odd train. It’s my way of revolt-ing in day-to-day life. You don’t have to overdo it. I’ve done it too much in my life, anyway. I was afraid of the stereotypical Joe Blow life. But it’s not so bad, really. I think age helps you realise that. When you’re in your 20s, you don’t want to conform. You want to raise cain. You want to feel more.”He turns up the volume. All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms, Depeche Mode sing. Words are very unnecessary, Chob fills in. The phone rings.“Ciao, amore!” he replies.

Chob next to a FN-train in Milan 2007.

96 CHOB 97CHOB

Chob sits at the window looking out at the courtyard. He lights a cigarette and discusses the development of Italian graffiti.With one of the most distinctive styles in Italy, he clearly differs from dominant writers in the rest of the country. He thinks Italian graffiti lacks personality. “You should develop the style of your home town and use its stylistic history,” he says. “There are traces of the Bologna writer Rusty in my pieces. My letters look completely different, but there are influ-ences. At the same time, and now I’m contradicting myself, I’m very much inspired by Finnish graffiti. But I try to do it in an Italian way, developing it into my own thing.”Chob talks about the irregularity of Finnish graffiti, the Roman writ-er Panda’s open view on colouring, and employing differently-sized elements in your letters. A free form of graffiti. Chob is sure of one thing: writers depend too much on a template. He goes on to talk about train writing. This is what he loves best, even though he is starting to feel a bit split about it.“I feel a bit silly running around among the trains sometimes, and that I’m too old,” he says. “But at the same time, it’s not an imprison- able offence. And I don’t need to sink all my time into it any more, I just tag along with those who do it instead. It’s highly likely that they bring me and nobody else along just because I’m Chob.” He laughs.

It is a warm afternoon. A train car looms outside a broken win-dow. The regional train is parked by the side of a large station in central Milan. By sneaking through an abandoned building

stretching along the tracks, you end up barely ten metres away from the train.Two other writers are painting a couple of cars away and the plat-form on the other side is deserted. Chob sketches up a piece that stretches well into the windows. The sun is dazzling as it shines in over the train roof.Everything is quiet when the two who were writing further away come over to chat and watch as Chob works on his piece.Twenty minutes later, he has finished. “the”, in large, colourful let-ters, decorates the outside of the train. He writes his friends’ tags by the side of the piece and looks at it for a while. Then he photographs it from various angles. The others disappear into the abandoned building, and Chob climbs in after them. They quickly check that no guards or policemen are waiting for them before they go out into the street. Chob says goodbye and walks back to the car.“I try to be nice to everyone I meet. I’m not the sort who disses toys. Younger writers often ask me for my opinion about their pieces. I usually say what I think is good first, and then sneak a little criticism in, what they should change or do to make it better. Often they show they understand what I mean. That makes me happy. I’m proud that they value my opinion.”Chob is aware of what is special in his own style, but doesn’t mind other writers using elements of it.“My close friends are probably quite influenced by some of my piec-

es. Especially my brother. It’s probably not easy for him to be my brother and try to create something personal. Like having Picasso as a father and attempting an art career of your own,” he laughs.By eight, the sun has gone down, and Chob is on his way to pick up his girlfriend in the small town of Bergamo, about an hour northwest of Milan. He stops at an Autogrill for an espresso. In the car, he plays Depeche Mode loudly. He says he has designed a line of bags for an Italian clothes company, and hopes to get other similar jobs. The designed bags are sold at expensive interior boutiques in Milan, but their pattern is graffiti.“Designing stuff with graffiti is ok, but my own graffiti has to be illegal,” he says.“I think it’s a good thing to paint the odd train. It’s my way of revolt-ing in day-to-day life. You don’t have to overdo it. I’ve done it too much in my life, anyway. I was afraid of the stereotypical Joe Blow life. But it’s not so bad, really. I think age helps you realise that. When you’re in your 20s, you don’t want to conform. You want to raise cain. You want to feel more.”He turns up the volume. All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms, Depeche Mode sing. Words are very unnecessary, Chob fills in. The phone rings.“Ciao, amore!” he replies.

Chob next to a FN-train in Milan 2007.

144 RAGE 145RAGE

carried up to a grove near the yard. Everyone has some 20 cans each. In Rage’s experience, you need at least 17 cans to cover a whole subway car.He takes another walk around the yard. One can hear loud groans through an open window nearby. Saturday night is wearing out, giv-ing way to the sunrise.As the crew finally move to the yard, they are tired and washed up. Rows of trains await in a clearing surrounded by high trees and bush-es. The atmosphere quickly changes. The air is filled with adrena- lin and expectation.They hop over a fence and spy towards the parked trains some hun-dred metres away and start to jog towards them. Suddenly Rage’s phone rings. He stops and gets a report. A car with guards has ar-rived at the other side of the yard. He directs the other writers to go back. They jump over the fence and Rage gets notified that more guards has shown up. It is getting light, and they give up: there will be no pieces made.

A bit like James Bond”, is how Rage describes his writing.The presence of guards and police is important, it is some-thing to fight about to make it exciting. Rage does not think

there is any particular writer to battle with any more. Instead, he is satisfied by never having been caught by the long arm of the law. He feels their anger and frustration every time he leaves his name, painted on the outside of a whole car, or, as he has done in some cases, entire trains.The police are after him, he knows that. He has heard that writers under arrest have been asked about his tags. This has left him slightly paranoid. He never talks about graffiti with outsiders and avoids contact with writers he does not know.“The fewer who know I’m doing it, the better,” he says.During the time I visit him, his flat is systematically being cleared of anything graffiti-related. When the doorbell rings, he instinctively wonders whether the police could have traced him from his latest piece.In Hamburg, home searches are often the rule in investigations on il-legal graffiti. The police often also try to connect writers to the crime using fingerprints, but dna testing and phone taps are seldom used. Despite this, many do not utter a word about graffiti on the phone; they scrub their spray cans and are careful never to touch them with-out gloves. Anything to be on the safe side.The police and prosecutors take graffiti seriously, but it is hard to sen-tence someone without witnesses. Attempts using graphologists have failed. Though sanctions have hardened in Hamburg, any punish- ment above a fine is unusual. This does not really worry Rage, who feels that the art of graffiti is not getting caught.“Also, I don’t want to give them the pleasure of arresting me,” he says. “Anyone can paint a lot for a year or two. You get busted a few times and that’s the end of your career. The hard part is to stay active for a long time without getting busted.”

“

144 RAGE 145RAGE

carried up to a grove near the yard. Everyone has some 20 cans each. In Rage’s experience, you need at least 17 cans to cover a whole subway car.He takes another walk around the yard. One can hear loud groans through an open window nearby. Saturday night is wearing out, giv-ing way to the sunrise.As the crew finally move to the yard, they are tired and washed up. Rows of trains await in a clearing surrounded by high trees and bush-es. The atmosphere quickly changes. The air is filled with adrena- lin and expectation.They hop over a fence and spy towards the parked trains some hun-dred metres away and start to jog towards them. Suddenly Rage’s phone rings. He stops and gets a report. A car with guards has ar-rived at the other side of the yard. He directs the other writers to go back. They jump over the fence and Rage gets notified that more guards has shown up. It is getting light, and they give up: there will be no pieces made.

A bit like James Bond”, is how Rage describes his writing.The presence of guards and police is important, it is some-thing to fight about to make it exciting. Rage does not think

there is any particular writer to battle with any more. Instead, he is satisfied by never having been caught by the long arm of the law. He feels their anger and frustration every time he leaves his name, painted on the outside of a whole car, or, as he has done in some cases, entire trains.The police are after him, he knows that. He has heard that writers under arrest have been asked about his tags. This has left him slightly paranoid. He never talks about graffiti with outsiders and avoids contact with writers he does not know.“The fewer who know I’m doing it, the better,” he says.During the time I visit him, his flat is systematically being cleared of anything graffiti-related. When the doorbell rings, he instinctively wonders whether the police could have traced him from his latest piece.In Hamburg, home searches are often the rule in investigations on il-legal graffiti. The police often also try to connect writers to the crime using fingerprints, but dna testing and phone taps are seldom used. Despite this, many do not utter a word about graffiti on the phone; they scrub their spray cans and are careful never to touch them with-out gloves. Anything to be on the safe side.The police and prosecutors take graffiti seriously, but it is hard to sen-tence someone without witnesses. Attempts using graphologists have failed. Though sanctions have hardened in Hamburg, any punish- ment above a fine is unusual. This does not really worry Rage, who feels that the art of graffiti is not getting caught.“Also, I don’t want to give them the pleasure of arresting me,” he says. “Anyone can paint a lot for a year or two. You get busted a few times and that’s the end of your career. The hard part is to stay active for a long time without getting busted.”

“

168 TOX 169TOX

Tox 05 done with paint stripper on a subway train in London 2007.

Oxford Street in 2007 only yields the odd tag. The average Lon-doner is caught 300 times a day on surveillance cameras, and graffiti removal is a priority. When the Olympic Games take place here in 2012, it must be spotless. And this work is to start in time.Sham says that London’s buffing system has been revolutionised in the past year. Instead of washing the brickwork along underground lines, the walls are painted by high-pressure jets from a train that slowly travels down the tunnels. Everything is brown.Ironically, in spite of harsh criticism, the logo for the London Olym-pics is clearly inspired by graffiti. The idea is that the logo, which took a year to produce and cost £400,000, should connect with a young generation.And graffiti is a great interest among the young. Despite cctv, mo-tion detectors, and razor-sharp barbed wire, it is impossible to stop people from expressing themselves on the trains. Enormous sums spent on surveillance, harsh punishments and diligent scrubbing may keep the most intricate and colourful pieces out of traffic. But writ-ing still appears on the trains. Etch and paint remover are the tools of choice for those who want to be seen. The paint remover makes the paint bubble and pucker. Eventually, the paint flakes off, leav-ing sheer metal. Apart from Tox, we see names like Flash, Osne, Serva, Opium and dds written in paint remover on the outsides of the trains as we go to Notting Hill. Tox’s crew, the Diabolical Dub Stars, was formed in 1991 by Sub 1 and his brother Shu 2 of north London. Their model was the London Giants, one of London’s first big crews, and their philosophy “all or nothing, pure vandalism”. The English expression dub, meaning a quickly-executed painting, between a piece and a throw-up, set the standard. The age of the members reaches from just below 20 to about 40. Today, dds is so big that not even Sub 1 knows how many members there are, but the philosophy is the same as at the outset.

We change at Victoria and take the Circle Line for a few stops until we can change again for the Hammersmith & City Line. We glimpse a fresh Tox piece outside the win-

dow. Here, the windows have no plastic covering. Zomby produces his marker and does a big tag on one of the door windows. At first it looks like water, but soon the fluid starts reacting with the glass and a stinging smell spreads through the car, which is full to burst-ing. The letters appear. Now they will remain there until the pane is changed. Zomby looks pleased, and jokes with a few girls who have had to move to allow him to reach the window. Some passengers look on sceptically at a distance.A few minutes later, we are at Westbourne Park and one of the en-trances to the carnival area. The Oyster card comes out to be reg-istered again. We avoid the body search and metal detectors, and can quietly walk past those who have been singled out. The theme for this year’s carnival is Set All Free. It is the celebration of the 200th anniversary of the abolition of slavery in the British Empire. All those who are lined up to be searched have dark skin.

168 TOX 169TOX

Tox 05 done with paint stripper on a subway train in London 2007.

Oxford Street in 2007 only yields the odd tag. The average Lon-doner is caught 300 times a day on surveillance cameras, and graffiti removal is a priority. When the Olympic Games take place here in 2012, it must be spotless. And this work is to start in time.Sham says that London’s buffing system has been revolutionised in the past year. Instead of washing the brickwork along underground lines, the walls are painted by high-pressure jets from a train that slowly travels down the tunnels. Everything is brown.Ironically, in spite of harsh criticism, the logo for the London Olym-pics is clearly inspired by graffiti. The idea is that the logo, which took a year to produce and cost £400,000, should connect with a young generation.And graffiti is a great interest among the young. Despite cctv, mo-tion detectors, and razor-sharp barbed wire, it is impossible to stop people from expressing themselves on the trains. Enormous sums spent on surveillance, harsh punishments and diligent scrubbing may keep the most intricate and colourful pieces out of traffic. But writ-ing still appears on the trains. Etch and paint remover are the tools of choice for those who want to be seen. The paint remover makes the paint bubble and pucker. Eventually, the paint flakes off, leav-ing sheer metal. Apart from Tox, we see names like Flash, Osne, Serva, Opium and dds written in paint remover on the outsides of the trains as we go to Notting Hill. Tox’s crew, the Diabolical Dub Stars, was formed in 1991 by Sub 1 and his brother Shu 2 of north London. Their model was the London Giants, one of London’s first big crews, and their philosophy “all or nothing, pure vandalism”. The English expression dub, meaning a quickly-executed painting, between a piece and a throw-up, set the standard. The age of the members reaches from just below 20 to about 40. Today, dds is so big that not even Sub 1 knows how many members there are, but the philosophy is the same as at the outset.

We change at Victoria and take the Circle Line for a few stops until we can change again for the Hammersmith & City Line. We glimpse a fresh Tox piece outside the win-

dow. Here, the windows have no plastic covering. Zomby produces his marker and does a big tag on one of the door windows. At first it looks like water, but soon the fluid starts reacting with the glass and a stinging smell spreads through the car, which is full to burst-ing. The letters appear. Now they will remain there until the pane is changed. Zomby looks pleased, and jokes with a few girls who have had to move to allow him to reach the window. Some passengers look on sceptically at a distance.A few minutes later, we are at Westbourne Park and one of the en-trances to the carnival area. The Oyster card comes out to be reg-istered again. We avoid the body search and metal detectors, and can quietly walk past those who have been singled out. The theme for this year’s carnival is Set All Free. It is the celebration of the 200th anniversary of the abolition of slavery in the British Empire. All those who are lined up to be searched have dark skin.

OV

ERGRO

UN

D 3

BERLIN COPENHAGEN HAMBURG LIÈGE LONDON MILAN PARIS PRAGUE STOCKHOLM

OVERGROUND 3

TRANS EUROPE EXPRESS

AMAN APOLLO CAVE CHOB CLINT OCLOCK CAKES RAGE TOX