Graffiti is one of those things that happens by magic: At some point, when you weren’t there, someone—a rebellious kid, a brilliant artist, or both—made art on a wall, a train car, a public space. Perhaps the art is a secret code—a language for a cabal of Illuminati that you and I aren’t part of.
Or perhaps it’s Herbie, the Love Bug.
While visiting Munich a couple of years ago, my husband and I saw the magic happen. We walked right past these two artists who carry their lives on their backs and caught them in the act. Okay—maybe not so much. They didn’t even turn as we passed within a couple of yards of them. They had work to do.
The next morning, we went out for breakfast and there was Herbie, fairly bursting off the parade door. I wonder if he knows the Blues Brothers are directly overhead?