What fire of mind or heart feeds the human impulse to mold or mark the fabric and surfaces of the world into a semblance of imagined beauty? We cannot say; it is an indefinable spark, we can but marvel of its being.
These images were captured in 2004, and the work itself couldn’t have been very much over perhaps two years old. As to who painted them, I have no clue. Some seem to be by the same hand or set of hands, others don’t. And while you may find them outlandishly amateurish or puerile, when I first saw them on a lonely New Year’s morning, they brought to life that sad, lonely street.
Now they are gone.