turns out that Jem is not just a great photographer. He’s a great artist as well. A graffiti artist. The best.
I guess I could have worked it out. He’s Fin. His tag can be seen all over town. He’s famous. Over the past few months he has stamped his personalized signature on buildings, trains, buses, walls, everywhere. Sometimes it appears on its own in the shape of a shark’s fin; more often than not it is accompanied by an amazing illustration.
To some people he’s a genius. To others he’s a vandal. But no one can deny his talent. He is super-skilled and super-fast, time being of the essence. People write letters to the local newspaper about him; any new venture of his appears in its pages.
Actually, he’s not just famous, he’s infamous, because no one knows who Fin is. And that’s the way Jem likes it. He has no interest whatsoever in revealing his identity, in ‘coming out’. A big part of the buzz is in remaining anonymous, elusive, evading capture.
And all the time he leaves his mark on buildings that represent the establishment or the unacceptable face of capitalism. Schools, town halls, council offices, benefit agencies, the new Docklands development, even, to my own private amusement, the building which houses my father’s brand-new apartment – all of them he has tagged. Sometimes he scrawls comments on them as well: terse, witty, subversive messages that provoke and undermine.
It’s a big deal that he’s told me. It’s an even bigger deal that, more often than not, he takes me with him now. I’ve become his partner in crime.
His tag has changed. Fin no longer exists. Jem Smith has wrapped his arms around Anna Williams and together we have become JAWS. The signature resembles the wide open mouth of a hungry Great White; the W of Williams, a row of savage teeth.
Jem is teaching me everything he knows.
A girl and a boy together. Against the world.
Running through the night.
Stamping their signatures on public property.
Claiming it as their own.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
W hen I tell Mum I’ve changed my mind about uni and I’m going to London now to be with Jem, she’s OK with it.
‘It’s closer than Newcastle,’ she says, sounding pleased. ‘I’m glad you’re going to be with Jem, though. London’s a big place. You could be very lonely there.’
Poor Mum. If anyone knows what it’s like to be lonely, it’s her. She doesn’t go out much, except for work and her sad nights out with Karen. When she lost Dad, she lost their social life too. She’s got a wardrobe full of posh frocks upstairs she hasn’t put on since the day he left.
But when I tell her I’m thinking of studying Art instead of English, she’s surprised.
‘I thought you loved English?’ she says.
‘I do! But it’s like Jem says, I’ll read anyway, I don’t need a degree to do that. Whereas, Art … there’s more to it than just painting and drawing, you know. Jem says it’s about expressing yourself, giving yourself a voice. I want to get into it, study it properly, find out about different artists, different periods, different methods …’
‘Well, you certainly sound enthusiastic about it!’ says Mum.
‘I am. I’m serious, Mum. Jem and I have talked about it loads, and there’s a great Art department at his college.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ breathes Livi. ‘You’re going to London to be with Jem. That is so romantic!’
Mum looks at me, concerned. ‘Well, you’ve always been such a sensible girl, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Your father’s not going to like it though.’
She’s right. My father goes ballistic.
‘ Art?’ he says, like I’ve said I’m going to study party games or joined-up writing. ‘That’s not a subject.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Not a proper subject. You don’t even have to go to university to study it.’
‘I’m not going to uni any more. I’m going to college.’
‘College?’ He looks as if he’s going to explode.
I guess I could have worked it out. He’s Fin. His tag can be seen all over town. He’s famous. Over the past few months he has stamped his personalized signature on buildings, trains, buses, walls, everywhere. Sometimes it appears on its own in the shape of a shark’s fin; more often than not it is accompanied by an amazing illustration.
To some people he’s a genius. To others he’s a vandal. But no one can deny his talent. He is super-skilled and super-fast, time being of the essence. People write letters to the local newspaper about him; any new venture of his appears in its pages.
Actually, he’s not just famous, he’s infamous, because no one knows who Fin is. And that’s the way Jem likes it. He has no interest whatsoever in revealing his identity, in ‘coming out’. A big part of the buzz is in remaining anonymous, elusive, evading capture.
And all the time he leaves his mark on buildings that represent the establishment or the unacceptable face of capitalism. Schools, town halls, council offices, benefit agencies, the new Docklands development, even, to my own private amusement, the building which houses my father’s brand-new apartment – all of them he has tagged. Sometimes he scrawls comments on them as well: terse, witty, subversive messages that provoke and undermine.
It’s a big deal that he’s told me. It’s an even bigger deal that, more often than not, he takes me with him now. I’ve become his partner in crime.
His tag has changed. Fin no longer exists. Jem Smith has wrapped his arms around Anna Williams and together we have become JAWS. The signature resembles the wide open mouth of a hungry Great White; the W of Williams, a row of savage teeth.
Jem is teaching me everything he knows.
A girl and a boy together. Against the world.
Running through the night.
Stamping their signatures on public property.
Claiming it as their own.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
W hen I tell Mum I’ve changed my mind about uni and I’m going to London now to be with Jem, she’s OK with it.
‘It’s closer than Newcastle,’ she says, sounding pleased. ‘I’m glad you’re going to be with Jem, though. London’s a big place. You could be very lonely there.’
Poor Mum. If anyone knows what it’s like to be lonely, it’s her. She doesn’t go out much, except for work and her sad nights out with Karen. When she lost Dad, she lost their social life too. She’s got a wardrobe full of posh frocks upstairs she hasn’t put on since the day he left.
But when I tell her I’m thinking of studying Art instead of English, she’s surprised.
‘I thought you loved English?’ she says.
‘I do! But it’s like Jem says, I’ll read anyway, I don’t need a degree to do that. Whereas, Art … there’s more to it than just painting and drawing, you know. Jem says it’s about expressing yourself, giving yourself a voice. I want to get into it, study it properly, find out about different artists, different periods, different methods …’
‘Well, you certainly sound enthusiastic about it!’ says Mum.
‘I am. I’m serious, Mum. Jem and I have talked about it loads, and there’s a great Art department at his college.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ breathes Livi. ‘You’re going to London to be with Jem. That is so romantic!’
Mum looks at me, concerned. ‘Well, you’ve always been such a sensible girl, I’m sure you know what you’re doing. Your father’s not going to like it though.’
She’s right. My father goes ballistic.
‘ Art?’ he says, like I’ve said I’m going to study party games or joined-up writing. ‘That’s not a subject.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Not a proper subject. You don’t even have to go to university to study it.’
‘I’m not going to uni any more. I’m going to college.’
‘College?’ He looks as if he’s going to explode.
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