est. golden hour, somewhere off rua dos artistas

mujun

contradiction, painted in warm light on a wall that should not be beautiful — but is.

a slow walk a vertical alley a sunset that won’t finish
keep walking ↓
sunset 18:47
wind SW 12km/h
i. vines & vandalism

flowers, painted at speed.

i did not know wildflowers grew on concrete. yet here they are — Rosa canina, Hedera helix, the small white ones whose name i still cannot pronounce — pushing through plaster cracks the way some kind of inevitable tenderness pushes through everything we paint over.

the muralist’s hand is fast, fast, fast. the flowers are slow. somehow they meet in the middle.

“weeds are just flowers no one has agreed to love yet.”
— scrawled in pencil under a tag, alley three
Rosa canina Hedera helix Papaver rhoeas Calendula off.
ii. marble, partly remembered

three layers of beauty, stacked.

corinthian capital

acanthus + wild rose, sometime after midday

broken column

classical, partly forgiven by ivy

a bust, crowned

stone, paint, and weeds — a treaty

a pediment, tagged

sacred geometry, signed by someone

classical beauty beneath. street beauty above. nature beauty growing through both.

iii. field notes from a warm wall

things i wrote on the way home.

  • 17:52

    a child has drawn a sun on the wall in chalk. someone’s sprayed petals around it. the sun now looks slightly embarrassed and very loved.

  • 18:14

    three pigeons are arguing over a fig. the wall behind them says RESPIRA in coral letters two metres tall. they are not respecting the instruction.

  • 18:31

    the colour of light right now is the colour of an orange that has been left on a windowsill for a week. honey, but tired. honey, but going somewhere.

  • 18:47

    i think contradiction (矛盾) is the only honest position. the wall is ugly and beautiful. the spray paint is vandalism and devotion. the sun is leaving and arriving (on the other side).

  • 19:03

    a dog with one ear up and one ear down passes by. he doesn’t look at the murals. they were painted for him anyway.

dusk arrives, painted.

the wall keeps its colours after the sun goes. the flowers stay open. the spray-can hisses one last time and is quiet.

— mujun, with warm hands