destiny walls

7/30/2019 Destiny Walls

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DESTINY WALLS

She was a girl in her twenties. Lost soul in a big city. Fragmented family, cracked moral. She

was part of a group that tarred on public walls. They went all over the city, day and night,

writing unreadable sentences and strange hand-writing on abandoned houses, front walls,

top of buildings. She was the most intense “city-tarr er” of her group. She felt glorious when

she managed to go up to the top of the highest sky-scrapper. She loved to look over the

huge extension of concrete, to feel the breeze on her face, to watch the foggy sun-rise, open

her chubby arms and touch freedom. Running from the police was an adventure to tell.

The time came when a big and important art exposition came to one of the pivotal exposition-

centres in the continent. All media attention there. This year there would be a whole section

that would remain empty as a symbol of the open-future of the art. The girl’s group decided

to occupy that section with tarring and writing. Early morning, as soon as the place opened,

the group invaded it, car-tarr sprays in hand, quick as hawks, colouring every available

space. Security was called. Everyone in good snickers, running for their lives. She wore



sandals, her weight, a disadvantage. She was left behind, easy prey for trained guards. To

prison she went.

She wasn’t sure about how she felt. Confused and unreal at first. Scared when it hit her that

she was treated as a criminal now. Her case was widely reported in the media. An extensive

debate took place about the empty section, the role of art, the democracy of expositions and

so on. The feminists accused the police to arrest the only female in the group, a sign of

sexism and gender repression. Philosophers and psychoanalysts wrote about her in their

articles. Newspapers reported every step of the process.

For the girl, this was an even more remarkable experience. She had never been in prisonbefore, although she had risked it a lot. But the twenties are rebel years and she was

pleased with the attention she got from the media. This didn’t mask the feeling of

strangeness she felt in the first days. To be institutionalized was a surreal experience. She

was a walking number, eating at the same time as everybody, taking sun-bathes all together,

same time to go to sleep and get up. Her colleagues were common criminals. Her cell-mate

was a woman ten years her senior. She was convicted of murder: her husband; the one who

hit her very often. One day she defended herself and killed him in the process. The girl could

see the cell-mate’s pain imprinted in her soul like red-hot iron on leather. The woman was of

a rather kind nature. As the days passed, they got along well. Long, sleepless nights offered

plenty of time for whispered conversation, both got closer and closer.

The girl’s pr ocess went on and there was a big campaign pressing for her release.

Nevertheless, the average people hated wall-tarrers, so the public opinion was divided.

However, nobody disagreed that community work suited more the transgression.

Meanwhile, she and her cell-mate were quite happy to have one another to talk to. But

something else crept in. An out-placed tenderness, attitudes of care and concern for each

other. It went beyond friendship. They discovered themselves in love; lovers they became. It

was a desperate feeling, without hope or future; but they were lost in it. They found a

meaning for their lives, their situation, their hopelessness.



The girl’s case got judged and, in due time, she was released. The sentence came to her as

the worst one possible. The usual routine took place: tears, promises, hopes, good-byes.

It was a strange thing to go back to usual life again. Everything seemed different. The

“outside” felt claustrophobic. It was like she had been in ano ther dimension. As soon as she

came out, some newspapers wanted to interview her. She felt glad to be able to talk about

her experience, her ideas and plans. A few weeks passed and the media lost interest in her.

She became completely forsaken and her loneliness, unbearable. Her old group didn’t want

her back because she drew too much attention now. Weeks in prison made her fatter, less

able to run if an emergency happened. Isolation was the label for her.

Visits to the prison took place. So hurtful they were that the girl gave them up after a couple

of times. It felt too weird, misplaced. Uncomfortable silences, awkwardness. A few hours

couldn’t be enough; they felt too much at the same time. The longing and tenderness crude

in the open.

Some weeks passed and still no direction for her. She wandered about, sat for hours in

parks, participated in never-heard-of demonstrations, talked to beggars, ate in cheaprestaurants, watched people go by as if nothing was ever wrong. One day she entered in a

small, side-street grocery store, just looking randomly at the packs displayed. A DVD shelf

caught her attention. In an impulse, she took one and hid it under her T-shirt, right under the

video-surveillance unit. Police, cuffs, arresting.

She was taken to the same prison as before. Newspapers wrote small notes on the fact, to

which nobody gave importance. She wasn’t imprisoned in the same cell, the other womenwanted nothing to do with her. She managed to enquire about her previous cell-mate. She

had been transferred to another prison.

Lisa Torcato.

22.03.2009

Image: O Muro, Osgemeos

destiny walls

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