Walking down New York’s fabled St. Mark’s street at 2pm on a dark Monday, I craved a beer, the kind that feels you up, and when mixed with whiskey, empties you out just as quickly. I craved a menthol Capri—the deceivingly slender cigs for masochistic smoking wannabes who enjoy the raspy voice and burn of a seasoned addict after inhaling just one.
Not wanting to be here, not wanting to be anywhere, I aimlessly passed souvenir shops with the usual East Village garb that now made me more nauseous than the thought of smoking— sunglasses, checkered scarves and “I Love New York” T-shirts, 2 for $10. I fought the urge to dig out a Sharpie and slash out that cheesy heart. Fuck New York.
Enter James De La Vega, sitting outside his storefront. Enter one of his stenciled murals, casually resting on the broken brick wall adjacent to the store’s opening. The 5-foot piece of wood smeared with spray paint read, “The pressure to survive in the city can make you lose sight of your dream. Stay strong.”
Though this sentence wasn’t designed for me, it hit me like a much needed bitch slap to the face. Harlem born and raised graffiti artist/photographer, and social commentator De La Vega has a knack for giving people something to hold on to in the exact minute they feel everything slipping away.
Standing awkwardly in the middle of the sidewalk, I stared at his art and started to cry. Not big embarrassing sobs, just tiny tears of self-pity. No big deal—in New York this sort of thing happens all the time.
In his signature shades and a top hat, De La Vega, came outside his store. Saw me. Told me to wait right there.
He reappeared a few minutes later, clutching a handful of stickers with his motifs and pithy scrawled on them. “This Moment is More Precious Than You Think,” read one. “Believe in Yourself And Stop Trying to Convince Others,” said another. One showed a picture of two fish in opposing fish bowls. Above them were the words “Sometimes Love Just Doesn’t Connect.”
Not connecting is a common theme De La Vega sees among the millions of people that pass through the East Village, and in East Harlem where he was born and raised. So he writes on trashcans, on the sidewalk, on T-Shirts, anywhere that will hold chalk or spray paint. He hopes to give New York residents something to think about in the fleeting second it takes to read a line or two.
And right when I thought the world was full of a bunch of phonies—salesmen, sweet talkers and jive jivers, I got tagged. But his stickers aren’t an insincere marketing ploy—De La Vega genuinely wants to make people feel better. And in that moment, I did.
By Erin E
