I.

The Parkland Walk—a former railway line which was, in the 1980s, repurposed as a nature walk for the suburbs of North London—is obviously emblematic of the natural world’s indifference to our “progress”. Although the avenue of trees, wildflowers, and weeds was originally carved out as a path for a steam train, the magisterial icon of the industrial revolution, you would be forgiven for assuming that the path occurred in accordance to nature’s own design, forging its way through North London not unlike the red weed of H.G. Wells’s War of the Worlds.

There is one insistent reminder of the pathway’s co-existence with humanity beyond, of course, the innumerable feet treading the Walk on any given weekend, and that is the presence of graffiti art. Its presence, although distinctly unhidden, is not at all encroaching. Indeed, its very system of existence seems to be in balance with the nature of all other living things that surround it. Like the wildflowers and weeds which form elegant, elongated proscenium arches by manoeuvring over every wall, column, bridge, buttress, and alcove, so too does the graffiti seem to cling to the brickwork with a will of its own existence. The colours are as various as the blooms and as sporadic. The artwork seems to vie not for the attention of the passerby—to whom, like its botanical counterparts, it displays a blithe indifference—but instead vies for its very  survival among the eco-system of its own existence. As the days of the seasons role on, so too do the changing flowers and foliage: growth, bloom, decay, regrowth, ad infinitum. This transience is mirrored in the continuous painting and repainting of the artwork which seems to change, spread, grow like moss or algae; consuming itself in order to survive, to remain alive.

Yet somewhere behind this seemingly miraculous organism of colour, shape, life, decay, and rebirth, there is force with a fundamental will to create. The truth of existence found in creation; what some may call God. I see God in this graffiti art. Perhaps, indeed, God is a graffiti artist.

II.

A man enters the café. He wears dark clothes of soft fabrics which are smeared with paint: various colours, nebulous in their formation, seemingly chaotic. Yet they fall into a pattern under where his hand, unthinkingly, reaches to wipe itself on his right trouser leg. He stops, momentarily, in his day for a coffee. He speaks, other than to order, to no-one. He rests, only slightly, as he drinks. He watches, impatiently, as the world moves past the window of the café. His work is not yet finished. He seems to move with light in his eyes; sunlight. And dust, particles of paint, fall from his hair. His coffee is finished, the cup returned to saucer. He leaves with wordless insistence. Was this God?

Saturday 4th May, 2024.

Crouch Hill, London.