6 days in Sp

When I first heard that we were doing an extreme issue I instantly thought of the stories Daze had shared about these writers in Brazil whose graffiti is called pixacao.  Slightly different than graffiti in New York, the pixodores who get the most props are the ones who climb the highest.  

On the final descent into GRU airport I peer out the window and see back-to-back high-rise buildings stretching into the horizon.  I try and block out Mom’s warning as well as the horror stories I’ve heard about Sao Paulo.  One native Brazilian I know told me that his earliest memory was that of a young tourist couple walking down his street, naked, bloodied and crying.  The information package handed out by the Brazilian Embassy warns of everything from malaria to mickey-finn girls and makes a special point to state that two U.S. citizens were fined $15,000 each for making obscene gestures while being fingerprinted and photographed.  

True to form upon landing, there are two lines.  One marked: visitors, the other: U.S. citizens.  Surprisingly I breeze through my mug shot session without a hitch.  

Shouldering my duffel bag, I attempt eye contact with several people standing outside my gate hoping one of them is Binho.   My contact, Binho, is one of the most famous graffiti writers in Brazil, not a pixodor which is distinctly different.  When someone is a graffiti writer it means that they do pieces or productions, pixodores are more like bombers and with few exceptions, exclusively write pixacao.  After a few bad looks I get a confirming smirk from a guy standing off to the side, arms crossed, sporting a pair of Oakley’s.  Grinning back, we slap hands and toss my bag into his trunk.  

Driving in Sao Paulo is an experience.  I don’t speak Portuguese therefore reading the traffic signs is impossible but as far as I can tell, the only real rule is – don’t crash.  

DAY TWO:  

Noon.

  I get up slowly, every inch of altitude making my head pound harder.  Jesus, I’m hung over.  Last night, after dropping in on a few barbeques and scarfing down some grilled chicken hearts, I wound up at one of city’s many sex clubs.  I guzzled Brazilian beer as the DJ spun Hot 97 hits and Brazilian women tried to coax me upstairs where I could’ve better taken advantage of the exchange rate.

I splash water on my face, pop a few aspirins, load up my gear and head out.  Yesterday, on our drive through the city, we passed an ominous, pixacao covered building surrounded by crumbling, concrete walls.

“That’s Carinderu,” (Car-en-je-ru) Binho said, “It’s one of the worst jails in Brazil.  Once there was a riot, police came with machine guns and the papers said they killed 112 men.  I heard it was more like 300.  They started to tear it down, but you can still get good pictures from the train.”

Observing the sinister structure from the safety of the platform I can feel my heart pound a little quicker as the adrenalin kicks in.  Forget taking pictures from the train, I follow the 30-foot-high walls trying to find a way in.  Halfway around I get to a low cinderblock wall separating the jail from what looks like a construction site.  Hopping over, I get the feeling that I’ve just seriously violated the conditions of my “tourist visa”.  Mud sucks at my sneakers as I pick my way around mounds of construction debris across the yard.  Rounding one corner of the jail I come to a gaping hole busted in the cement and slip inside.  Now, I’m scared.  Sweating bullets I take pictures of the shadowy hallways expecting at any moment someone to pop out at me.  Except for the occasional girly picture and several painted characters with the word “Bronx” written above them, there is nothing left from the previous tenants.  (In Sao Paulo, when something is hard or tough, they call it Bronx).

“You should come here very soon,” Binho’s voice crackles through my cell phone once I’m safely back out on the streets, “There are some pixodores here I want you to meet.”

Arriving at the opening of ‘Gra-pixco’ Sao Paulo’s newest graffiti store I notice one kid with his cap pulled low, standing off to the side quietly watching the crowd.  I’m told he’s Djan, a pixodor down with Cripta a crew famous for scaling buildings.  After a brief introduction he pulls me to the side digging a photo album out of his backpack with dirty fingers.  It’s flush with pictures of pixacao covered buildings, gra-pixco style rollers and in-action shots of him and his crew.  I give him a thumbs up, Brazil’s universal ‘good shit’ hand signal and even though he doesn’t speak English, we exchange numbers.  Next stop: the Backspin Crew’s dance studio.

“Keep your hands in the car if you enjoy them,” Binho grins as one of the dozens of dirt bikers nicknamed ‘mad dogs’ smacks into our car mirror and keeps going.
When we get there I’m kind of disappointed.  It’s not much more then a big, empty room with a Backspin piece on the wall surrounded by shit like, ‘Zulu Brazil’ and ‘Spraycan Art’.  As Binho gets busy interviewing them for his magazine I finish off my roll of film.  When I get to the 36^th picture I put the camera to my ear.  Did it rewind?  

Then, like a dumb-ass, I pop open the back and there, staring back at me is the exposed film.  I quickly snap it shut, press the manual rewind button and try to fight that ‘I’m-an-idiot-I-just-exposed-pictures-of-an-abandoned-third-world-jail-that-I’m never-going-to-see-again’ feeling for the rest of the night.  

DAY THREE:

10:00 a.m.  

I get up slowly, every inch of altitude making my head pound harder.  I’m hung over.  Late last night I hooked up with Flip, Nunca, and a few other writers I had met at the opening.  I wound up getting home close to 6am after guzzling Caipirinhas and trying to rap to bad-ass Brazilian bitches all night.  

I splash water on my face, pop pain killers, load up my gear and head out in the rain once again.  

Descending a random staircase on the side of the highway I discover a stand with an old woman inside, deep frying what looks like the ultimate answer to my hang over.  I flash her a thumbs up and she tosses one in.  Spicy ground beef spills into my mouth on the first bite.  Next, I taste fried egg.  Then hot ham.  Stuffing the last oily morsel in my mouth, I glance up at the sign.  “Pastella,” I mumble backhanding the crumbs off my mouth, “gotta’ remember that.”

Continuing along the highway, off to my left sandwiched between high-rise hotels, an abandoned building covered in pixacao peeks out at me.  I hop over the only wall without electrified wires running along top and head towards the entrance.  Suddenly I heard yelling behind me.  It’s a security guard running at me screaming in Portuguese.  I give him the whole, ‘I don’t understand, I’m an American photographer’ but he’s not having it, and quickly points me back the way I came.  

I met up with Djan at Binho’s house and after a brief interview and numerous beers he and his partner toss some paint in a knapsack, and we head out bombing.  Neither Djan nor Salve speak English, but it’s understood that trouble will be indicated by vigorously rubbing of one’s chest with one’s fingers.  I’m told this is slang for ‘police’.

Rua da Consolacao is the canyon of heroes to pixodores.  As we walk, we pass large groups of kids milling about huffing glue, transvestite whores strutting around topless and homeless men pulling wagons full of trash to nowhere.  I’m the only one that seems to notice any of this.   Stopping at a building, Djan and his partner politely wait as I take out my camera before ascending the wall with the speed and stealth of cat burglars.  Salve keeps watch, then, like good partners they swap.  As they destroy the second-floor facade people start yelling down at them from the upstairs apartments.  This doesn’t seem to faze the pixodores, on the contrary – they yell back.  Jumping down Djan jogs past me, vigorously rubbing his chest before vanishing into mayhem, Salve scurries off after him leaving me standing there for a moment before I disappear as well.  

DAY FOUR:

9:00 a.m.

Today when I get up, I take advantage of the “breakfast included” deal at my hotel before heading out to meet Caps, a writer who lives in Jardin Colombu one of the Sao Paulo’s infamous favellas.  

Favellas are shanty-towns clustering under bridges, overpasses, highway median strips, and vacant lots all over the city.  I’ve heard rumors about favella residents lining up at dusk near state sponsored highway construction sites to purchase bricks and bags of cement from rogue workers.  Each favella has a “Boss” (drug trafficker) and the only way to enter is if you are invited by him or know somebody with props that lives there.  Today Caps is my ticket in.  

Despite wearing no-frills everything, everyone gawks when I roll up.  They watch closely as Caps and I slap hands Brazil style and start down the 75-degree slope towards the center of ‘town’.  In front of us are large speakers bumping 50 cents on a half-built stage.  There’s going to be a rap concert tonight compliments of Gato Preto who I was told seized control of his favella by killing four of his rivals.  It seems that Mr. Gato did a favor for a Brazilian rapper while he was locked up.  Today the rapper is re-paying that favor.

During my tour Gato Preto rolls up on us in a chauffeured car complete with a flashing light and siren and the word ‘ambulance’ painted across the hood.  Clad in white linen, he greets Caps and I, warmly surprising me with a big hug booming, “Welcome!” before hurrying off with some of his boys to take care of business.  I stand there for a moment contemplating just being hugged by a murderer.  

I have plans to meet up with Flip at a local Hip-Hop festival, so I say my goodbyes and step.  It’s in full swing when I get there: local rappers are doing their thing on stage, and crews of writers are hanging out drinking beer and signing books.  I wade through the crowd asking questions even though most don’t understand me.

From what I was able to piece together when graffiti in Brazil was political it was all called pixacao.  During the early 80’s New York style, name-based graffiti began to take root in Sao Paulo with most writers simply emulating what they had seen in Style Wars.  Around the same time there was a man who raised pit-bulls in a kennel called Cao Fila on the outskirts of town.  For one reason or another he began to paint the name of his business everywhere in his neighborhood.  Soon he began to paint it all over the city.  Once people realized that Cao Fila was famous, he spawned pen-pals, most of whom were rock and roll fans.  By infusing heavy metal typeface into their tags, pixacao was born.  

Driving like a true Sao Pauloian, Flip keeps yelling, “I’m above the law” at passing motorists as we careen through traffic towards his studio.   Throwing on the DVD Carendiru when we arrive, he disappears onto his rear balcony to paint.  The energy here is great.  Bright colors abound.  

“The color of life,” his mother says about their lime green kitchen.   We help her upstairs with the bagfuls of fresh fruit and vegetables from their ‘small farm’.  Soon after, I meet his father.  He’s a large man with an even larger personality.  

“Reia,” is the first thing he says, pointing to a Brazilian buck, “not dollar.”

“My dad just got back from L.A.,” Flip explains,” He’s always doing weird shit like that.”

DAY FIVE:

9:00 a.m.

I got up to the fourth day in a row of rain and decided to go back to Carendiru and re-take pictures.  Exposing that roll of film has really been eating me up.  I grab my umbrella and jump on the metro.  Green to the Blue, I’m there in about 20 minutes.  

It doesn’t look menacing today but when I exit, I notice a handful of stone-faced guards sitting in and around a booth.  I don’t understand how I didn’t notice these guys last time.  Taking a second look I realize that shit it is a guard booth and it’s sitting in front of the main entrance!  Half this thing works??  

I walk back towards the same spot where I trespassed last time.  It’s still early and raining so I should be good.  Wrong.  A grey-uniformed jail cop runs up on me as I nonchalantly try to step through the chain link fence.  Snatching my camera, he starts yelling about God-knows what but it doesn’t sound good.  The rest of the guards keep their distance but stand ready.  As he tries to figure out how to open my camera I apologize as much as possible with my three words of Portuguese.  Eventually he gets frustrated, shoves the camera back into my hands, waves me off and stands there glaring. I go get a beer to calm my nerves.

Re-grouping, I plan to meet Vicio, another pixadore, at his crib to look at flicks.

“I have dogs,” he says to me as we walk to his apartment, “I hope this is no problem.”

Well, he did say he had dogs, 15 as a matter of fact… and 12 cats and two parrots just for good measure.  Decorated with stolen city property, the apartment is the size of a Manhattan one bedroom.  Sifting through a milk crate full of graff flicks containing everything from trains to sewer tunnels, this guy has really put in his work.

“One day,” he begins, “I painting in place with dangerous guys, you know,” he makes the shape of a gun with his hand, “Dangerous guys.  The police, they coming and taking all my paint, they put all on wall near my head and start shooting it.  Pah! Pah! Pah, Pah, Pah! Pissshhhh!!” he waves his hands in the air, “Everywhere.”

It’s close to 2 a.m. and after getting back to my room I grab more film and head back out to take some night shots.  I’m forced to cut it short after a carload of suspicious looking motherfuckers circles me a few times scoping me out.  I jump in a cab and call it a night.  I can’t lose my shit now, I’m leaving in 24 hours.

DAY 6:

10:00 a.m.

Today I’m feeling pretty beat up.  The rainy days and cool nights have left me with a nasty cough.  I’d love to sleep in, but there’s one more base to cover before I leave: Os Gemeos.

 Sharing the tag, Os Gemeos, these twin brothers are famous for their extensive bombing in Sao Paulo.  I’ve heard a lot about them during my short stay here and have been told that no story on Sao Paulo would be complete without them.

Riding the bus to their place is an adventure.  Well, not the ride per se, but rather the getting off.  When my stop comes, I yank the string running above the windows and we come to a screeching halt.  The back door flies open, and I almost get thrown out into the street.  Then, as it pulls away, black smoke spews from an exhaust pipe the width of a football.

“That’s Sao Paulo,” Otavio chuckles when I share my ordeal, “It’s a crazy city.”

Before going back to their studio/apartment he takes me on a quick tour of their work while searching for an illegal hot air balloon shop.  The rest of the day is spent relaxing in their pad quietly discussing the trials and tribulations of being artists.

“Graffiti is the one time you can be free,” Gustavo says, with Otavio finishing his sentence, “We like to be free.”

Special thanks to everyone who made this trip happen, you know who you are.