The Red Wall
This all started about eight months ago. To be fair, I have no idea when this started.
There is a wall near my house. The wall is big, and it is red. I have spent the last eight months developing a narrative in my head around this wall. The story requires a bit of background on Allston as a whole.
Allston is covered in street art and graffiti. Harvard street runs through, and you’ll find colors, tags, and murals in every direction. What sets Allston aside is that the community here celebrates the street art that makes it unique. Most businesses pay for murals or at least allow the art to happen. It is rarely reported and is almost only ever covered up by a new piece. Most businesses.
The Red Wall is the side of an empty retail space on Commonwealth Avenue running through Allston. It is the perfect canvas. The business has been out of operation at least since I moved here a year ago, and the wall faces Comm Ave openly.
I never gave The Red Wall much attention until the first tags appeared. It took the first pieces to recognize how beautiful this wall could be. It looked as though the building had no tenant and it was massive. It could serve as a new forum for the street artists of Allston. From this day forward, I visited The Red Wall every morning.
Then came the vulgarity. I am no saint, but I have sense. I knew immediately that the art would not last here. It’s one thing to tag the building, to express yourself, to decorate your environment. This neighborhood celebrates it. As soon as the visuals go downhill, the owner has a reason to cover it. It goes from a celebration to an abuse, and the growth stops.
Some artists stayed true to their goal here, and continued to create on and around The Red Wall. These characters still stand here to this day.
With the vulgarity came the coverups. It was at this point I gained some clarity on the gravity of the situation. The coverup was the wrong red. This was not about the purity of the wall or the beauty of the facade. This was control. The owner said “Do not paint My Red Wall”.
Signs of life continued at The Red Wall, proof that those of the community still cared for the spot. Action halted for a while, and no new work was made. The protest had hit a lull.
But then, a beacon. Paint marker on glass. A simple medium, old in the world of street art.
Work appeared day after day, expanding off The Red Wall and onto all sides of the building. A combination of cartoons, tags, political statements, and stickers hit the wall almost overnight.
The fight from both sides was aggressive and determined. Pieces were covered up and immediately reworked, often in the same day. Wet red paint mixed with newer spray paint of every color.
Through the winter, the vulgarity returned. It was clear the owner had ceased their fight for the cold season, and the locals took The Red Wall for their own. The vulgarity came welcome this time, as the battle was no longer about art or no art. “Don’t tell me what to do” they said.
Victory flags planted in the soil. Ownership claimed. A pipe dream, but a dream. A celebration of the people. The rats of Allston had taken The Red Wall.
More recognizable symbols appeared over the following weeks and months, imagery seen all over Allston and the greater Boston. The wall grew and grew, almost outside of itself. The work was not beautiful, but the resistance commendable.
I enjoyed my daily trips to the wall. I’d look for new faces, new names. It acted as a petri dish of the local offerings of Allston street art. Nothing was finished, the whole wall was a study. It was beautiful in its lack of finality.
Suddenly, and literally overnight, it was gone. Destroyed in a wave of the wrong shade of red. The great flush. The Red Wall was dead.
I could be completely wrong about The Red Wall. I’ve never seen anyone paint it, neither the owners nor the artists. I don’t know who the building belongs to or what it is there for. There can be beauty in ignorance, and I enjoy the story I’ve told myself about this place. I still visit The Red Wall every morning, and I will until I leave Allston. I’m sure this is not the end of this silent battle. I can hear the paint cans.