tunnels

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who

[TGUNNER]

Great thread!

[nycisdead106]

[nycisdead106]

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this thread is too fucking live

[nycisdead106]

 

 

SANESMITH

Started: Mid 1980s Primary affiliations: TFP, TDS, RIS, VIC Local origin: NYC

Areas hit: NYC Streets Main lines: All-city

 

SANESMITH first came into the public eye during the mid 1980s. The efforts of SANESMITH hold a critical place in New York City Graffiti history.; the mid '80s were a transitional period for writing. At this point the Metropolitan Transit Authority was finally beginning to gain the upper hand in the war on graffiti. Graffiti removal from the subway was significantly more effective than in previous generations of writers. Many writers were frustrated and quit writing.

 

SANESMITH and writers such as the RIS crew continued to bomb subways during this period. It seemed to many that New York City writing was on its deathbed. With trains becoming an increasingly less viable option, SANESMITH began to hit the streets of New York. They took bombing to an entirely new level. They hit extremely high-profile locations throughout the city; climaxing on the landmark Brooklyn Bridge. SANESMITH along with writers like GHOST and JA also pioneered methodical subway tunnel bombing. SANESMITH was frequently on the New York City Police Department's most wanted vandal list. According to writers of the time SANESMITH received an unprecedented level of harassment by law enforcement.

 

Though SANESMITH is counted among the city's most prolific bombers, the artistic abilities of SANESMITH cannot be over looked. Displayed below are a few examples of both bombing and creativity.

[nycisdead106]

 

10:19 P.M., Canal Street, Manhattan: SONI and SLICK

They pay your way home from The Door at night after the train pass is no good. They have to. You run a school that doesn't open until two in the afternoon, nobody goes home until eight or nine o'clock, the subway pass has been dead for two hours already.

A man from The Door had escorted them to the subway station. He handed them tokens and watched them pass through the tumstiles. "JA'S got this tunnel on the Number One line between Columbus Circle and 66th Street," says SLICK. "He hangs out there. We go fuck him up." "How we gonna know if he's even there?" asks SONI. "He's got a whole wall of tags there in the tunnel," says SLICK. "The whole thing, man, every piece of it is his. We could buff him good."

"Yo, we don't know that area too good," says AUDI. "I'm not down for that."

"Nah, man," says SLICK. "We got to."

"Yo, he tagged up SLICK'S house, we gotta come back at him," says SONI, who, though dubious, is sensitive to his friend's slight. After all, SLICK has gotten into this thing because of SONI. This has been SONI'S beef with JA, and SLICK sort of got dragged into it. Now he has been dissed, seriously. That's the lowest thing you can do to another writer, paint on his house.

AUDI should know this, man. SONI couldn't say it in front of SLICK. It's bad enough for SLICK.

"See? All right, man, be that way," says SLICK. "Yo, man, I gotta go," says AUDI. He leaves them as they wait for a train uptown, to JA'S turf. "Later," says SONI. "Later," says SLICK. "Let's find JA."

 

 

 

11:45 P.M., Broadway, Manhattan: SONI and SLICK

The musicians from Lincoln Center are saying good night. Tonight, the opera was Don Giovanni. At the Vivian Beaumont, Anything Goes was selling out at $50 a ticket. The Mostly Mozart series had begun. Even with all this, it was a quiet time of year for the high-culture scene, in a way, since the ballet company was closed. Once, the choreographer Twyla Tharp put on a ballet with graffiti writers, on-stage, painting the set, while the dancers went through their steps. It was a smashing success nearly twenty years ago, with Manhattan people paying good money to watch these ghetto kids from the Bronx and Harlem. The centerpiece fountain had been turned back on only a week or so earlier; the city had ordered all ornamental water displays shut off because of a drought scare. Even though its water was recycled, the dry fountain was a powerful symbol. A burbling fountain would be a soothing presence in the wicked heat of the city. The pit musicians, the orchestra players, were walking into the warm night, the men in black tie and jacket, the women in long dresses. Even without the instruments, you could tell they were working people, despite the formal gear, because they walked across the plaza of the arts center and down to the Broadway subway station.

There, you could stare into the tunnel and see all the way to the lights of the station at Columbus Circle, 59th Street. When a train approaches, its headlights come together like a rising line drive off the bat of a mighty hitter. It is just seven blocks from the Lincoln Center stop to Columbus Circle, a distance that two quick, strong young men can cover in a few minutes. The way the light falls, the boys in the tunnel are swallowed in shadows. And they have business to do. There are probably fifteen tags on the tunnel wall between the two stations. It is hard to see them all, but they get most of them. Buff them. Stomp on his shit. That was one wall. Three spray cans of gray paint already are beat. Only one left. Now they have to do the other side. Have to. The musicians peer into the darkness. Ah, there's the No.1. Good 0l' No.1. They're lucky to get out of work before midnight. The trains start slowing down after 12:00. This one, the 11:59 'out of South Ferry, was going up to the Bronx and into the 240th Street yard. Yardmaster Darrell Williams is waiting there to get it to the car wash. Now, from the 66th Street platform, the musicians see the train leave the Columbus Circle station, starting up the rise to Lincoln Center.

Later, when he was able to talk about it without weeping, the motorman would say that before the train brakes went into emergency mode, he thought he saw a bundle of clothes on the roadbed. That wouldn't be enough to trigger the automatic brake under the car. Needed something more solid. He climbed down on the roadbed and started looking. He had to go back eight cars before he found the…obstructions.

At Lincoln Center, the waiting riders stare out into the darkness and see the headlights have stopped their approach; they wonder why the train isn't moving.

The police told the newspapers that the writing on the walls was just scribble, that there was nothing to it at all. When JA was off the crutches, he went and saw with a glance. Those tags. SONI and SLICK. Their last ones.

[nycisdead106]

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noke unfinish in black.....i wont say whos under camp... this is on the a line... netr did a stomper farther down in the dark hahah

[cesobar]

get some philly tunnel pics in here .. they're shits just as crushed as NYC .. with less toys.

[afsi]

 

whos under camp?

[nycisdead106]

[SAND]

jedi5 might be the freshest writer doin it right now...

[SAND]

get some philly tunnel pics in here .. they're shits just as crushed as NYC .. with less toys.

 

you should post some id like to see but not in this thread

[TGUNNER]

[Bike with AA]

get some philly tunnel pics in here .. they're shits just as crushed as NYC .. with less toys.