“On a Tuesday night in the summer I tried to paint a train bridge that spans Portobello Road in West London with posters showing the revolutionary icon Che Guevara gradually dribbling off the page. Every Saturday the market underneath the bridge sells Che Guevara t-shirts, handbags, baby bibs and button badges. I think I was trying to make a statement about the endless recycling of an icon by endlessly recycling an icon. People always seem to think if they dress like a revolutionary they don’t actually have to behave like one.
I got up on the bridge about 4am. It was quiet and peaceful until two cars approached very slowly and parked on the street. I stopped pasting and watched from the side of the bridge through the bushes. After a few minutes there was no movement and I figured it was cool to carry on.
I reached the fifth poster when there was a huge bang and the sound of splitting wood. One of the cars had reversed back up the street and was on the pavement, wedged in the doorway of the mobile phone shop. Six small figures in hoods with scarves over their faces ran into the store throwing everything they could into black plastic bags. In less than a minute they were ali back in their cars which screamed down Portobello Road beneath me. I stood there with my mouth hanging open, a bucket in one hand and a sawn-off sweeping brush in the other, the only young male in sportswear now within a mile of the store. I got the feeling things would look bad for me if I hung around so I dropped the bucket, climbed the fence and jumped to the street.
The area was full of cameras so I lowered my head, pulled my hood up and ran all the way to the canal.
I imagined the kids were probably in Kilburn by then, lighting up a spliff and saying to each other ‘Why would someone just paint pictures of a revolutionary when you can actually behave like one instead?’ ”
e con questo ho raggiunto la mia dose quotidiana di rivoluzione domestica.