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“I help him out sometimes.” Gabriel picks at the peeling plastic on the window ledge, the wind blowing his hair around his face. “His health isn’t so good lately,” Gabriel admits, and that’s probably the most real he has ever been the few times I’ve met him.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I offer.
“That’s life,cariño.” He blows out a breath and then stares back out the window, the conversation clearly closed.
Once we get closer to downtown, he has me head north and then pull off into a neighborhood. The L.A. River is really just a wash that Gabriel refers to as the concrete snake, because it snakes throughout the entire city. Certain sections are inaccessible, and as soon as we walk up to the edge I’m in awe at how someone could even maneuver in those places, let alone create some of the most beautiful art I have ever seen.
We stand on the embankment behind a chain link fence in one of the sections of the concrete snake. Up ahead is a tunnel, the opening made to look like the face of an octopus. The top are the eyes and the mouth is the opening. Tentacles span out in different directions, the suckers shaded so perfectly it looks three dimensional. The colors are vibrant but blend into the concrete as if it’s a portal into the creature’s belly. I have no idea how someone could even get up there to spray paint that, let alone make it so realistic.
“Is this one of yours?” I ask Gabriel in awe.
The dimples on his cheeks become pronounced as he smiles shyly, toeing the ground. “I had help.” He can’t contain the pride, but my scrutiny embarrasses him.
I can’t image he could have accomplished this by himself, not because he isn’t talented, but just the logistics would be near impossible.
Gabriel is a very layered person, and I’m getting the first glimpses of what’s underneath. I knew my instincts were right when I met him. He might be a little rough around the edges, but he is a good person.
I change out my lens for long range since we can’t get any closer, and start taking pictures.
“Take as many as you wantcariño,because pretty soon they’re gonna paint over it.”
I lower my camera and look at Gabriel, my mouth open. “What?” I ask, disheartened. “Who would paint over this?” It would be such a travesty.
“The city,” Gabriel says sadly. “They spend millions of our tax dollars every year repainting over the graffiti, but it’s futile,” Gabriel explains. “You can’t kill art.”
“Why do they bother covering it up?” I snap a few more pictures.
“To prove a point,” Gabriel explains. “To let us know who’s in charge.”
“Then why keep doing it if you can’t win?” I ask.
“You don’t stop taking pictures just because the landscape changes.” Gabriel says.
I get what he means, no matter how many times they paint over it, they can’t change the fact that it once existed. “Maybe you can do something with those photos, so other people know it was here,” he says, while staring at the mouth of the octopus.
The photos I’ve taken are proof that it was once here, and now I understand why Gabriel was so willing to take me. He wants me to capture it, to use whatever connections I have so that it gets seen. I don’t know if I have that kind of pull, but I’ll do whatever I can.
Gabriel’s phone rings in his pocket and he pulls it out to answer it. I take more pictures, trying to get closer, but the fence and the brush seem set on keeping me at a distance. Gabriel speaks in Spanish, and although I can’t understand what he says, his low tone and the way he draws out certain words, makes me think he’s talking to someone he has an intimate relationship with.
I try not to listen, but it’s hard not to. The hopeless romantic in me is riveted to his conversation as he says the wordamor. His hair keeps falling into his eyes and he uses his hand to push it back. I take a couple of pictures of him, shadowed by the overhanging trees with the octopus in the background. I can picture exactly how I would edit the photo with his colorful tattoos almost matching the octopus in the background. It’s like his body is covered in art too.
He hangs up the phone, shoving it back in his pocket but he can’t hide the smile and the sparkle in his light eyes. He laughs when he notices me taking pictures of him.
“Take off your shirt,” I say, and he doesn’t hesitate, peeling off the while t-shirt and tucking it in his back pocket. His profile is stunning as he turns to look at the graffiti, with his sharp jaw and the muscles in his shoulders flexing under the tattoos snaking around his ribcage. He gives me a shy smile as he stands in front of his art, crossing his arms over his chest, his stance wide. The photos are going to be beautiful.
A year in gothic style lettering is tattooed across his toned stomach. I want to ask him what it means, but I get the feeling its personal and I don’t want to invade his privacy.
“You can ask.” He obviously saw my eyes focusing on his stomach.
I lick my lips. “What does your tattoo mean?” His expression makes me want to retract my question.
“My little brother was killed four years ago.” His mouth is tight, the pain still evident. He touches the numbers on his torso. “This was the year he died. Caught in the middle of a shooting,” Gabriel further explains. “He was only eleven.”
“I’m so sorry,” I manage to choke out, placing my hand over my mouth.
The pain etched on his face is too beautiful not to capture, and I lift my camera to take a picture. His eyes meet mine, and in them is a vulnerability I’ve never seen before. Gabriel, realizing what I was doing, holds his hand up, coming closer.
His face inches from mine, he pulls the camera from my grip and I startle. I can see the mistake I made by taking a picture of something he considers so intimate. “I don’t tell many people aboutmi hermano pequeño.” He releases the camera into my hands and I clutch it close to my chest. “I like you, but don’t take advantage of it,cariño.”
