EPISODE 01
the flash
There’s a kind of hush that settles in after you finish a piece. Not silence—something else. Like the wall itself is taking a breath. A sigh of relief, maybe.
This one was a tough one. Not because of the complexity—shit, I’ve done more complicated stuff with a busted brush and bad light—but because of what the space needed. This wall, tucked behind a community garden and an abandoned gas station, had seen things. Grief. Graffiti tags that screamed for help. Paint peeling like wounded skin.
So I gave the wall what it asked for: color. Shape. A happy little tree with roots curling into the cracks of the soil. Bright birds, big as dreams, coming out of the trees to greet the sun. A big smoky mountain, sitting in silence beneath the clouds.
Halfway through the mural, someone left a box of fruit and a note that said, 'For the muralist. Keep going.' No idea who left it. That’s the beauty of it. We feed each other in ways that don’t make the news.
Art’s not about perfection. Never was. It’s about persistence. It’s about saying, 'I see you' to the pain in the wall and choosing to add something beautiful on it.
And to those of you out there wondering if any of it matters—if you matter—know this:
You do. Your existence is a kind of art, too.
Protect your self.
Protect your community.
Protect your environment.
The brush ain’t just a tool. It’s a torch. Pass it on.
-ROB BO$$