According to contemporary research, the one of the earliest forms of ‘modern’ graffiti exists in the ancient Greek (now Turkish) city of Ephesus. It is purported, at least among local tour guides, to be an advertisement for services rendered within the prostitution industry. In many ways, it is—I would imagine—the first example of “satisfaction guaranteed, but only if you pay up front.” Apparently, this ancient bit of graffiti crosses art-genre borders: it apparently resembles a footprint, a heart and a number, in close to a proximity to a hand (which announces service for pay.) In the realm of the Roman Empire, this would be considered pornography: a word derived from pornae, a class of prostitute and “graph”, writing. The pornae of ancient Rome often inscribed the soles of their sandals with pertinent information in regard to services rendered, particular specialties, and an address. In this particular case, potential customers simply read footprint-advertisements. Classical pornography (not that modern stuff with Cassio-quality disco soundtracks) was graffiti at its most functional. I might even venture to guess that prostitution-related graffiti can be seen, without much exaggeration, as ancient public service announcements. It is because of graffiti’s venerable history that I find stuff scrawled on walls to be interesting. Humans have been putting things on walls since prehistoric days. The Lasceaux Caves in France and Spain’s “Cave of Hands” are decorated with rich and vibrant (and exceptionally naturalistic) depictions of animals and cruder, or at least more stylized “silhouette” representations of human beings. Spain’s Cave of Hands, so named for the stenciled hand-prints adorning its walls was once thought to serve as a kind of “hunter’s instruction manual”, but more contemporary theories seem to favor the idea that the hands (almost uniformly the non-dominant hands of numerous people) are probably the markers of initiation rites: boys becoming men seem to have sprayed their non-dominant hands with pigment (spewed by human breath from a reed) and the resultant stencils then served as a kind of signature. I think of the Cave of Hands, as well as various Roman forms of graffiti whenever I see things scrawled, etched, painted, stenciled, or sprayed onto walls. I thought of such things, as I walked through the Wrigleyville neighborhood, with Corey. The el-facing outer wall of an art gallery was brilliant in the colors of applied pigments. The depictions of stylized humans, nature scenes, and odd, triplicate still lifes recalled ancient forms of that stuff you put on walls where stuff doesn’t ‘normally’ go. I laughed at the idea of Paleolithic artisans (in their grass-stuffed shoes [yes, they wore those!] and their stylish animal hide two-piece drip-dry ensembles [yes, they had those too,]) debating the merits of red beside blue, versus blue beside green, or even discussing the supremely-controversial move of not including a spotted she-bear in the planned piece of art! (I happen to know that in the Paleolithic age, if it didn’t have a bear in it, it wasn’t art.) I thought of the slightly more pre-French caves at what is now Lasceaux (I liked the image of cave-men in fur berets creating art, before going to the next cave over to sip primordial espresso from dainty, carved rocks. (A cup of that stuff cost 3 pebbles, I’m told.) And so, after that little side trip into ancient and pre- history, we come to a wall in Chicago. There were no pornae in the area: at least no legal ones. There were no ancient pre-French cave-men, either. But there was stuff on a wall. Lots of it. I liked the idea that in of tens of thousands of years, we haven’t really changed: if we see a blank wall, someone among us will put stuff on it. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great week.