The beautiful thing about street art is that it can crop up anywhere - in the fanciest places to the more dire and destroyed of world corners. This is why the street artist working near the Golan Heights are to be especially noted. The NYT reported on their work:
Graffiti painter known as Col Wallnuts likes to use exploding bursts of color, hiding the abstract letters that form his tag, or street name, so only he can find them. Last week, he applied his paint on concrete canvases that had themselves been exploded, often amid the sound of bombs detonating not far away in the Syrian civil war.
Col (pronounced Kole), who is 36 and lives in the Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn, was one of more than a dozen international street painters who spent several days recently leaving their unlikely marks here on the edge of the 1.8-mile-wide demilitarized zone between Israel and Syria.
They came with Artists 4 Israel, a New York group whose strong pro-Israeli stance has brought it much controversy. But none of these spray painters — from Britain, the Czech Republic and Hawaii, among other places — had been to Israel before, and most said they were not sure what to think about the situation on either side of the contested border.
Since the onset of the Syrian uprising, the Israeli military has beefed up its presence in preparation for a possible spillover of the violence, and the longstanding quiet is now constantly threatened by the raging civil war next door: Mortar rounds and rockets have fallen here 60 times in the past year, according to the Israeli military, which fired back 10 times.
This was the violent backdrop to the makeshift graffiti studio for the members of the group, who came armed with $12,000 of spray paint, underwritten by an alumni group of Birthright Israel, which provides free trips to Israel for young Jews.
They splashed some anodyne slogans like “Art Over War” and “Get Lost a Lot — Find Yourself” on the drab detritus, along with a few Jewish stars. The Czech painter, Dmitrij Proskein, who calls himself Chemis because his graffiti began with doodles in a too-easy high school chemistry class, made a few murals, including one of a haunting little girl holding a stethoscope to a bullet-ridden wall at the base.
Mostly, though, they made their mysterious tags — Gypsy, Norm, Aroe, Merk — on what was left from long-ago battles: the bombed-out base, a sprawling set of barracks, a small Syrian tank by the side of the road.
“That’s what graffiti artists do, they write their names,” explained Craig Dershowitz, the founder of Artists 4 Israel, whose copious tattoos include one of the ardent Zionist Zeev Jabotinsky. “The statement is simply: We’re here. If it’s a no man’s land for everyone else, then we might as well claim it for art.”
Artists 4 Israel previously painted bomb shelters in the Israeli border town of Sderot, a frequent target of rocket fire from the Gaza Strip, and last year caught flak for a West Village mural about gay rights in the Middle East. The group promoted the Golan tour as its “most dangerous mission yet.”
Most of the group’s time, and paint, was spent at the military and intelligence base, a huge two-story structure that a local tour guide said was built by the Soviet Union in the 1950s. The guide, Chen Kristal, said it had been the headquarters for the Syrian top brass, and that the famous Israeli spy Eli Cohen, who was eventually hanged in Damascus, had also been stationed there.
It is a graffiti painter’s dream, with an L-shaped retaining wall around an endless series of empty rooms, some with plants sprouting inside. Here, too, generations of amateurs had left an anthropological treasure map: “Carol + Barak” in Hebrew, “Death to betrayers of the country” in Arabic, Beatles songs — “All You Need Is Love,” “With a Little Help From My Friends” — in English.
Chemis climbed what was left of a spiral staircase and set to work on a startling religious icon, a halo of gold around the head and a can of gold spray paint in hand. “That’s his religion,” Mr. Dershowitz explained. “He cares about art.”
The Golan tourism officials who had assisted with the trip were peeved that the group ignored their admonition not to paint inside the building, but a United Nations patrol car rolled through without complaint. And Zion Cohen, who comes to the base every other day to shoot arrows from a bow at a target he set up 50 yards away along the now-Technicolor retaining wall, pronounced the work “marvelous.”
“It’s coloring the shooting,” said Mr. Cohen, 61. “It’s covering all the bullets from 40 years ago.” (Actually, Aroe purposefully painted as though behind the bullet holes, to honor history rather than obscure it.)
Up on the roof, an Arab-Israeli couple celebrating a birthday sipped tea from a thermos, as Mr. Kristal, the guide, identified points of interest: the United Nations checkpoint and fence splitting the area of separation; a smaller fence with yellow flags marking mines; the ghost village of Old Quneitra; an Israeli flag over a grape orchard. And a fresh landmark: “Syria’s Business,” one of the graffiti painters had scrawled up there.
Col, who has a day job in advertising for Ralph Lauren and has L-O-V-E and H-O-P-E tattooed on his knuckles, was in his element.“I like painting in destroyed places,” he said. “If you asked anybody if they want to be here, they’d say no. For artists, it’s very inviting. The explosion of colors really adds to, technically, what’s happened to the building.”
