“Like what?” JP asks. “What are the styles?”
He looks so eager, like a kid on a treasure hunt. The hot chocolate moustache definitely adds to the impression.
“Um, okay...” I shift my gaze out the window and scan the section of street we can see. It’s bustling with people—Saint-Laurent always is—and cars and delivery trucks zoom up and down, honking at pedestrians who don’t seem to give a shit about jaywalking. There’s noise and life and colour and art to be found in just the crowd alone, but I look closer, scanning for a glimpse of it on the walls of the old brick storefronts around us.
“There.” I point to the very top edge of a building, where tall, boxy, white letters spell out the wordSMACKDOWN. “That’s called a roller. They’re done with a big rolling brush, which means you can reach really out of the way places. The designs are usually just big block letters like that.”
I shift in my chair, pointing to a building farther down the road.
“See the side of that store? That blue piece is called a tag. Tags like that are what people usually think of when they talk about ‘graffiti.’ Sometimes you’ll hear artists refer to people who tag as ‘writers.’ And that”—I point directly across the street, to where I just noticed another piece through a gap in the crowd—“is called a wheatpaste, or a paste-up. It’s when you plaster a paper drawing or photo up with flour and water, so it sticks to the wall.”
JP cranes his neck towards the windows. “I can’t see it.”
“There,” I instruct him, “at the bottom of the wall, next to that guy in the green jacket.”
A tiny sketch of a robot has been pasted to the bricks just above the sidewalk, pink hearts rising above its square head.
“Oh!” JP shouts. “Le robot! How did you see that from so far away?”
I shrug. “I guess I just know where to look for them.”
JP smacks his palms on the table. “I want to see more. Let’s go for a walk.”
I glance at the remainder of my latte. “Right now? You want to just go walk around looking at street art?”
“Ouias!” he exclaims, and then seems to notice my hesitation. “What, you don’t want to?”
I can’t think of anything I want more. When I first moved to Montreal, I spent every weekend out pounding the pavement for hours, walking blocks and blocks just to get a look at murals I’d seen online, or scanning the sides of overpasses and bridges for the trace of a new piece. I haven’t made many friends here, but every time I spot a familiar tag or a paste-up from an artist I recognize, I feel like someone’s waving at me, like the city itself is extending a hand to say, ‘Hey, Molly. I see you there. I hope you’re doing okay.’
Street art is one of the few subjects I could happily drone on about to anyone willing to listen. I’m just not sure JP knows what he’s getting himself into.
“I’d be happy to show you some pieces around here,” I tell him, “but don’t you have like...famous person stuff to do today?”
He gets up out of his seat. “What, you mean like walking around the city with a pretty girl? I think I’m doing that right now.”
He winks. Somehow, the whipped cream all over his face just makes it even more effective.
He’s a flirt, I tell myself.It doesn’t mean anything.
“You might want to wipe your face before we leave,” I tell him, downing the dregs of my latte and standing up as well.
“Maybe I’m saving this for later.”
I make a face. “Gross.”
We carry our mugs back over to the counter, and JP grabs a few napkins to mop up his face.
“Au revoir,” Roxanne calls from where she’s arranging takeaway cups. “Have fun on your date.”
A hyena laugh shoots out of me. “Oh, it’s not a—a date.”
She shrugs. “Whatever the kids are calling it these days.”
We join the throng on the sidewalk after that. I pause, leaning against the warm bricks that line the doorway as I think about where to take JP first.
“Well, since we’re already on Saint-Laurent, I guess I could show you the diamond.”
I start leading the way along the street, heading closer to the heart of downtown. I stop every now and then to point out a tag or another paste-up. JP takes all my explanations in silently, swivelling his head around to look at the pieces I direct his attention towards. He pulls histrucout after a few minutes, tossing it from hand to hand as we walk.
