Dylan Brogan
Like most good stories, this one begins in the parking lot of a Hy-Vee.
I am meeting veteran Madison graffiti artist ATER to shadow him on a night job. A towering streetlight hums as I step out of the car to greet him.
I had been instructed to wear dark clothes and shoes that won’t fail in a sprint or on rough terrain. In the event I was arrested, ATER’s identity was not to be disclosed. “Because if you did give me up,” ATER casually warns, “I’d have to whup your ass.”
He cracks a playful smile, but it’s clearly not an empty threat. With my ass literally on the line, I decide not to ask ATER’s legal name.
ATER grew up in Madison and started tagging with his friends regularly in high school in the late ’90s. “Telephone poles, bus stops, utility boxes,” he says. “We’d bomb whole blocks back then.”
While society may view his scrawl as vandalism, he sees it as beautification. “In terms of aesthetics, I always thought of my [tags] as improvements,” ATER says. “I never saw it as destruction.”
ATER’s plan for this evening is to paint his moniker on a freight train. These mobile canvases are seen by thousands across the country but also offer concealment when parked, allowing an artist to work undetected.
“Unlike a wall or a billboard, a train piece can last for years,” says ATER. “Writers quickly learned that if you don’t cover up the [identifying] number on the cars, they probably won’t be painted over. We’re not trying to make anybody’s job harder.”
We wait until the street is empty before heading onto the tracks. ATER knows of a quiet section along the line that eventually runs through the heart of Madison. We walk into the dark uncertain if any unattended train cars lie ahead.
“I’ve been chased a lot,” ATER says softly as we venture down the rails. “But usually the only ones you see out here are other writers.”
Before long, four hopper-style freight cars, old and imposing, rise out of the darkness.
The only source of light is the soft glow of distant street lamps bouncing off the overcast sky. We can see the ground, but all details a few feet away are blurred and gray. The spot is hidden on one side by a steep hill and by tall shrubs on the other side.
One of the cars already has a weathered graffiti piece from PAPER & PACE, emblems of writers ATER knows and respects. ATER cautiously scopes out whether any railroad workers are around. The coast appears to be clear.
He quickly goes to work. The lack of light makes it challenging. Yet in minutes he lays down the white fill of his piece across half the car. He then puts a hot pink background around the edges. The blazing hue appears dull as slate in the dark. No movement is wasted as the cans hiss and rattle.
By necessity, ATER’s art is usually executed in seconds. The illegality of the work isn’t a restriction but an essential component of the art. Works are created under the influence of adrenaline, and mastery is only achieved after years of lonely nights lurking in the shadows.
“There’s a romanticism to it that’s addicting,” ATER says. “I don’t go out like I used to, but no real writer ever gives it up. Hard to let go of the rush.”
The detail work is left until the end, as ATER slows his pace for the black outline that will make his letters pop. He then steps back and examines his creation. After a few more flourishes, he scrawls “the Great” next to the waist-high A-T-E-R. The work is done.
Fearful that light from a camera would attract attention, ATER scurries down the tracks, leaving me to document his art. The blinding flash announces my presence. As I fumble in the dark to adjust the camera’s setting, it is even more apparent that ATER worked from feel and memory.
Eventually, I follow the tracks to rejoin ATER. I find him emerging from the brush right before the tracks meet the street we entered on.
“Pretty fun, right?” ATER says. “We should do it again real soon.”
Origin of the word graffiti: From Italian graffiato (“scratched”)
ATER’s most far-flung tag: Bridge over the Euphrates River
Municipal fine for graffiti: $100-$1,000 (MGO 23.06)
State exemption from railroad trespassing laws: “Authorized Newspaper Reporter” (Wis. State Statutes 192.32)
