Stranger in Town

So I'm riverbound on Broadway, after hours, my latest column behind me when my next one hits me in the face: a bright white light, bouncing off a storefront window, an artificial campfire for a late-night gathering of aspiring artists.

It's after 9 PM, and these collegiates begin to prepare one of the murals that would eventually dot the Broadway side of Houck Stadium for SEMO homecoming week. Drawn from the minds and manual labor of the local Greek organizations, the seven murals I found were filled with flags and soldiers and patriotism... and not a single SEMO Indian. The murals would last from a few days to three weeks, and then they'd be scraped away, as if they never were.

So I'm wandering along Broadway, taking in the temporary panoramas tying school pride with military boosterism, wondering what the Thursday afternoon Capaha Park protesters are going to do for Thanksgiving, when I see the skeleton of another painted declaration. On the side of the old Broadway theater, faded blue, there's the outline from Solo.

Solo is one of the most prolific and artistic grafitti artists in the area - at least, I think he's from the area. Friends of mine have said they've seen his tags from St Louis to Sikeston. However far he's traveled, I know his work around here: his trace on the Broadway Theater, his name next to the alien on the north side of the Exit 95 bridge. And I deduce that he's a local boy from his most prominent tag, across from St Francis Hospital. The original vandalism was his name in two colors, visible from a block away. Over the winter, a rival vandalized the vandalism, scrawled an epithet over Solo's name, and placed another tag alongside. Within the spring, Solo returned to the scene and resumed artistic authority. Mind you, it's still illegal, and it's likely that the Cardiovascular Surgeons of Southeast Missouri would rather have their building grafitti-free, but I got a pocket of admiration for the guy, so desperate to leave his mark and preserve it, so capable of doing it with panache.

The city of Cape Girardeau has their own officially sanctioned tour of outdoor art; you can even find a map and guide at the visitor's center. Some of the pieces were commissioned by the city, and others are private creations embraced by the city fellows. Some of the murals grace hidden hallways, and others can be seen from the street. But they each contribute some piece of the story, some aspect of life here that inspired a pride larger than words. And so, these artworks were commissioned, to attempt to give these aspects of the city some heft, some chance at inheritance.

All these wall scribblings perplex me. Who's the audience for these? Are the artists and patrons driven by hubris? I consider myself an artist, but I constantly consider what the audience wants, the kind of people they are and the things that they do while they read my column (so don't forget to wash your hands when you're done...) The truth is, I don't know any of you at all. But it still matters to me that you get to the end of this column. But each of the wall painters have a message for everyone, or at least anyone that looks their way. Even in a town this small, some people gotta shout.

And so, I finally made it to the riverfront, parked in front of the Wall of Fame. To the south, a expanse of fruited plain is beginning to form on the wall behind the 'red house'. To the north, there's a pair of pictures that tunnel through the floodwall. The ancestor of Slim Pickins bursts, on horseback, out of the 1803 frame. At the 2003 frame, Cape's bridge to a new millennium shows the way out.

Sanctioned or not, temporary or not, the walls of Cape Girardeau are filled with expressions of oversized affection and pride. There's a thousand stories in the city, the cliché goes. And some of those stories are overhead us, big as life and twice as bright.