While a child, I used to see a movie. I was still seeing it at the age of 13-14 and I am not quite sure about the moment when it left me, as it was one of those movies that we are rolling/scrolling by ourselves in the evening, behind the eyelids in the dark.
It was about somebody left behind in a disused subway transom. He had been forgotten there for years and then found again. How can one survive in there, between stairs and rails, was none of my concern. My movie was always making a frame stop on the whiteness of the face skin of the one drawn back to the light as well as on the gaze he might have had.
That is why, when don Pedrito whispered to me something about trains, the underground trains, and about the deserted railway stations (Paris, Boston,Toronto), about the letters that are blooming orchidlike on their walls during the night, I did not give it a second thought, all the more as I was however enjoying the pleasure of graphic vandalism, of the marks of the cads fifty years ago in New York, marks that are now studied at the great academies of art worldwide.
I cannot deny that I have seen those drawings on the spot. From the bus, at the height of the suspended highway at the entrance to the city, the colored walls were pretty well highlighted. A crowd of forms and colors, whereby as one looks one can see new images more or less massed or hidden among themselves.
But on the wagons the curbs, the colors and the false glittering have a different life, as they are made on the purpose to have a meaning in passing by, to embrace their efflorescent letters above the moving transparent wheels and to tell not so much to the individuals, but to the world as a whole.