A broken storefront, left shattered by a car accident, was covered in silent flats of heavy particle board when he arrived. A skinny, white guy in a skinny, white t-shirt, he seemed an unlikely suspect for what was to come next.

He set down a case—his surgeon's black bag—and pulled two trashcans out from an alley to form a makeshift barrier from passersby on the sidewalk. The surgeon's bag opened and out came a simple Krylon spraycan. One of many. He stepped back and surveyed the three flats of particle board. Shaking the spraycan sounded a rattle that may have evoked a ball bearing stirring up gas-compressed paint to you or me; to him it was power, energy, excitement... art.

Three puffs into the air, to clear the nozzle, and a deep breath. He pulled a gas mask over his mouth and nose. Suddenly, any doubt vanished and with a samurai's deft strokes his arm sliced through the air and paint met particle board. Thick black scribbles dashed across the wood. Grain yielded to gloss. Canvas yielded to creation. Bold shapes began to emerge from the barrage, he doubled back to fill them in. Chunky letters materialized.

Across the street eating in my favorite breakfast spot, I was unable to see exactly what was being written. I am notoriously bad at deciphering graffiti and, had a tree not partially obstructed my view, I would still have a hard time with a translation. My best guess was "DIE, PLAYGROUND, DIE!" which would make sense as the storefront belongs to Upper Playground and, as mentioned above, it had recently received the business end of an entire car.

Nor could I hear the conversations with pedestrians, but body language betrayed most of the subject matter if not the details. The young girl in a pink jacket and matching pink boots wanted desperately to touch the bubbly letters—probably unaware that they they said "DIE!"—but her father kept her reined in. A group of high schoolers, themselves neither skinny nor white, seemed to be searching for the right balance of "nice piece, man" and "fuck you whitey, that's our subculture". They watched for a while, passing a joint back and forth. Two hipster girls, replete with all the necessary two-tone bangs and cheap-looking expensive accessories, gathered and pointed.

The artist's friend joined him. The first stepped back—looking much older now, white flecks of paint salting his hair—and the second stepped up, grabbing a blue spraycan from the array of colors. Shapes gained outlines. Lines gained depth. The audience nodded. Where ten minutes ago destruction had rendered a city block derelict and depressing, now there was life, color, and culture. They were still going as the rain started and I headed home.

When I left Indiana years ago, one of the reasons I cited was Hoosiers' general disdain for marginally il/legal activities such as street art, underground music events, and controlled substances. Having my morning coffee and watching my neighborhood come together over exactly that, I realized that whatever I was searching for in a community, I had found a long time ago.