A street artist named "Ethel" writes of the last two years of her life, and in her words "The most dangerous" when she starts offically doing street art, while having to evade the threat of police and people who know her real identity.
For a moment, the studio looks like it’s covered in broken glass. Then the lights flicker to life, revealing the mismatched flooring and intricate glass pieces in progress. I walk closer, making sure they are still in one piece. The glass isn’t mine. It belongs to my friend Barcode.
Of course, Barcode isn’t his real name, but mine isn’t either. I go by Ethel out on the street. For all you know reader, I could be Mary, or Emily. I could be a plain Jane walking across the street from you. But at night, I’m an artist. I prowl the streets looking for a sign or a wall—anything really, to paint or stick Barcode’s glass creations when he can’t come with me.
But we aren’t stupid; we do have day jobs you know.
But for the sake of our identities reader, I can’t tell you what I do. I can’t tell you the “normal” side of me, because that would break every principle I live by when it comes to what I do at night. Besides, I don’t like being chased by cops, and I really don’t want to go to jail for something I say here. I want to show my art to the world, but I also want to show you my world reader.
But my world isn’t lollipops and sugar either. Neither side is, but I’m going to tell you how I almost lost it all. My art, my friends, and my life too. I need you to play attention though reader.
Is that too much to ask?