38 Posters

Large concert flyers and album advertisements covered the walls and ceiling creating an sense of insulation in my room during high school. Matching the inner lining of my brain, there was also the occasional political poster decrying racism or police brutality, and advocating justice.

Over time, large shrines to bands like Rancid gave way to wallpaper ala Snapcase and Boysetsfire. During my few years as a record store employee, I acquired more than a well developed skill of music snobbery; I also expanded my music collection. Part of that experience manifested itself in a collection of posters.

Everything from an impressive assortment of Ani Difranco wall pieces to three-part sets of Refused images found their way into my hands. While some kids hung up American flags or pictures of Jesus, I had Good Riddance and Propagandhi. These artists helped me develop my moral compass in the absence of priests, athletic coaches, and distant parents. From these bands I learned the value of independent thought, a naive and an acute distaste for anything status-quo, the need for conscious self-actualization, and the power of creative self-expression.

Music was my life and the bands I listened to defined my existence.

Overtime my influences expanded to include painters, street artists, and advocacy organizations, and my poster collection reflected this. Works from Shepard Fairey and Derek Hess replaced whatever hardcore band formerly owned those three square feet of wall space above my desk. Posters advertising albums turned to posters promoting animal protection.

When I started to open the many tubes of posters in the garage, I found a rich history archived there. Going through them was akin to unrolling aged scrolls revealing ancient and profound wisdom. Some from a South African art gallery I visited with a close friend, prints brought back from parents' trips abroad, some I picked up on Telegraph Ave. in Berkeley, many left out for free at record stores; all important.

I put them in large box and transported them to Lou's Records in Encinitas, where they were left out for customers and punk teens to rummage through. It is my hope that I have helped them line their own walls with the images that transformed my room into a sanctuary. At the very least, I walked away from another impractical and unnecessary hoarding of "cool" items.

On the way there my sister went through them (even though I asked her not to), and pulled out a couple that she couldn't believe I was getting rid of. While I was upset with her at the time for pulling them out, I'm happy that maybe I've been able to pass some of that down to her. Just maybe when she's feeling overwhelmed or isolated, she'll be able to look up at the burning monk on the Rage Against the Machine poster and have her determination strengthened.