Nailo
By Andy Morris
No one knew his real name, but everyone had heard of street artist Nailo. His creations had been appearing throughout the city for the last four years. He had a decent following on social media, and there had even been a documentary about him on television. Nailo wasn’t only known for his art. He was an eco-warrior, the conscience-of-the-people, and more recently, a person of interest to the police. So far, no one suspected Dustin Hobbs, bakery colleague at Asda, was the mysterious artist.
Dustin smiled to himself as he crept through the deserted housing development on the edge of the New Forest. It was dark now, and the builders were long gone. This new estate was not only an eyesore and poorly thought-through, but it was also hugely damaging to the environment. The concrete monstrosity of large and ‘affordable’ family homes had been built on an area of woodland and beautiful open fields, despite mass opposition from local residents. As a local resident himself, Dustin felt responsible for continuing to object to the construction project.
The half-finished homes stood as empty shells or blank canvasses, waiting for Nailo to transform one of them into his latest installation. The house he’d selected for this piece was in the perfect location. One side looked over the building site’s mess of unfinished roads, diggers, and bare structures. While the adjacent wall faced a grassy field that was doomed to be built upon in the next phase of the work. The piece, which Nailo would call, ‘The Mourning Widow,’ would be of a woman’s face staring out from two sides of the house, taking in both the building site and the field – Grieving for the loss of one, and the imminent destruction of the other. Dustin felt good about this piece. This one would be so much more than just a simple picture on the side of a building. This one would go down in history.
As Dustin got to work he was quietly embraced by the sense that he was not alone. It was a restless feeling of being watched, and it settled over him like a delicate spidery veil. Pausing, Dustin glanced around in the gloom but, he saw no one. He waited, listening and watching, but he couldn’t see anyone. Should he continue?
Yes, of course, he should! This piece would be removed in the morning when the world discovered it. The Mourning Widow’s existence would be fleeting, but it would live on in the memory of those who had witnessed it. It needed to. Those people would carry his message in their thoughts and by extension, they would carry a piece of him with them. It would be as if they had been touched by Nailo himself. The image may be temporary, but the art would last forever.
Nailo’s designs stood out from other street artists because they were so unique – not only his imagination but the materials he used. No one could replicate what he did because no one knew how he did it. His primary material was decay. He would cause lines of fungi and mould to come together overnight on the sides of buildings to make his powerful thought-provoking statements, always in response to recent events and the state of the environment.
His work could be interpreted as a reminder of humanity’s self-destructive nature. The image eating away at the wall on which it was drawn representing the disease that is civilisation as it consumes the world’s natural resources. In order for the mould to grow and survive, it must feed on the surface it lives upon and, if left unchecked, it would eventually consume it all, leaving nothing behind. Likewise, people were destroying the earth through building projects, pollution, and the ongoing encroachment into nature and if it were left to continue, the planet would eventually die.
Dustin mentally shook himself, not wanting to get too wound up in his righteous anger at the world. He needed to focus on the tiny microscopic organisms – his spores – as he called them. They swirled around him forming a cloud that only he could see. His spores were his paints, and his mind was the brush. The seeds of decay drifted up onto the pristine brickwork and arranged themselves into lines of varying thickness and density so they would eventually become the face of the Mourning Widow.
Dustin had possessed this ability since he was thirteen years old but, twelve years later; he was no closer to fully understanding it. All he knew was that when he woke up in hospital following that car crash, he had lost his sense of smell but, he had gained this new ability. As he lay in his hospital bed, Dustin became aware of a cloud surrounding him. A thin mist of fine black dots were suspended over the bedsheets. No one else could see them, and at first, Dustin worried he was losing his sight as well. But, after numerous tests, the doctors concluded it was fine. They suggested it was probably caused by harmless proteins, like floaters, in the fluids of his eyes. There was nothing to worry about, and he should ignore them. Dustin did ignore them until he discovered what they could do. Firstly, he could move them. When he imagined the spores drifting to the right, they would swarm like a flock of starlings. He’d picture them rising up and then diving down, and they would flow in unison, following his commands. When they landed on a solid object, such as his bedroom wall or the side of a building, the spores attached themselves to it. If he left them there, they would take hold and began to grow like mildew on a damp wall. It was sometime later that Dustin thought to combine this ability with his love of drawing. This; was when the seeds of imagination first took root and later blossomed into his alter-ego known as Nailo.
Dustin’s reverie ended abruptly as his attention was drawn to a lonely stack of bricks several meters away. He’d been right earlier; someone was watching him. Dustin paused, momentarily gripped by indecision. He had almost been caught before; back when he’d first started creating his street art. Nailo’s career had almost ended before it had even begun. Back then, Dustin’s inexperience had made him reckless. The images of that unfortunate night came flooding back to haunt him.
Following the election of a far-right candidate to the local council, Dustin had gone round the back of the leisure centre that night to show his opposition. Dustin was constructing an image of a hateful face glaring out at the town in disgust at their choice of counsellor. He had been so consumed in his work that he hadn’t noticed the policewoman approaching him.
“Oi, what are you doing there!”
Dustin spun around, startled. His concentration slipped, causing the cloud of spores he’d been guiding towards the picture’s hairline to fly right into the officer’s face. At first, she didn't notice and continued her stern questioning, but Dustin didn’t hear what she was saying. His panic at being caught red-handed had caused him to freeze. The officer couldn’t see the spores, but she must have sensed something was wrong. She jumped backwards, and that was when Dustin saw them: Tiny black growths bristling her cheeks and the backs of her hands.
The policewoman’s face twisted in revulsion, making her look even more frightening. As she brushed at the spores, more sprouted to life. Angry rashes like fungal infections bloomed over her exposed skin.
This wasn’t his fault! She shouldn’t have snuck up on him like that! It was just an accident, but it was already too late. Dustin tried to apologise. He tried to explain they would rub off with soapy water, but she wouldn't listen. She was yelling now, frantically calling into her radio. She didn’t want to listen to him, and Dustin realised he had no choice but to run. Thankfully, she didn’t give chase and ever since that night, Dustin had avoided the police like the plague.
That memory wavered in his mind as he contemplated his one-person audience. Part of him considered abandoning the project. Maybe this one was a little too risky? Then his eyes found the camera clutched in the other’s hands, and Dustin’s narcissistic side took note. His art was being recorded. He liked the idea of being filmed. This person wasn’t there to stop him; they were there to document his creation. From this distance, they wouldn’t be able to see his face. So, with a renewed sense of purpose, Dustin turned his back to the newcomer and continued his work. The greater the risk, the greater the reward and all that.
One reason Dustin needed to maintain his secrecy, aside from the mystery and intrigue that Nailo generated; was due to the other things his spores could do, which some people would find… disturbing. For example, last year, Dustin had been walking home from an early morning shift at Asda when he came across a dead hedgehog at the side of the road. The poor thing had been hit by a car, and maggots were crawling over its mashed up body. It was 6:30 am, and everyone on this street was still in bed. So, with no one else around, Dustin crouched down to take a closer look at the animal. He studied it, not with the eyes of a regular person, but through the lens of an artist. Patterns had formed in the decay, and the shapes and symmetry they created were almost breath-taking in their beauty. It probably stank like rotten meat, which made Dustin thankful he no longer had his sense of smell.
Then the hedgehog moved. At first, Dustin thought it was maggots wriggling beneath its flesh but a moment later, he noticed the hedgehog was lying within his circle of spores. His seeds of decay had attached themselves to the animal and were somehow making it move. Dustin realised he had been thinking about the hedgehog walking down the road, and his spores must have taken that thought as a command. The hedgehog kicked first one of its little legs, then another. It rolled over and wobbled onto its feet. Dustin stared in fascination as its broken body hobbled down the road dragging a gory trail of pink and grey innards behind it. It was clearly dead, but somehow Dustin was animating it like an obscene puppeteer. The hedgehog travelled about two meters before it eventually collapsed and wouldn’t move again. Since then, Dustin had been practising with all kinds of roadkill, and he could now animate dead creatures for about an hour before they finally collapsed.
By now Dustin was coming to the end of his creation, and he glanced back at his watcher. The camera was still raised documenting his work, but the figure had crept closer. Now they lurked just a few feet away beneath a row of newly planted trees. From this distance, it was clear the other wore the dark blue uniform of a security guard. Dustin pulled the hood of his top further over his head and added the last few strokes while his spectator looked on.
When he was done, Dustin took a step back to admire his finished work. The Mourning Widow’s eyes looked out at the world with a mixture of sadness, loss and grief. Dustin was satisfied with the way he’d captured the woman’s emotions while she contemplated the sight before her – A ruined field, once beautiful but now a soulless blight, and a neighbouring patch of greenery, doomed to the same fate. There was just one more piece to add.
Then, with a deft flourish, Dustin signed the name ‘Nailo’ in the bottom corner. He sensed rather than heard the quiet figure coming closer. It seemed like the security guard wanted to congratulate him on his masterpiece. Dustin didn’t say a word as he averted his face and gently put his hand over the camera’s lens. The silent security guard offered no resistance as Dustin took the device and slipped it into his own pocket. The man stood where he was beneath the sad gaze of the Mourning Widow. He stayed quiet, and he made no challenge as Dustin casually walked back towards the gap in the fence where he’d entered the site.
Dustin would be long gone by the time the first witnesses came by and discovered his latest creation. They would instantly know the mysterious Nailo had come during the night, like an urban Father Christmas… Or maybe not.
There was always some panic and hype in the media following one of Nailo’s installations. Dustin would wait a little while before adding to the hysteria by uploading the security guard’s video to social media. The twenty-minute film would sweep across the internet like a beautiful tapestry of decay. It would reveal the details of his art for all to see: A sad-looking woman mourning what had been lost, after witnessing the murder and subsequent reanimation of some random security guard.
Life is temporary, Dustin reflected as he hurried home, but his art would last forever.
Dustin smiled to himself as he crept through the deserted housing development on the edge of the New Forest. It was dark now, and the builders were long gone. This new estate was not only an eyesore and poorly thought-through, but it was also hugely damaging to the environment. The concrete monstrosity of large and ‘affordable’ family homes had been built on an area of woodland and beautiful open fields, despite mass opposition from local residents. As a local resident himself, Dustin felt responsible for continuing to object to the construction project.
The half-finished homes stood as empty shells or blank canvasses, waiting for Nailo to transform one of them into his latest installation. The house he’d selected for this piece was in the perfect location. One side looked over the building site’s mess of unfinished roads, diggers, and bare structures. While the adjacent wall faced a grassy field that was doomed to be built upon in the next phase of the work. The piece, which Nailo would call, ‘The Mourning Widow,’ would be of a woman’s face staring out from two sides of the house, taking in both the building site and the field – Grieving for the loss of one, and the imminent destruction of the other. Dustin felt good about this piece. This one would be so much more than just a simple picture on the side of a building. This one would go down in history.
As Dustin got to work he was quietly embraced by the sense that he was not alone. It was a restless feeling of being watched, and it settled over him like a delicate spidery veil. Pausing, Dustin glanced around in the gloom but, he saw no one. He waited, listening and watching, but he couldn’t see anyone. Should he continue?
Yes, of course, he should! This piece would be removed in the morning when the world discovered it. The Mourning Widow’s existence would be fleeting, but it would live on in the memory of those who had witnessed it. It needed to. Those people would carry his message in their thoughts and by extension, they would carry a piece of him with them. It would be as if they had been touched by Nailo himself. The image may be temporary, but the art would last forever.
Nailo’s designs stood out from other street artists because they were so unique – not only his imagination but the materials he used. No one could replicate what he did because no one knew how he did it. His primary material was decay. He would cause lines of fungi and mould to come together overnight on the sides of buildings to make his powerful thought-provoking statements, always in response to recent events and the state of the environment.
His work could be interpreted as a reminder of humanity’s self-destructive nature. The image eating away at the wall on which it was drawn representing the disease that is civilisation as it consumes the world’s natural resources. In order for the mould to grow and survive, it must feed on the surface it lives upon and, if left unchecked, it would eventually consume it all, leaving nothing behind. Likewise, people were destroying the earth through building projects, pollution, and the ongoing encroachment into nature and if it were left to continue, the planet would eventually die.
Dustin mentally shook himself, not wanting to get too wound up in his righteous anger at the world. He needed to focus on the tiny microscopic organisms – his spores – as he called them. They swirled around him forming a cloud that only he could see. His spores were his paints, and his mind was the brush. The seeds of decay drifted up onto the pristine brickwork and arranged themselves into lines of varying thickness and density so they would eventually become the face of the Mourning Widow.
Dustin had possessed this ability since he was thirteen years old but, twelve years later; he was no closer to fully understanding it. All he knew was that when he woke up in hospital following that car crash, he had lost his sense of smell but, he had gained this new ability. As he lay in his hospital bed, Dustin became aware of a cloud surrounding him. A thin mist of fine black dots were suspended over the bedsheets. No one else could see them, and at first, Dustin worried he was losing his sight as well. But, after numerous tests, the doctors concluded it was fine. They suggested it was probably caused by harmless proteins, like floaters, in the fluids of his eyes. There was nothing to worry about, and he should ignore them. Dustin did ignore them until he discovered what they could do. Firstly, he could move them. When he imagined the spores drifting to the right, they would swarm like a flock of starlings. He’d picture them rising up and then diving down, and they would flow in unison, following his commands. When they landed on a solid object, such as his bedroom wall or the side of a building, the spores attached themselves to it. If he left them there, they would take hold and began to grow like mildew on a damp wall. It was sometime later that Dustin thought to combine this ability with his love of drawing. This; was when the seeds of imagination first took root and later blossomed into his alter-ego known as Nailo.
Dustin’s reverie ended abruptly as his attention was drawn to a lonely stack of bricks several meters away. He’d been right earlier; someone was watching him. Dustin paused, momentarily gripped by indecision. He had almost been caught before; back when he’d first started creating his street art. Nailo’s career had almost ended before it had even begun. Back then, Dustin’s inexperience had made him reckless. The images of that unfortunate night came flooding back to haunt him.
Following the election of a far-right candidate to the local council, Dustin had gone round the back of the leisure centre that night to show his opposition. Dustin was constructing an image of a hateful face glaring out at the town in disgust at their choice of counsellor. He had been so consumed in his work that he hadn’t noticed the policewoman approaching him.
“Oi, what are you doing there!”
Dustin spun around, startled. His concentration slipped, causing the cloud of spores he’d been guiding towards the picture’s hairline to fly right into the officer’s face. At first, she didn't notice and continued her stern questioning, but Dustin didn’t hear what she was saying. His panic at being caught red-handed had caused him to freeze. The officer couldn’t see the spores, but she must have sensed something was wrong. She jumped backwards, and that was when Dustin saw them: Tiny black growths bristling her cheeks and the backs of her hands.
The policewoman’s face twisted in revulsion, making her look even more frightening. As she brushed at the spores, more sprouted to life. Angry rashes like fungal infections bloomed over her exposed skin.
This wasn’t his fault! She shouldn’t have snuck up on him like that! It was just an accident, but it was already too late. Dustin tried to apologise. He tried to explain they would rub off with soapy water, but she wouldn't listen. She was yelling now, frantically calling into her radio. She didn’t want to listen to him, and Dustin realised he had no choice but to run. Thankfully, she didn’t give chase and ever since that night, Dustin had avoided the police like the plague.
That memory wavered in his mind as he contemplated his one-person audience. Part of him considered abandoning the project. Maybe this one was a little too risky? Then his eyes found the camera clutched in the other’s hands, and Dustin’s narcissistic side took note. His art was being recorded. He liked the idea of being filmed. This person wasn’t there to stop him; they were there to document his creation. From this distance, they wouldn’t be able to see his face. So, with a renewed sense of purpose, Dustin turned his back to the newcomer and continued his work. The greater the risk, the greater the reward and all that.
One reason Dustin needed to maintain his secrecy, aside from the mystery and intrigue that Nailo generated; was due to the other things his spores could do, which some people would find… disturbing. For example, last year, Dustin had been walking home from an early morning shift at Asda when he came across a dead hedgehog at the side of the road. The poor thing had been hit by a car, and maggots were crawling over its mashed up body. It was 6:30 am, and everyone on this street was still in bed. So, with no one else around, Dustin crouched down to take a closer look at the animal. He studied it, not with the eyes of a regular person, but through the lens of an artist. Patterns had formed in the decay, and the shapes and symmetry they created were almost breath-taking in their beauty. It probably stank like rotten meat, which made Dustin thankful he no longer had his sense of smell.
Then the hedgehog moved. At first, Dustin thought it was maggots wriggling beneath its flesh but a moment later, he noticed the hedgehog was lying within his circle of spores. His seeds of decay had attached themselves to the animal and were somehow making it move. Dustin realised he had been thinking about the hedgehog walking down the road, and his spores must have taken that thought as a command. The hedgehog kicked first one of its little legs, then another. It rolled over and wobbled onto its feet. Dustin stared in fascination as its broken body hobbled down the road dragging a gory trail of pink and grey innards behind it. It was clearly dead, but somehow Dustin was animating it like an obscene puppeteer. The hedgehog travelled about two meters before it eventually collapsed and wouldn’t move again. Since then, Dustin had been practising with all kinds of roadkill, and he could now animate dead creatures for about an hour before they finally collapsed.
By now Dustin was coming to the end of his creation, and he glanced back at his watcher. The camera was still raised documenting his work, but the figure had crept closer. Now they lurked just a few feet away beneath a row of newly planted trees. From this distance, it was clear the other wore the dark blue uniform of a security guard. Dustin pulled the hood of his top further over his head and added the last few strokes while his spectator looked on.
When he was done, Dustin took a step back to admire his finished work. The Mourning Widow’s eyes looked out at the world with a mixture of sadness, loss and grief. Dustin was satisfied with the way he’d captured the woman’s emotions while she contemplated the sight before her – A ruined field, once beautiful but now a soulless blight, and a neighbouring patch of greenery, doomed to the same fate. There was just one more piece to add.
Then, with a deft flourish, Dustin signed the name ‘Nailo’ in the bottom corner. He sensed rather than heard the quiet figure coming closer. It seemed like the security guard wanted to congratulate him on his masterpiece. Dustin didn’t say a word as he averted his face and gently put his hand over the camera’s lens. The silent security guard offered no resistance as Dustin took the device and slipped it into his own pocket. The man stood where he was beneath the sad gaze of the Mourning Widow. He stayed quiet, and he made no challenge as Dustin casually walked back towards the gap in the fence where he’d entered the site.
Dustin would be long gone by the time the first witnesses came by and discovered his latest creation. They would instantly know the mysterious Nailo had come during the night, like an urban Father Christmas… Or maybe not.
There was always some panic and hype in the media following one of Nailo’s installations. Dustin would wait a little while before adding to the hysteria by uploading the security guard’s video to social media. The twenty-minute film would sweep across the internet like a beautiful tapestry of decay. It would reveal the details of his art for all to see: A sad-looking woman mourning what had been lost, after witnessing the murder and subsequent reanimation of some random security guard.
Life is temporary, Dustin reflected as he hurried home, but his art would last forever.