A Wild Güs Chase
Prologue
When I was a little kid I was given one of my grandfather’s pipes. He had passed and it was one of the few things I had of his. It wasn’t all shapely and magnificent. It wasn’t walnut or ivory with brass trim. It was a simple ‘Canadian’ — a bowl of dark dimpled wood and a black Bakelite stem — a no-fuss object of little value. But it was his and now it was mine. I thought it was pretty special.
The smell of burned tobacco and marks of where my grandfather once held it between his teeth gave the pipe a wizened, somewhat gritty aspect. I hoped that it might lend some of those qualities to me. Unfortunately, my mother wouldn’t let me smoke it. Maybe if she had, I might’ve become the kind of brawny and hirsute boy my brother and father could’ve related to. No. In my hands, it remained a simple prop, but an essential one. For I, eight years-old and going through a detective phase, knew that all sleuths had to have something to chew on and point with.
I remember the taste of that pipe, and what it felt like being a kid squatted over some imagined clue in the rain. Every broken branch had a story to tell, every shadow a lurking threat.
I held onto that feeling, that cold December morning, as I stepped off the curb. Some twenty-eight years lay between that boy and me, yet there I was wandering off to solve another mysterious crime. Except, on this occasion, it wasn’t imaginary. It was real.
Low Expectations
What follows could be a fool’s errand. It’s a story of how I’ve taken too much of an interest in a serial criminal.
I should also say that this villain is not serving at Her Majesty’s pleasure. They’re still at large, their identity unknown. It’s unlikely that I’ll ever solve the mystery of who they are, but I’m attracted nonetheless.
I also need to confess that the crimes they have committed are particularly petty. So much so, in fact, that they could barely be called crimes at all. A ‘repeated nuisance’ is a more accurate description - one that few notice and even less are interested in. That is, of course, except for me. Because I’m curious and stubborn.
Where It All Began
I had become familiar with the name Güs without even realising it. Our neighbourhood, perhaps like yours, has graffiti scrawled all over it. There’s so much of it in the city that it just blends into the background, part of the general texture that you simply learn to ignore.
But things change. And the gentle creep of gentrification always starts with the walls: pubs with their commissioned murals, artisan stores with lovingly restored signage. You know the score. This corner of north east London is just one of many examples.
I can’t blame it for being this way either. It was inevitable. Art and the independent spirit is important to the Walthamstow brand. Our left-leaning middle-class roots dig themselves deeper with every mention of ‘William’ and ‘Morris’. It shapes part of the community’s identity and gives it a sense of pride. It turns the interlocking cogs of our local economy.
One day, however, on a route I’ve walked home many times, something strange caught my eye. It wasn’t the word Güs, drawn in large black letters across the gas and power meters outside someone’s house. It was what appeared to be a reply penned beneath it.
‘Hi Güs! Thanks for the graffiti on our house! We were wondering what’s your address so we can return the favour and decorate your house? CHEERS :)’
Polite, but passive aggressive, I thought. I like it. But, after a few weeks had passed and Güs had proved too wise to fall for their invitation, the owner covered it all with a fresh coat of slate grey paint.
Sad as I was to see it go, I now started to notice Güs’s name all over the neighbourhood: Güs on a postbox, Güs on a gate, Güs on a parking sign, Güs on a bin. Güs, it seemed, was prolific. The more I looked, the more I became fascinated by Güs’s strange, local-bothering mind. There was just something unique about him.
The Irresistibility of a Mystery
If you think about it, we all have a Güs or two in our lives. From the witty mattress to the collection of 90's lad mags fly-tipped on the corner:
Little mysteries that we consider for a moment and then forget, left forever on the ‘Unsolved’ pile of life. But I don’t want to die with too many question marks. And Güs was something I just couldn’t let go without a fight. My salad days of detecting called out to me. The boy inside had to know who Güs was, how wide his reach had become and why he did it.
Initial Investigation
The first thing to do was to make sure I wasn’t imagining seeing them everywhere. So, I set off, walking the streets of my neighbourhood to see how many examples of Güs I could find.
I kept it within this easily manageable zone - near on a square mile of network roads and alleyways between the major highways of Forest Road to the north, Lea Bridge Road the south, Hoe Street the east and Wood Street on the west. It’s what estate agents around here like to call ‘the village and greater village area’. The pillocks.
I started with the tags I knew, marking each on a map and taking a quick snap on my phone. Passers-by wondered if I was A) working for the council B) the tagger or C) a sad, sad man. More than once it felt that the latter assumption might well be true…
The tags quickly added up and, just as soon as I thought I’d run out of examples in one area, I’d turn a corner and find a whole lot more.
I tried to make sense of what I was finding. Güs seemed to shy away from big walls that I felt were begging for a tag. Instead, Güs mostly tagged surfaces you wouldn’t assume to be the best place to make a statement — a security grill, a power exchange, a salt grit box. Objects most people wouldn’t even look at, let alone notice. It felt random to me, at least, at first.
It quickly became clear that Güs was a casual tagger, an impulsive opportunist. While he did use spray paint from time to time, Güs’s favoured medium appears to have been permanent marker. Güs’s tag was also incredibly simple — basic lettering they just write and run. This preference of speed had, unfortunately, come at the cost of quality. I don’t mean to criticise Güs’s ability, but I think you can see what I mean…
This might explain why the high traffic spaces you’d expect to see Güs’s tag are left untouched. Güs simply doesn’t want to risk getting caught. And, maybe, Güs just isn’t feeling all that confident about his or her tag. Yet.
I mean, Güs certainly isn’t the only vandal in the area — shout out to ‘Nigel’, ‘Zopa’ and ‘Sense’ — but the banality of Güs’s tags, from what they look like to where they are, just fascinates me. I stared at each of them as I logged them, trying to see the world through Güs-coloured eyes.
Getting Philosophical
It was at this point that I realised, to understand Güs, I needed to understand the act of tagging itself. What does it mean to sign your name on something as impressive as a Travis Perkins, but as dull as a fence post?
I might be wrong, but it could be about claiming ownership. You know, like a more civilized version of territorial pissing. It’d make sense of why we see taggers muscling in on each other’s claims, an alpha dog thing.
It might also be individuals leaving their mark on a world that they feel powerless in or disenfranchised from. It would certainly explain why many taggers disappear over time. They simply grow up, move away, give up caring or find other ways to set the world to rights.
I’m unsure which this might be. Who doesn’t love writing their initials in the wet cement though? It’s mischievous and feels permanent, something you can point to and say (even quietly) ‘That’s me. I’m there forever.’
First Assumptions
Who might Güs be? I told myself that I needed to put aside the assumption that Güs is a ‘he’. For all I knew, Güs could be female. Güs could even be gender neutral. Heck, Güs may be more than one person. I had watched enough crime thrillers and detective shows to know that I shouldn’t let myself be blinkered by prejudice. I had to consider all the possibilities!
That said, I went on a limb and assumed Güs was most likely to be a male below the age of 25. The behaviour was just typically male and juvenile. I also told myself Güs lived locally. His mark appeared too many times to be a someone who only occasionally passed through the area. The tags were also concentrated along popular shortcuts to Walthamstow Central and Wood Street stations.
I put the locations and images into Google and tried to see a pattern:
Then there was that umlaut: Güs. Why not Gus? Very Germanic... If I still had my pipe I would’ve puffed it, turning those dots over in my mind.
Try as I might, I just couldn’t imagine Güs as anything other than a pubescent white boy, pretentious and romantic. Or was he just brilliant at throwing people like me off his scent?
The irony of it all suddenly dawned on me; a middle-class man playing an amateur detective in pursuit of a minor graffiti artist named Güs. It was probably the greatest gentrification of all! I hated myself, but only for an instant.
All Things Güs
Apart from the really pedestrian stuff, there was an interesting list bigger items Güs had claimed. My instinct told me there was something to be gleaned about Güs’s personality, needs and desires from these objects, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it:
Two white panel vans, a mechanics, two tyre shops, a petrol station, a garage, a parking lot, a glazier’s, a construction site, a greasy spoon cafe and a Tesco Express. But what did they mean?
Also, a hair and beauty salon, a brioche burger joint, a telephone exchange and a branch of Co-Operative Funeralcare. Fascinating.
Interviews
An unavoidable part of every investigation is having to engage with people, whether you like it or not. So, I wrote a list of parties who I should probably speak with, including victims, potential witnesses, the local police and the council. I was confident they’d all have something to say about what was most certainly the case of the century.
I started with the local MP, Stella Creasy. She’s been quite an engaging, active member in the community, so I was hopeful she would be right up for it. A quick search through her Twitter feed showed Stella was already well aware of this particular rapscallion:
Seeing this as a perfect opportunity to kick this up to a higher level, I quickly composed a message to Stella and hit send:
I rested back in my chair and waited for her eager reply. My younger self slapped me on the back. ‘Brilliant move!’ In no time at all, I would have forensics teams at my disposal, a surveillance van, handwriting experts, a facial composite artist and a helicopter on standby. Maybe even a walkie-talkie!
Alas, no. Not a peep. Not even a pity ‘like’.
So, I waited. Stella, I thought, must be busy fighting some major outrage — as deserving as equality in the workplace and as broad as Brexit. Even I could see there are bigger fish to fry, from time to time.
Days went by. Nothing. Why? How? Stella was arguing with trolls again. ‘Give it time, Ross.’ I remained patient. But I was left scratching my head as Stella live tweeted from a Shed Seven gig — all instead of helping me solve this mystery!
Diminished, but not deterred, I pressed on. I remembered seeing the abandoned attempt of removing Güs from a local Brioche Burger joint. I called them up to see if any of their staff were eager to talk.
No one answered. Clearly, they were still in shock. ‘Why would someone do this,’ I imagined a teary-eyed employee mumbling. I was sure they were avoiding taking any questions, at least until management decided what to do next. Perhaps they’d release a statement. Or maybe they’re just not open that early... I wrote a reminder to try them again later.
I asked at the chemist if they’ve noticed the tag on their shutters and the lady behind the counter gave me a look. It was a look that questioned my mental state and motive. I got half way through nervously explaining myself before we were interrupted by a man with no manners and a pair of faulty lungs. The nice lady shrugged at me and headed off to serve him. ‘They’re in trouble if we catch them’ she yelled over her shoulder.
Trouble. Yes. What kind of trouble, I wondered.
Consequences
That night, I felt it was high time I rang 101 to organise a sit down with the local constabulary. No doubt they’d be interested in my findings and sharing their thick case file on Güs. But, before I did, I thought it best to do a quick search to see the potential fate in store for Güs, should we manage to close the net.
It was superficial, but there were a few interesting articles on the matter:
In short, it didn’t look good:
Under the Criminal Damage Act 1971 - ‘Sentences for graffiti range from a conditional discharge from the magistrates’ court for minor damage, to up to 10 years imprisonment by the Crown Court where the damage caused is more than £10,000.’
‘The maximum penalty for 12 -to 17-year-olds is 24 months of detention, while adults can be sentenced to up to ten years in prison.’
But I dismissed this these as worst-case scenarios. It had to be unlikely for Güs. He just deserved a good telling off and a few weekends of community service. I mean, it couldn’t be anything near £10,000 worth of damage. Then I remembered the number of tags I’d found…
It made me question whether or not I really wanted to find Güs. I mean, there was no doubt he was a berk and no one deserves to have their property vandalised, but we’ve all done stupid shit. I do it constantly. How could I be certain things wouldn’t go too far? Without knowing Güs’s story, I didn’t think I could poke the official channels and keep a good conscience.
So, for a while, I let Güs slip out of my mind.
Evolution
With the heat of my gaze off him, Güs went about his merry business. It wasn’t long before I was told he’d freshly tagged a pissed-up wall here, a crash repair and welding shop there. I got pictures, but otherwise the boy detective was put to bed and time quietly tootled on.
Then, like he’d forgotten something, Güs waddled back into my life. You see, Güs had gotten restless. Ambition had started its dirty itch. The simple tag of ‘Güs’ just wasn’t good enough. Güs wanted — deserved — something bigger and better.
So, he’d started to experiment…
You’re confused now, right? How could I know this was the same person?
Well, it all clicked into place when I found this a few blocks away:
Bless him, I thought. Güs was trying to graduate into something grander. But even he had doubts that the general public would understand this — this abstract ball sack on the wall- was his. So, he started anchoring them with his original tag.
This was just too delicious. I had to keep looking!
Fresh eyes found Güs marking street art he appreciated around the community — undoubtedly inspirations to make something bigger and grander himself.
He clearly liked the work. I noticed how Güs never actually defaced any of the works he signed. Maybe they were just his seals of approval. He could’ve been trying — and failing — to pass them off as his own, but I wondered if he was just trying to imagine himself as an artist, an individual who could create something others might appreciate.
Erasure and Endurance
By this point, I was starting to see Güs in a different light. There was something sweetly sad about having his little mark about town. It made Walthamstow feel more honest, more human. But, as I pushed my daughter’s pram around the neighbourhood, looking out for the next piece of the puzzle, I found the story was already coming to an end.
Several of the marks that I had documented were starting to disappear! Walls where Güs had been were being painted over, garage doors scrubbed clean.
My reaction to this was unexpected and surprising. I felt … awful. Not for Güs himself. No. I felt bad for me. Having Güs’s ugly mark removed from my life was oddly and uniquely depressing.
If he got erased would there be a point to my search? Would anyone care?
‘Hey, do you remember when there was the word Güs written in really lame places around the neighbourhood? No? Come on, you know! With the umlaut…’
So, with Güs, part of me got erased. I know, it’s ridiculous, but it’s funny what we find ourselves becoming attached to. Some people lament the pyramids crumbling to dust. For me, it’s some twat’s desperate cries for attention.
I guess time just sweeps some of us away quicker than others.
This profound and heavy thought hung over me as I steered my way down Aubrey Road. This ‘outdoor gallery’ — an alley of garages and backyard fences — was where I’d found some of Güs’s finest work. Now, it was all gone.
But then, I stopped. There, where you could still see the mismatched green paint used to cover Güs’s mural abuse weeks before, was another tag! It was the same, but slightly different. It was him! It didn’t matter if they rubbed him out. He’d come back.
‘Güs’, it read, mischievous as ever, the paint running down the wall. ‘LOL’
LOL.
I nodded. LOL indeed.
—
Ross Olivey is a Development Consultant at the creative development studio In Development.
