It’s been an interesting few weeks for the international art-seditionist DocoBanksy. Continue reading If I Had A Pound: DocoBanksy Goes West
“What do you mean, I have to introduce the film?”
Here we are, in my front room. DocoBanksy, calmly sipping on a cup of my finest espresso. Next to him, Lady Dem, his soulmate, muse and sounding board. She looks at me sympathetically, but she knows the score as well as I. What Doco wants, Doco gets. It turns out Doco doesn’t want to introduce his own damn film at the opening night of the Portobello Film Festival. Which can only mean one thing.
The DocoPhone starts ringing. I dive for it, my responses hard-wired after years of loyal, unquestioning service to a playful, capricious master.
I lift the handset, and listen while it clicks and purrs–the line connects through a bewildering array of redirects, anonymisers and scramblers. The call could be coming from the other side of the world, or three doors down. There’s no way of knowing, and believe me, smarter people than me have tried. There’s one last ear-shredding blast of modem noise and then…
The DocoPhone starts ringing. It’s an old red Trimfone, thick with stickers, and the ringtone’s been modded to play a chip tune version of the Beastie Boy’s Sabotage.
It would be more than my life’s worth to ignore it, and my very soul would be forfeit if I let it bounce to voicemail or -gods forbid- redirect to the mobile. The DocoPhone is head of my to-do list every day.
“I have a job for you.” DocoBanksy’s voice is dry over the phone line, all inflection stripped away by the anonymising software he uses. In person he’s much warmer–much more human. But now he’s all business, and I’m all attention.
“A drop-off,” he continues. “Some friends of mine are shooting in your manor, and I need you to get them some stickers. Don’t make a meal of it. Be a pro. Someone will contact you. I’ve given them your number and private email. I told them you wouldn’t mind.”
Click. The line goes dead. I have my instructions. All I can do now is wait.
The call comes through soon after. Once you get involved with docoBanksy, you learn things move quickly. A charming chap called Mike, who’s happy to chat. We arrange a meet. A public place. The Delphi Bridge in the middle of Reading’s restaurant district. Plenty of witnesses if the deal goes south.
It’s dark when the drop happens, and Mike and I end up circling each other for a while before we make contact. He’s brought an oppo, a tasty cove called Sam and I regret not scaring up some back-up. But the deal goes smoothly, and my envelope stuffed with stickers vanishes into an inside pocket. “We’ll be in touch,” Sam says, and they melt back into the sodium-lit night. Ahead of them was a day with free-runner Hamza Shabazz, who would show them how he runs Reading.
And now there’s a film of their exploits. If you’re a Readingite, keep your eyes open for the stickers that Hamza planted – there’s more out there than you’ll see below. DocoBanksy declares himself pleased with the end product. As he should be.
Meanwhile, Sam and Mike of Getting Dirty would like you to know that they do this all day every day, and that you can find out more about them at their website. I think that’s a click that’s worth making.
A call to action hit my inbox last week, from that most damn’d elusive of characters, the pseudonymous documentarian DocoBanksy. “I need cutaways,” he declared. “I need fresh pics and footage of new graf from my namesake.” Like Sancho Panza to his Quixote, I could only respond affirmatively. I packed my go-bag with cameras and memory cards. On a fresh, bright Tuesday morning, DocoBanksy and I set out for an adventure.
Spent a great day yesterday with that damn’d elusive docoBanksy, shooting a few cutaways just to fill in the odd gap in what is now an essentially locked project. More on that in the next post. For now, here’s a shot of the most recent graf from the man hisself, on a shuttered building in a quiet side street in Mayfair.
I’d like to see the scrapers get this one off the wall…
So, after our last post, this popped into my inbox. That damned elusive DocoBanksy has been busy with Final Cut, it seems. Our adventures in the tunnels of Leake Street, condensed into thirty seconds. And it honestly felt like it went that quickly as well…