Dance like the lights are off

We spent a month walking the same six streets at different hours, watching how a neighbourhood edits itself. By morning the shutters are grey; by midnight they are manifestos. Nobody we spoke to called themselves an artist. They said printer, painter, night shift, cousin of the guy who owns the wall. The work, though, speaks with total confidence.

There is a particular kind of bravery in making something that you know will be covered over within days. It changes the pace of the work, and the pace of looking at it. A short guide to the route is at the end of this piece.

Loud by design

What survives is not the object but the habit: a way of standing back from a wall, squinting, and deciding it needs one more line. The first thing you notice is the noise. Not the traffic or the trains, but the colour: every surface shouting over the one beside it, every poster pasted on top of last week's promise.

Make it loud enough that the wall has to answer back.

We spent a month walking the same six streets at different hours, watching how a neighbourhood edits itself. By morning the shutters are grey; by midnight they are manifestos.

• Start early, before the shutters go up.
• Carry a notebook, not a tripod.
• Ask before you photograph people.

Nobody we spoke to called themselves an artist. They said printer, painter, night shift, cousin of the guy who owns the wall. The work, though, speaks with total confidence. There is a particular kind of bravery in making something that you know will be covered over within days. It changes the pace of the work, and the pace of looking at it.

Every wall is a draft.

What survives is not the object but the habit: a way of standing back from a wall, squinting, and deciding it needs one more line.