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The city is cracking down on graffiti and guerilla art. Between that and cutbacks to the local art gallery it seems like nothing is safe. But Oswald, masquerading as a graffiti artist known as The Wiz, is fighting back, by painting elaborate murals in public places and planting art in the galleries, and then by taking on the mayor himself. As the fight escalates and the stakes become higher, Oswald gets in deeper than he meant to and needs to rely on his friends to get him out of his latest mess.
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ERIC WALTERS TAGGED
Tagged
Eric Walters
Copyright ©2013Eric Walters
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Walters, Eric,1957Tagged [electronic resource] / Eric Walters. (Orca soundings)
Electronic monograph. Issued also in print format. isbn 9781459801691 (pdf).isbn 9781459801707 (epub)
 I. Title. II. Series: Orca soundings (Online) ps8595.a598t33 2013jc813'.54 c20129074683
First published in the United States,2013 Library of Congress Control Number:2012952949
Summary:A graffiti artistthe Wiztakes on the city and the mayor in a fight to save the heart of the community.
Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
Cover photography by Karlis Dravins
orca book publishers po Box 5626,Stn. B Victoria, bcCanadav8r 6s4
orca book publishers po Box 468 Custer, wa usa 982400468
www.orcabook.com
161514134321
I'd like to thank Deadboy— a true artist, a deep thinker and a real gentleman.
C h a p t er O n e
“Watch your head,” I said as I pulled the wire up to enlarge the hole in the fence. Julia slipped through the opening. “You always bring us to the loveliest places.” “It will be lovely.” “You’ve seen it, Ian?” Oswald asked as he followed behind us.
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“No, but they’re always good, so I don’t know why this one wouldn’t be.” We slid down the concrete slope of the little waterway. At one point it had been a real river with mud banks and plants and îsh, and it would have twisted and turned. Now it was as straight as an arrow, trapped between two concrete banks, with no life, more like a sewer than a stream. “How do you even know there’s something down here?” Julia asked. “It came to my Twitter feed.” She shook her head sadly. “I can’t believe you spend so much time on there.” Ibelieve that you haven’t can’t signed up.” “I haven’t got time to waste on it.” “It’s not a waste. It led me here, didn’t it?” “As I said, it’s a waste of time. I’m not seeing anything except nothing, so I stand by my comment,” she said.
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“It’s under the bridge.” “That makes sense,” Oswald added. “That’s out of the way, hidden from the road and prying eyes.” I thought I was starting to see some-thing. There was more and more and— “Wow,” I said. There it was, a painted cliff with a Lock of sheep at the top, two tumbling down, one at the bottom, half of it painted right to the waterline of the real river and the rest of it underwater and unseen. Two more sheep were Loating downstream, just their legs showing. There was one sheep at the top with a word balloon saying,Didn’t anybody learn to swim? “Well, what do you think now?”I asked Julia. “It certainly is big.” “I wasn’t asking you to measure it but to appreciate it.” “Ian, at this point all I can appreciate is that it’s big,” she replied.
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I turned to Oswald. “What’s your opinion?” “She’s right—it is big. But in my opinion, it’s pretty good.” “Pretty good? It’s beautiful, amazing and incredible,” I said. “This might be the best one. It is a real piece of art,” Oswald agreed. “And what exactly do you know about art?” Julia challenged. “I know what I like.” “You like lasagna, but that doesn’t make it art.” “First off, I love lasagna, and second off, there is an art to cooking. Edible art may be my favorite kind.” “He’s right,” I agreed. “Food can be art. There was this sculptor who only used raw meat.” “My butcher does that,” Oswald said. “You should see the display case in his deli.”
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“No, I’m serious. It was at some fancy museum in London. He made these sculptures out of meat, and then the meat rotted over the next month, and people watched the changing sculptures.” “That is seriously disgusting!” Julia protested. I laughed. “I imagine it didn’t smell so good. Lots of people protested against it.” “I would have protested that too,” Oswald added. “You would have?” Julia asked. “Sure, that was a waste of good food that could have been eaten.” “Typical Oswald, thinking with your stomach.” “Typical Julia, feeling with your head.” It was rare now for the tension between them to rise to the surface like this, but it still did. Friends who had become boyfriend and girlfriend trying
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to become just friends again—it didn’t necessarily work so well. I kept that in mind whenever I thought that maybe Julia and I could be more than friends.It wasn’t worth the risk. “Beauty and art are in the eye of the beholder,” I said, breaking the silence. “And according to this beholder, this was produced by an artist.” “Do you think it’s the same person doing all of these?” she asked. “Obviously,” Oswald said. “Maybe it is to you, the artexpert, but not to us common folk,” Julia said. “Even if you can’t tell by the style, you can certainly tell by the tag,” I said. I walked over and stood at the bottom right-hand corner of the creation. There was the big, stylized WIZ, written inside the outline of a sheep. “So he thinks he’s a wizard,” Julia said sarcastically.
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