U Street stands eerily quiet when Aceba Broadus and his three-person team from the District of Columbia’s Department of Public Works begin their day before 8 a.m. at one of D.C.’s notorious graffiti hotspots. Their routine starts by tapping a hydrant to fill the 275-gallon tank in their truck, followed by coating graffiti-covered walls with a special chemical and then blasting them with high-pressure water. Though the work progresses rapidly, Broadus harbors no illusions about the longevity of their efforts.
“Come back on Friday, and it will be all retagged again,” he remarked on a Tuesday. “It’s definitely a bit frustrating.”
On the other side of town, Eric B. Ricks engages in his own form of graffiti, starkly different from the tags and protest slogans often seen on D.C.’s buildings and monuments. Thanks to a scissor lift, Ricks carefully applies a coat of primer to the wall of Savoy Elementary School, preparing it for what will become a city-sponsored mural featuring geometric patterns and multicolored birds.
“Graffiti is different for every practitioner of the craft. It’s like a hydra, this multiheaded thing that’s many things to many people,” Ricks, a seasoned graffiti artist, noted. “Graffiti in its purest form is like a flower growing out of filth and muck.”
This dichotomy between vandalism and urban artistry has long been a reality. One person’s artistic expression is another’s problematic eyesore. At any given time, three DPW removal teams are at work, and the city allocates $550,000 annually for the task.
These teams employ various methods depending on the type of paint and wall material—limestone being the hardest to clean. Metal security doors might get a gray paint cover-up, while certain types of stone receive a special chemical treatment followed by high-pressure water. Occasionally, outside contractors are called in with a sandblaster for the toughest jobs.
The district also contends with political graffiti, often left by mass protests frequenting the nation’s capital. For example, a large July protest against the Israel-Gaza war culminated in a takeover of Columbus Circle, near Union Station. Protesters left graffiti throughout the area, including on a replica of the Liberty Bell and the statue of Christopher Columbus. This protest yielded a rare graffiti-related arrest when authorities charged a 20-year-old Maryland woman.
More commonly, tagging — the distinctive stylized bubble-letter signatures — adorns hundreds of buildings and metro train lines. As a 21-year DPW veteran, Broadus has become well-acquainted with some of the regular taggers. Three times, young graffiti artists serving community service have been part of his crew, occasionally tasked with covering their own work.
“I ask them why they do it, and they usually say something like, ‘We want to promote our name,’” Broadus said, shrugging.
For Ricks, the inability to understand this motivation has persisted since the modern graffiti movement began in the early 1980s in New York City. “Most people don’t understand why these kids are doing this,” he said. “Not everybody with a spray can has the same motivations and goals.”
Ricks, now 49, became fascinated with graffiti shortly after his family moved to Hyattsville, Maryland from Liberia when he was 13. He speaks like an unofficial historian of the art form, tracing its roots back to cave paintings, the depression-era “hobo code,” and symbols guiding enslaved people on the Underground Railroad.
“The urge to scribble and leave a mark somewhere is deep in the psyche of the human animal,” he said.
The local scene has produced its icons, such as Cool “Disco” Dan, famous for his ubiquitous moniker across the city, becoming an emblem of pre-gentrification Chocolate City. DPW crews usually work in response to property owner requests, but their role dramatically shifted during the George Floyd protests in the summer of 2020. For several days, demonstrations near the White House often erupted into mass vandalism downtown. Broadus recalls his crews working “4 a.m. to 4 p.m., seven days a week,” often under police protection from protesters who could have posed a bodily threat.
The city, with its more than 20 separate police forces, also houses multiple graffiti-removal crews. Besides the DPW, the Department of General Services removes graffiti from city government buildings and schools. The National Park Service handles graffiti on NPS land, including the Columbus Circle cleanup, while Metro has its teams for train lines, and federal building graffiti is managed by the General Services Administration and other federal landholding agencies.
Efforts to honor and preserve D.C.’s graffiti history have met varying success. Corey Stowers, a longtime local artist, established the 14th Street Graffiti Museum in 2020 in an unused open-air courtyard in the 16th Street Heights neighborhood. He aimed to attract tourist buses and school field trips at $15 per ticket. However, the museum struggled financially and now remains mostly padlocked.
“There was just no funding. I couldn’t be there all the time and I couldn’t pay someone to be there,” said Stowers, who wants more support from the D.C. government.
The city’s primary official support for graffiti is the Murals D.C. program, which has sponsored 165 murals around the city and pays artists like Ricks between $30 and $40 per square foot for their work.
“In time, you can become as precise with a spray can as a surgeon with a scalpel,” Ricks said. “This thing is by the people for the people. You can’t put it in a box.”
