005

Someone has been blacking out the eyes on the posters at Kentish Town tube station. The posters that line the platform wall, advertising the latest DVD by that funny man off the telly, or the latest album by the latest pop sensation, or the latest Hollywood blockbuster/tearjerker, that feature people looking imploringly at any potential consumers, have been attacked by someone with a thick black marker pen. Whoever it is has filled in the eyes with big black chunks that occasionally streak down the face.

The first time I saw it I stood frozen and staring at a poster for some beauty product for about ten minutes. It was one of the most disturbing things I'd ever seen. The defacement seemed so personal, so violent. It had transformed the woman in the image from a happy, smiling person into a soulless entity. Then I realised it wasn't just the one poster; all of the images on the platform that featured a person's face had received the same treatment.

It got me to thinking about why it was such a powerful... statement? The eyes communicate so much in such subtle ways that I'd never really picked up on until I saw them carved out like this. The face was still the same, physically, but it had lost an essential part of what made it human. It was totally unnatural, horrifying, to see a person with their eyes plucked out and black holes placed in the sockets instead. A change so simple, yet powerful in a unique way that made me consider the basic qualities that make up our humanity.

Then I started to wonder about the person who had committed this act. They don't appear to be entirely healthy. The gouging of eyes, the removal of the soul, the attempt to make repugnant that which is considered beautiful. I wondered, 'Is this an artistic statement or an act of violence?' It's almost impossible to tell. There was no other mark on the faces and bodies of those in the posters, no attempt to take credit or gain notoriety, beyond the base mark itself. It didn't happen just once, either. A couple of months after I first witnessed it, a new set of posters went up. These too were defaced in the same manner. Nor have I seen it happen at any other tube station. Does some local resident of Kentish Town have a mental issue that means they despise these people and have to attack them in such a brutal and... yes... beautiful way? Or is it more basic than that? Did some kid with a thick black marker think it would be a fun bit of graffiti, and in doing so totally fail to realise the weight their actions would have on me, the observer?

It seems too deliberate to be random chance. But that makes me fear for the wellbeing of the person doing this. For the wellbeing of those around them. I half-expect to read about someone found in Kentish Town, murdered, with their eyes gouged out and black tar poured in to the sockets. Because that's the level of hatred that I feel emanating from these posters. A hatred for the model's beauty, for the products they are selling, for the people that buy them because they are told to. All of them are dead already, lost, deprived and wanting of that basic essential humanity, and this person feels it to be their responsibility to highlight this fact, to make it clear to everyone as a warning of what these posters really imply about out souls, about the risks we take in forming pacts with these false idols.

I respect this person for the brilliance of the simplicity of their statement. I am terrified of the images they have created. I fear the potential of their sinister psychology. I wonder if they observe me observing their work and whether I make them proud or not. I think about beautiful virgins, gutted and marked for the pleasure of some mystic god. I think about what these people have done to get themselves on a poster, and whether they deserve to be scarred like this. I consider buying a black marker pen and carrying on the message beyond Kentish Town tube station.

For I can never forget that first image of the dead face with the endless empty black holes for eyes. It awakened something in me – rebirth from death. I feel marked, complicit, joyous and abhorred. And one day, when I feel empty, I will take tar to my eyes and begin all over again.