Paying the price for art

by Shari Kelvin

Last year, eight young men went to prison in ‘the largest graffiti-related criminal conspiracy in British Transport Police history’. Our reporter Shari Kelvin talks to one of them about his experience.

The fine line between what is considered art and what is perceived as vandalism is constantly straddled in the ongoing debate on graffiti. Graffiti is often on trial – so to speak – as an art form, but what is often missed by the media is just how often graffiti artists actually end up in court and in jail for their work.

Arts London News met up with Andrew Gillman, 25, from Battersea, a member of London graffiti crew Deeper Meaning, or DPM.

Andrew knows what it is like to pay the price for his art: eight members of DPM were convicted of ‘conspiracy to cause criminal damage’ in 2008 and between them were sentenced to more than eight years in prison for their graffiti.

However, in a somewhat ironic move, they were asked to graffiti a bus for a charity event while in custody – highlighting the ambivalent attitude towards street art.

The trial of DPM could not have been better timed. It opened on the same day the Tate Modern unveiled its own take on graffiti – a headlining exhibition called Street Art – where artists from across the world adorned the building with sprays, daubs of paint and giant posters.

The front of the Tate was painted with 100-foot-high works. The artists were Blu from Bologna, Italy; the artist collective Faile from New York; JR from Paris; Nunca and Os Gemeos, from São Paulo and Sixeart from Barcelona.

Nissan sponsored the event, with a tunnel outside screening a documentary about graffiti. Visitors were encouraged to tag the tunnel walls with marker pens which were provided as they enjoyed an education in graffiti through the medium of documentary filmmaking. No British artists were allowed to paint the walls of the Tate, however.

The gift shop was also full of encouragement for young artists, with white toy trains sold as blank canvases for budding artists to decorate. There were also books and postcard collections, how-to’s and graffiti colouring-in books. Among this collection of paraphernalia was a book containing Gillman’s work.

Surrounding buildings were also painted, lining part of the route to Southwark Crown Court, where roughly a mile down the river a ‘Free DPM’ protest was in full swing, as the eight members of DPM were arriving to stand trial.

The night before, while the glitterati of the art world had sipped their champagne to celebrate the opening of the Tate exhibition, the boys of DPM had enjoyed a last pint, wondering what was to come.

Ironic twist of fate

Sitting with Gillman, who was recently released on parole, it feels surreal to know that this time last year he was in jail. Getting into graffiti at the age of 13, he explains that he wouldn’t be the same person without it: “When I was young it gave me a lot of confidence, knowledge: travelling around, meeting people. I treasure all of that with photographs of my friends.” 

Playing tug-of-war with his black-and-white kitten on the living room floor he goes on to say: “I knew I was going to serve time in jail but the police publicised it so much during the sentencing. It was a public case. It felt like we were getting dragged through the media.”

It was the media itself that initially brought Gillman to the attention of the police. He had been hired by the BBC to add some artwork to the set of Eastenders, but in a cruel twist, an officer recognised his tag and an enquiry into DPM’s work opened, eventually leading to their convictions.

He says the Serious and Organised Crime Agency and British Transport Police mounted a media campaign before the sentencing to get the case as much press as possible, calling it the largest criminal conspiracy in their history.

Countless graffitied train carriages resulted in South West Trains having to spend hundreds of thousands of pounds on re-spraying.

Time and money

The police also invested a lot of time and money in the case: they investigated the crew for six months prior to the arrest, and they were on bail for two years before the hearing.

Gillman says: “The case ended up costing millions of pounds. Between us we had nine solicitors, nine barristers, nine legal aid counsellors – for two years.”

The police planted cameras in trees, did forensic testing on clothes for paint and analysed mobile phones. They had email accounts checked by the FBI, who took trips to Paris, Amsterdam, Wales and Somerset and brought in experts from around the country. “They had brought these people in to take us out.”

Gillman was sentenced to two years in prison – he served the duration of his sentence after being denied parole. With a puzzled expression, he says: “Our solicitors said that they had never seen so much time, effort and money being spent on murder, rape and drugs cases. They were amazed, the legal team thought it was ridiculous.”

Conspiracy accusations and growing support

The boys from DPM were the first full gang of graffiti artists to be jailed as a group and their infamy and support only increased with the start of the trial. Pressure groups, petitions and fundraisers were all formed to help them get off on a lighter charge.

Facebook group Support DPM was created to campaign against the authorities’ decisions and provide encouragement for the boys. It had 3,715 followers. The ‘Free DPM’ calls grew as the trial wore on, with journalists such as Kate Mead, news editor of The Kentish Times, taking up their cause.

She explains: “2008 was all about violence and knife crime; young men were being killed in the streets over pointless turf wars between so-called ‘gangs’. Then there was DPM: a group of young men who were inspirational, creative and sensitive people and who, despite having a hobby that was looked down on by the establishment, were already offering society so much.

"They were all working or studying, paying taxes – some were doing voluntary community work and being role models for other young men. They weren’t drug dealing or carrying knives yet they were being targeted by the police as though they were the worst criminals of all time. I thought I would do a story that reflected this contradiction.”

The story was also covered by journalist and documentary producer Stefan Christou, an LCC graduate and friend of Matthew Tanti of DPM, who was given a suspended sentence. Christou’s short documentary, Celebrated/Incarcerated, featured widely on pro-graffiti websites and on Channel 5.

He recalls: “It just seemed like the kind of story I had to take up if I ever was going to call myself a serious journalist. It is obvious that in the UK, prison sentences are heavily influenced by the amount of money the crime takes from a rich person, rather than the effect it might have on society as a whole”.

He explains that in the same week DPM were sentenced, a man who killed a girl by reckless cycling was let off with only a fine. “It is obvious that our criminal justice system is not working for common people if we jail artists who create works that many enjoy, because they are subversive or ‘ugly’...or cover over a company’s corporate image at a great cost to them.”

This sentiment is echoed by Mead, who reflects on the judge who sentenced the crew: “Judge Christopher Hardy had given a paedophile a shorter custodial sentence than the majority of DPM. The police targeted DPM over more than two-and-a-half years rather than arresting them at the scene, just so they could charge them with conspiracy. To my mind, that is not law enforcement, that is entrapment. Their sentences weren’t worth it.”

Setting an example

All of the jailed members of DPM had the addresses of their prisons posted on Facebook so supporters could write to them.

Gillman received a lot of support while in prison, receiving many cards and gifts from members of the public who believed he was being treated unjustly. “I got messages from people around the world while in jail, supporting us, and keeping our morale up.”

Still relaxed and playing with Blue, the kitten, he continues: “I used to paint trains before because it was just DPM, [I thought] ‘I won’t get sent down for graffs, I might just get a case and pay the fine’. It made the risk kind of worth it. No one knew it would go this deep.

“When I was in jail and other inmates used to ask me what I’m in for and for how long, and I would say ‘for graffiti and for two years’, they didn’t believe me. They were in for six months for worse crimes than I was.”

“They made examples of us to stop young graffiti writers. A message of zero tolerance.” He says that the lives of several people who weren’t involved were disrupted because DPM members refused to speak to authorities, resulting in police tracking down one of his school friends and bullying him into making statements against Gillman.

“My mum’s house and work got raided and my girlfriend got arrested and questioned. My life could have been ruined but luckily my family and girlfriend stood by me.”

One person Gillman remembers fondly is retired teacher Michael Shirley, who used to write to them and other graffiti writers who were in jail in Manchester. He would send them paper, pens, stamps, money, cards, pictures of his garden – even if they didn’t reply he still kept sending tokens of encouragement. Gillman confesses he still needs to meet up with him to thank him for his support.

Was it worth it?

When posed the question if it was worth it he pauses. “It was worth it [in some ways] but nothing is worth going to jail for, especially graffiti. But I expected it; it had crossed my mind for years that I could end up in jail, and if I did, I would just deal with it. You just had to get on with your life. I wouldn’t exchange any of my memories or experiences. I hold that close to me, it makes me who I am.”

But admittedly, jail changed Gillman forever. Crucially, among other things, it stopped him from doing graffiti. “I know it had to end one day,” he shrugs as the kitten jumps off to play.

Gillman also tells of another friend: a fellow graffiti writer, who was not in DPM. Tom Collister, 23, from Penge in southeast London, killed himself while serving in Camp Hill prison for graffiti.

Two members of DPM also had served time in Camp Hill. Reflecting on the loss of his friend, Gillman says: “He was so young, it’s horrible. In prison there isn’t a lot of support; if you’re having a hard time you’re on your own.”

In times of gang violence, knife and gun crime, the millions of pounds and resources spent on the whole ‘DPM conspiracy’ may easily render the justice system in a contradictory light. However, just as with art, that lies in the eyes of the beholder.