Walk past any park bench in Britain and you know exactly what to expect gouged into the plastic. A crude scribble, a fake mobile number, or that pointy, angular 'S' that every kid in history learned to sketch into the back of their books during the lessons. It’s the standard graffiti taxonomy of bored teenagers killing time in the evening.
Finding this was a complete break from form
"No house key scrapes, no tired playground obscenities, just paint and an earnest slogan."
Tilting the camera along the diagonal slats, locks the focus onto that loud, stubborn bit of yellow ink, an unexpectedly gentle message left sitting out in the cold.