Page 36 of His Sound
“So what’s this diamond about?” he asks.
“It’s by a guy from France. He makes these metal diamond decals and sticks them to walls all over the world. There are a few in Montreal. It’s like this big hunt to find them.” I stop walking and beckon for him to come stand with me on the edge of the sidewalk. “You see it?”
He searches for almost a minute, rising up onto his tiptoes to check the rooflines and squatting down beside me to scan the bottoms of all the buildings.
“You’re shitting me,” he says finally. “There’s no diamond.”
“Yes, there is!” I insist. “Look at the bank building again.”
I watch the way his eyes light up when he spots it. “Ah,ouais. C’est là.How do you see all these tiny things, Molly? I’ve been up this street like ten thousand times, and I never noticed that before.”
He nudges the edge of my boot with his sneaker. I stare down at both our feet.
“I guess you just have to take the time for it. You have to be willing to focus.”
“That’s probably why, then. I’m not so great at focusing.”
People have to swerve to avoid us, but we just stand there for a moment, watching the sun glint off the sharp lines of the tiny metal diamond where it sits high above the heads of everyone passing by.
“Can we go see your favourite one?” JP asks. “The ‘You Go Girl’ thing?”
“I don’t know,” I reply. “It’s kind of far away. The Graffiti Grandma is just down the street, though.”
We head off in that direction. The crowd is thicker here, and JP catches my elbow so we don’t lose each other. I glance down at his hand on my arm. His sleeve has ridden up enough to reveal one of the tattoos on his wrist: a tiny hammer. Most of his arms are covered in ink, but the designs aren’t big or sweeping like a lot of other sleeve tattoos. His look more like a collection, like a kid’s treasure chest of bits and bobs, coveted fragments of rocks and glass that are precious to their owner, but meaningless to almost anyone else.
I veer away from Saint-Laurent just as the huge mural we’re aiming for comes into view.
“There’s a really cool roller down here,” I tell JP, “if you want to see it first.”
“Take me where you will, oh tour guide,” he replies.
I can’t remember exactly which building the piece is on, so we wander a few blocks down until one of the side streets we pass catches my eye. I step closer, squinting into the shadows cast by the tall buildings, and freeze when I realize what I’m looking at.
“Oh my god!” I can’t help shouting.”It’s a new Hummingbird piece!”
Someone has drilled a tiny hole into the street sign at the next intersection, just big enough for the delicate beak of a small glass hummingbird to fit through. The result is that the bird looks like it’s hovering mid-air, dipping its beak into the middle of the flower-shaped Montreal logo.
JP jogs along beside me as I rush over to stand below the sign.
“These just started popping up a few months ago,” I explain. “This is called an installation. It’s when an artist incorporates the piece’s location into the piece itself. It’s really unusual to see someone working with glass, probably because it’s so delicate and likely that someone will just come along and smash it. Plus, it takes balls and some serious speed to drill through a street sign and not get caught.”
I whip my phone out and give him an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, I justhaveto get a picture of this. It must be brand new. I blog about Montreal street art, and the internet is going to flip. Nobody knows who Hummingbird is yet. They don’t have any social media, and they only seem to work in Montreal.”
I snap a few photos from different angles before I pause to actually admire the work. It has a daintiness to it, a sort of fluid elegance that stands out in the world of street art. So much of that world is jarring and bold, meant to astound and provoke. I love the urgency of art like that, the way it hits you like a heavy metal song blasting through your brain, but I think I’ll always be drawn to the soft melody of tiny, intricate pieces like the hummingbird. Something about spotting them makes you feel special, like they’ve whispered a secret in your ear.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask, watching the way the blue of the sky filters through the bird’s glass body.
“Yeah,” JP answers, “it is.”
When I turn to look at him, he’s not staring at the statue. His eyes are fixed right on me.
I swallow. His mouth quirks up. I drop my gaze to my feet.
“So, the, uh...Graffiti Grandma!” I stammer. I spin around and for some reason end up doing a dorky military march up the street. “This way!”
“Yes, Ma’am!” JP chirps, bouncing along behind me.
