Ink on walls, words on the street: A linguistic landscape study of social struggles rendered in graffiti

Perhaps one of the most enduring characteristics of human society is our propensity for writing stuff on walls. I mean, we’ve been at it since we’ve lived in caves, with our prehistoric ancestors leaving handprints and paintings of various bovine creatures. Our methods may have evolved, but throughout time and history, there’s been an inexplicable urge to write, to paint, and to draw on all sorts of surfaces. We want to leave something of ourselves behind on lasting stone, even if it’s outright illegal in many places nowadays.

"Hall of Bulls," Cave Painting from Lascaux, France.

Graffiti of a majestic cow. Photo by Alexandra Koch. 

What is it about graffiti, anyway? What do people hope to communicate? What’s at work here, and what’s at stake?

These are just some of the questions we hope to contemplate with this article. Here, we will be diving into the significance of graffiti in our linguistic landscape. We will look at previous studies about graffiti and examine some samples in the Philippine context.

The linguistic landscape refers to instances of language use found in physical, public spaces. This includes everything from shop signs, billboards, posters, road signs, and so on. What’s interesting about graffiti is that, unlike many signs in the linguistic landscape, they are transgressive, often violating a certain social order or local laws.

These concepts will be at the heart of our inquiry. What counts as a “transgression” anyway? Who or what are they transgressing? Why are some signs socially acceptable, and others are shunned? Let's take a closer look.

Defining Our Terms

Before we move on, though, let’s be clear about some of our definitions. It’s important to distinguish between some similar terms, and there are subtle nuances between the words “graffiti” versus “vandalism” or “street art.” They all pertain to generally the same thing, which is writing or drawing on public spaces and property, but they could perhaps be seen on a kind of sliding scale.

Vandalism is certainly one extreme end; it’s a strong word, often used to emphasize the illegal aspect of the act. It’s often associated with the deliberate defacement (if not outright destruction) of public places or property, including other signs, billboards, statues, etc. In moments of rebellion and revolution, the edifices of the old order and “vandalized” in a symbolic act of breaking their power.

12th century cathedral statue in Spain vandalized to look like KISS drummer, Eric Singer.

On the other extreme end, we have street art, which seems the most “legal” or “socially acceptable” of the three. The word “art” in particular adds a level of refinement, a connotation that it belongs in cultured or higher-class society. In fact, many instances of street art are made in some official capacity, such as the Marikina government’s street art project, which is used to cover up and paint over the unofficial markings on public walls. We might also call the large murals along Bonifacio Global City as street art, as private sectors hired artists to paint these over their own property.

"May you find comfort here," mural by KFK (2016) in BGC

The term graffiti, then, is somewhere in between; it’s used to refer to a much broader range of writings and drawings, from harmless scribbles on a school desk to larger murals on public spaces. For our discussion, we’ll mostly be using the term “graffiti” unless the associated implications of the other two terms are necessary.

Now that we have established our key terms, let’s move on to an overview of our theoretical framework for this study.

Theoretical Framework: Context, Background, and Inspirations
Much of the theoretical framework behind this study takes after the different concepts proposed in Alastair Pennycook’s “Linguistic Landscapes and the Transgressive Semiotics of Graffiti.” It will be well worth our time to go through his key propositions, that we might later apply them in our own examination of Philippine graffiti.

First and foremost, this particular study responds to the field of linguistic landscape studies as a whole. Pennycook notes that many previous studies only focused on how public signs represented specific languages and were indicative of particular policies. He takes issue with how the signs are treated as static, like they’re merely statistics or percentages of how much so-and-so language is used in certain places.

Given that, he proposes an expanded view of the linguistic landscape. For one thing, he says that not all signs are created equal, and it’s important to analyze why some signs are more prominent or significant than others. He also notes that meaning is not just textual, but also contextual (and, as he adds, “pretextual, subtextual, intertextual, and post-textual”). It’s not just about what a sign says, but also what the creators intended by it, how the readers interpret it, what kinds of ideologies are at work, and so on. 

In the study of graffiti, it also becomes evident how language cannot be easily separated from the visual dimension of public signs. The imagery is part and parcel of how meaning is generated and perceived, after all.

Alley covered in graffiti; Hosier Lane, Melbourne, Australia. Photo by Linda Xu.

Pennycook’s study focuses on graffiti in relation to hip-hop culture, especially how it is both violating a dominant social order while simultaneously creating subcultural communities. First, with regards to the subcultural communities, he cites the study of another scholar in a brief discussion on local graffiti crews:

“Graffiti crews he (Christen) argues, are significant ‘educational organizations that promote valuable learning among their members,’ providing ‘poor and disadvantaged adolescents with knowledge, skills, and values important for success in the mainstream. At the same time, it bonds young people to their urban neighborhoods, empowering them to challenge the dominant society and to transform rather than escape their communities’ (Christen 2003: 58).” (Pennycook, 306)

Here, we can see that creating graffiti is not often simply a singular, isolated act of individuals, but rather takes place in the context of a community. Furthermore, Pennycook cites that graffiti is “not intended to be interpretable by people outside the subculture,” and that they are “about style and identity” (Pennycook, 307). In these contexts, the graffiti, as signs in the linguistic landscape, are not so much about the actual texts being written, but about demarcating physical and cultural territories.

These graffiti communities often find themselves at odds with the dominant social order, which leads us to the second point. Pennycook says, “A common argument among graffiti artists is that the legally sanctioned billboards and advertisements that adorn urban space are a greater eyesore than graffiti, and it is only the fact that capitalist-influenced laws make one legal and the other not that turns their art into an underground activity” (307).

We see here the kind of politics at work when it comes to graffiti. At this point, we must ask: who owns public property and public spaces, really? The simple answer might be, well, they belong to everyone, don’t they? But it’s not as if anyone can just write what they want on public property; it’s sanctioned only if it was paid for, as with most billboards and advertisements, or if it came from local authorities, as with the Marikina Street Art.

Graffiti laws are commonplace, and most of us probably take them as a given. But Pennycook’s study raises questions about this status quo: in these instances, who is allowed to “speak,” and who isn’t? What is allowed to be said, and what isn’t? We’ll continue to tackle these questions as we go on with our study.

Besides Pennycook, we owe some of our theoretical framework to several other linguists as well, which we will briefly cover here.

Melissa Curtin’s “Creativity in polyscriptal typographies in the linguistic landscape of Taipei” primarily focuses on commercial and business signs, as with more traditional linguistic landscape studies. However, she does that there is a considerably “playful” aspect to how some signs are made, with how some signs might use multiple language or character systems (sometimes even combining them) to produce unique, often humorous signs. This is especially important in the context of Taipei and its language policies and cultural practices, where Mandarin was once the primarily dominant language.

Just as we have seen with Pennycook’s discussion of graffiti, the choice of language in these commercial signs also becomes an avenue for transgressing the social norms. Curtin cites another study: “In Montreal, Lamarre argues that normative discourse on language and legal constraints for public signage has triggered “an ‘edgy’ bilingual aesthetic” and has thus inspired covert bilingual creativity with humorous transgressions that both express identity and serve to “irritate the state” (2014, 137)” (Curtin, 237).

Other theorists of note include Scollon and Scollon, with their notions on geosemiotics, and Landry and Bourhis, with their emphasis on social dynamics and power relations when it comes to the linguistic landscape.

Now that we’ve covered the different studies that have contributed to our framework of analysis, we can now move on to our examination of actual graffiti samples in the Philippine context, especially in light of the Covid-19 pandemic and lockdowns in Metro Manila.

Metro Manila Graffiti: Three Samples
Our data set will primarily contain photos of graffiti and street art, from the Instagram account @oldhaws. Permission from the owner was obtained to feature these photos here in our study. This account showcases a lot of these little drawings or texts illicitly painted on innocuous places around Metro Manila.

There are two levels of examination here: first, there is, of course, the actual contents of the photo: the street art, where it’s placed, what messages it might be trying to get across. Second, we must also take note of the framing of the photo. Why this particular moment, through this specific angle? What is being foregrounded here, and what is possibly left in the background or outside of the picture entirely?

In examining these photos, we will repeatedly return to the concepts and questions introduced earlier. We hope to demonstrate the differences between “vandalism” and “street art,” and also contemplate the various “transgressions” that these samples might be making. Let’s begin with the following photo.

Link to original.

This “Why” mark has apparently appeared in various other places, all made by the same person (or group of people) behind the @oldhaws account. Here, it has been placed on a freshly-cut tree stump. To the right are towering high-rise buildings and huge commercial billboards, and to the left is a man in a stained shirt, sitting on the side of the road, his bare feet blackened by dirt.

The themes of this photo immediately jump out: in the face of commercial success and economic prosperity, there are still many people who are left behind. Why?

We might recall Pennycook’s remark on how graffiti artists believe that the commercial advertisements are an “eyesore,” and there is a noticeable class divide at work here. With how our society currently functions, it’s those with money and social status who can “buy” public space: they can pay for land, for rent, for billboards and advertisements. Much of the legally-sanctioned linguistic landscape is paid for.

Why is it only they who can “speak” in these public spaces? Why is it illegal or socially unacceptable for people to put up graffiti? Are these voices not equally valid?

With Pennycook’s analysis, it was about communities asserting their identities, and questioning the social order that has likely failed them. In this photo, the stark class divide is showcased in the juxtaposition of elements. Here are the haves, here are the have-nots.

The transgressive act of putting up graffiti is to ask: Why must it be this way?

On a parting note, the freshly-cut tree stump is also a point of interest. Plants are included in this capitalist system as well; who is it, after all, who has the authority to both plant and cut down trees? It’s those who can afford to pay for the land and all that comes with it, after all. Plants that grow where the owners or local government find them inconvenient are often quickly cut down.

But the failure of the capitalist system is a debate for another day. Let’s move on to the next photo.

Link to original.

This one was taken on May 21, 2020, when Metro Manila had already been under a few months of lockdown. On the side of a yellow concrete barrier, “The future looks bright,” is written inside a representation of the COVID-19 virus cell.

Despite the literal meaning of the text, it’s difficult to take this as anything but sarcastic or derisive. The Philippines had imposed strict lockdowns in March, but cases continued to rise. There was no news of any vaccine, much of the world was succumbing to the pandemic. There was most certainly nothing bright about how the future was looking.

The statement might also be a parody of many public officials’ statements; at the height of the pandemic, the DOH and the administration’s spokespersons continued insisting that they had everything under control, despite the exponentially rising cases and deaths.

The choice of a concrete barrier (which is arguably government property) being used here reinforces this sentiment; it is an act of transgression against the administration that has made our pandemic situation into what it is.

A more optimistic interpretation might also be possible. The message, by itself, is one of hope, an insistence that things will still get better. The symbolic encasement in a virus cell might mean that hope can be infectious as well. Like passing on a torch to spread the flame of hope, or in this case, passing on the virus of hope. This honestly feels like a bit of a reach, though.

Let's go on to the third and final photo.

Link to original.

This one comes with a comment from the creator, saying, “No mask no entry.” It depicts a dejected Zorro, rapier down, hand to his head, as he is wearing his eye mask, but no face mask.

The photo was uploaded on December 4, 2020, almost a year after the beginning of the worldwide COVID-19 outbreak, and almost ten months into Philippines’ absurdly long lockdown. By this point, the safety standards necessitated by the pandemic have long become routine for many Filipinos; many people are likely tired by the constant calls for “social distancing” or “wear your face masks and face shields.”

Zorro is a very popular character, and he is known as a dashing rogue who fights for justice, a vigilante who defends the poor and the weak from the powerful and the corrupt. The choice of character here is immediately charged with political discourse, and we return to the social class tensions that we have seen earlier.

The placement of this image is also worth examining; it seems to be at an electric post of some sort, across the street in front of a big mall. By this point in time, malls have been open regularly in Metro Manila, and it’s here where we might often see the “No mask no entry” signs.

This, too, is a site of social class struggle, made even more apparent by the pandemic. The affluent may travel freely via cars, while those who are not as fortunate will have to make do with the risks of public transport. The former has the luxury and security in visiting places with strict healthy safety protocols, while those who cannot afford them will need to go elsewhere. Paradoxically, those who can likely afford COVID-19 treatment are those who can also afford to work from home on their laptops and internet connections, while others who would struggle to pay hospital bills might not be able to do so, especially manual laborers and the like.

There is much more we can discuss, but for the moment, we will stop here.

As we have seen with our three examples, the transgressive act of rendering graffiti is most powerful when it’s made in response to dominant social forces. It’s disruptive precisely because there is something that must be disrupted; there are voices that are not given avenue to speak, so they must speak here.

We might recall our definitions earlier of “vandalism,” “graffiti,” and “street art.” As we’ve seen with our samples, however, the distinctions really aren’t so cut-and-dry. The photos in @oldhaws are referred to as “street art,” despite many of them being illicitly rendered on private or public property.

The question of what “art” truly is will be an entire debate for another day; suffice to say, however, that it goes beyond just whether something is sanctioned or not. Some people might disagree that the photos we’ve examined count as art; they might say it’s mere vandalism. On the other hand, an officially-sanctioned, paid-for mural advertising some product might not count as art for other people; it’s just another ad. As we can see, the definitions themselves are sites of struggle.

Admittedly, this study could use a lot more data. There is still so much more we can learn about graffiti, discourse, and social order in the Philippines, but we are largely limited by the challenges of this pandemic. We could still use a lot more input, especially from the creators themselves, regarding their goals and processes, as well as the opinions of the passers-by, and how they receive these instances of street art. Nonetheless, this situation has put us in a unique position to contemplate our relationship with public spaces, especially after spending so much time indoors.

When We Next Walk the Streets
Before we finish, I’d like to share a brief anecdote.

This entire study actually began with the recollection of a small bit of graffiti. It’s found along Katipunan Avenue, on the side of the flyover from C5, just a little past the Petron gas station. It’s a single word: “Why.” The exact same as the one we talked about earlier, but rendered in a different place.

I had often come across that sign on the way to school since possibly elementary. I don’t know exactly when I started seeing it, but I’d spot it occasionally in my many years going to Katipunan Avenue.

It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen it last. I don’t recall the last moment I saw it; prior to the lockdowns, it was just some everyday sight, something I never expected I’d miss, but here we are. I have no photos of it of my own, and I don’t know if it’s still there, or even what Katipunan avenue looks like nowadays.

But the question haunts me the same. Why?

When we next walk our streets, so many things would have already changed. There may be many things that we had once taken for granted, but will seem so different when we see them again. The past year has been harrowing for many of us, all over the world. We have spent much more time indoors, and when we do go outside there is a palpable feeling of fear and danger.

When we next walk our streets, let’s keep our eyes open. Let’s watch for the little voices that can only speak as little transgressions, little marks on the corners where the powers that be might overlook them with a glance.

Hear them out. You might be surprised.







Written by Ejay Domingo.

Works Cited:

Curtin, M. “Creativity in polyscriptal typographies in the linguistic landscape of Taipei.” Social Semiotics, Vol. 25, No. 2, 2015. pp. 236-243.

Landry, Rodrigue and Richard Bourhis. "Linguistic Landscape and Ethnolinguistic Vitality: An Empirical Study." Journal of Language and Social Psychology, vol. 16, No. 1, 1997.

Pennycook, Alastair. "Linguistic Landscapes and the Transgressive Semiotics of Graffiti." Linguistic Landscape: Expanding the Scenery. Ed. Elana Shohamy and Durk Gorter. Routledge, 2009. pp. 302-311.

Scollon, R. and Scollon, S.W. “Geosemiotics”. Discourses in Place: Language in the Material World. London & New York: Routledge, 2003. pp. 1-24.

Sources for photos are linked in their captions. Thank you!