“This is Art!” he announces to the one or two random patrons. “I should sell this on eBay. This was the shirt used to paint the Lewiston library! Yours for the reasonable price of 10 billion dollars!”
He is a ringmaster for a one-man show, eager for an audience but not deterred by the lack of one. “Starring Brian Serfes, your local artist, vandalist and also criminalist! I’m gonna start buying T-shirts just to use as rags. I’ll take off my shirt and” – he adopts his best Schwarznegger impression – “I am Brian: Art-i-nator!”
Brian, notorious in Lewiston for his graffiti, has been commissioned by a local youth outreach group to paint an announcement on the library’s lobby windows. As he fills in the first letter with acrylic paint the color of a blue raspberry Slushee, his oval face, framed by high cheekbones, looks even longer than usual; without his wide grin, his heavy eyebrows are his only horizontal feature. Brian can be easily distracted, but when he paints or draws everything else seems to fall away. His mouth hangs slightly open, exposing the gap of his missing front tooth, the one he cracked in a fall and then yanked out with pliers at age 14. His usually frenetic energy is entirely channeled into the brush in hand.
“It’s kind of interesting,” Brian says, “to see that now I’m getting permission to paint the local library, which is like a holy building for the city. It’s kinda funny how it’s working out, how my artwork is being used for the community instead of against it.”
The shirt Brian wraps around his forefinger and slides along the glass to wipe off excess paint is the one he wore to the library this morning. He’s working in his ribbed gray undershirt. The muscles in his wiry arms flex as he works, animating the tattoo he calls “prison style” — an ornate cross done in black ink — on the pale skin of his triceps. “Every time I wear this T-shirt I’ll remember this was the day I painted the Lewiston Library,” he says. “I’m never gonna let this go. I’m gonna tell my grandkids,” — he draws in his shoulders and affects a shaky voice — “I painted the library in my hometown.” He straightens up and widens his eyes. “‘Really, Grandpa? You painted the library? And you didn’t get arrested?’”
Brian’s most recent arrest was Sept. 5, 2007. It occurred less than one month after a public ceremony in which a 90-foot alley wall in downtown Lewiston was dedicated for graffiti artists to use without threat of arrest. The arrangement had been hammered together by city administration and the owners of the wall, an alcohol recovery group called the 12 Hour Club. Brian was consulted for his opinion. All artists were invited to use the wall, but those who signed an official contract with the city were offered an additional opportunity. The contract stipulated that the artists would paint only on the designated wall and required them to acknowledge all tag names they used, so they could be identified in the future if they ever broke the contract. To encourage artists to sign, they were offered legal forgiveness for any previous graffiti. For prolific artists like Brian who had plenty of previous work to forgive, the offer was appealing.
The donation of the wall was not supported by the entire 12 Hour Club membership. Tensions were heightened when neon genitalia and obscenities appeared on the wall weeks after the ceremony. When Brian arrived on Sept. 5 to paint the wall, he was confronted by several especially upset members. He reacted by running to a nearby public parking garage and tagging a wall there, breaking not only the contract he had signed but the law as well. The club members tipped off the police, and Brian was caught red-handed.
Though Brian acknowledges his guilt, as he does for most of his criminal charges, he holds the 12 Hour Club equally responsible for this one. “My honest opinion is that they broke their side of the agreement,” he says. “Me and my friend were trying to paint the wall and they chased us off, but of course that part wasn’t told. I just got shown as a criminal again. And now I’m paying the price for them breaking their contract?”
An article about Brian’s arrest appeared in the Lewiston Sun Journal on Sept. 7. By the time Angelo Giberti, president of the 12 Hour Club, encountered him a few days later, Brian had been called a panoply of names in public and on the Sun Journal’s blogs: idiot, hoodlum, jerk, punk, low-life and loser, among others. “I don’t know which I oughta do first,” Angelo remembers telling Brian, “give you a hug or kick you in the ass. And (Brian) looked at me and he just came up and he hugged me and said, ‘Yeah, I know, don’t say it.’” The commission for the piece at the library has been the first indication post-arrest that there may yet be some doors in Lewiston open to Brian.
Around 11 o’clock, a group from Portland arrives at the library to mount an installation in the lobby. Two students from Maine College of Art reconstruct the display panels. They are immersed in their work when Brian calls out to them. “I have a portfolio, if you guys want,” he offers. They smile and nod, and turn back to their work. “I was gonna go to MECA,” Brian continues as if he has the students’ full attention, “but they were sort of thrown by me doing graffiti, and having, like, seven convictions after me. Yeah, I have court at 1 o’clock today. Ironically. For doing this. Painting.”
Brian checks the time every five minutes after noon. He may have refused to shave this morning, and he won’t wear his T-shirt to court because “I’m not gonna give them the right to look at my art,” but he’s not going to be late, either. He’s got only coffee in his system, and he won’t have time for lunch before court. He’s running on pure adrenaline. When a police cruiser drives by, Brian breaks into an a capella version of MC Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This,” bobbing and nodding and twisting his hips.