Living beside a used car lot can teach you about noise, boundaries, and the limits of goodwill.
Years ago, I lived in a low-rise apartment in Toronto’s Little Portugal, right next to a small lot that sold used cars. Most of their customers were newcomers buying their first vehicle, and the salesmen hustled hard. But as neighbors, they could be… challenging.
They’d rigged the office phone to a loudspeaker outside so they wouldn’t miss calls while working the lot. Too often, they forgot to switch it off at night. We’d hear the ringing phones and fragments of messages people left long after midnight.
Friends, relatives, and former customers who were passing in front of the business would sometimes slow down (disrupting the traffic flow) and honk as they drove by. And sometimes salesmen, friends, and customers would attempt to burn rubber on the small lot in noisy and smoky displays of bravado. It was a mixed-use neighborhood, after all, but the line between liveliness and disruption blurred fast.
Occasionally, someone would steal a car. One night, under the overpowering security lighting on the lot, my neighbors and I watched a man jack up a vehicle and remove the entire transmission. I’m sure the owners had insurance, but each theft still meant paperwork, deductibles, and hassle.
The police would occasionally make the rounds, knocking on doors to ask if we’d seen anything. There was always a polite chorus of “no,” and plenty of feigned surprise.
The truth is, we saw plenty. If the car lot owner and crew had been better neighbors, if they’d kept the noise down, turned off the loudspeaker, shown a little consideration, we might have looked out for them.
But they didn’t, and we didn’t. The boundary between tolerance and indifference had long since been crossed.
I eventually moved away. In time, both the apartment building and the car lot fell to the developer’s wrecking ball, and with them, the noise.
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Screenshot-2025-10-12-at-5.11.17-PM.png9701754Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2025-10-12 21:58:212025-10-13 00:10:17The Used Car Lot Next Door
Ever since the emergence of contemporary graffiti and street art, the surfaces where it has been applied and the methods by which it has been disseminated have evolved.
In New York City, for example, graffiti writers began by tagging and bombing walls in their neighborhoods but eventually expanded to similar surfaces in different parts of the city.
Soon thereafter, writers started “getting up” in subway stations, tunnels, and cars. When graffiti was placed on the outside of trains, it enabled writers to go “all city.”
This activity, along with the places where graffiti appeared, morphed into freight and passenger trains, which helped disseminate the writers’ work across regions, the country, and in some cases, internationally.
Along the way, other mobile surfaces like box vans and delivery trucks were increasingly hit.
The shift from static walls to means of transportation introduced a crucial idea: mobility could serve as a medium, expanding both the audience and reach of graffiti and street art.
Now, in the contemporary city, dockless bikes and scooters are increasingly becoming sites for graffiti and street art.
Stickers and tags placed on these mobile platforms extend the same logic that animated early train graffiti: visibility through circulation.
This evolving relationship between graffiti/street art and urban mobility reveals how writers and artists continually adapt to changes in society to keep their work in motion and in public view.
That being said, it’s important to acknowledge that not only do surfaces present opportunities, but they also present constraints. In the case of bikes and scooters, the size is small, and because of the construction, certain types of graffiti and street art are better suited. Thus, in many cases, stickers may be the easiest to apply.
So what?
This development matters primarily for its cultural significance, technological relevance, and political communication.
First, mobile graffiti/street artchallenges the static, property-based logic of the city. It asserts presence where the writer/artist might otherwise be excluded.
Second, by targeting new mobility systems (e.g., bikes and scooters), graffiti and street art are increasingly part of the digital economy and the so-called “smart city.” It turns corporate tools of efficiency into carriers of unregulated expression.
Third, this mobility transforms both authorship and audience. Finally, by using shared mobility platforms as canvases, artists reclaim space in a city increasingly privatized by technology companies. It is a subtle, yet potent, form of resistance.
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/IMG_9431-1.jpg384774Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2025-10-05 16:52:042025-10-05 16:56:23Graffiti, Street Art & Dockless Mobility
The drive to the Johnston farm, one of my father’s clients, always felt long, but the visits were mostly fun and always an adventure. The place had the basics: a farmhouse, a barn, a silo, cows, pigs, and at least one dog. When my father consulted with Mr. Johnston and my mother, if she came along, chatted with Mrs. Johnston, my older brother, sister, and I would play in the barn, sometimes with the Johnston boy.
The barn was the best part. To my ten-year-old eyes, it was enormous. On each side of the main floor were haystacks and baled hay. We spent what seemed like hours playing tag in the maze-like tunnels built into the haystacks or swinging from a rope tied to the rafters and letting go into piles of hay. Below the floor were stalls with pigs and cows; they were ridiculously loud and aggressive.
But on one visit, my brother and sister weren’t there. While my parents talked inside the house, the Johnston boy, barely a teenager, asked me if I wanted to join him outside to survey the property. Just before we stepped out, he picked up a rifle, and I thought nothing of it.
After a short walk, we came to a clearing and spotted a small dog sitting upright in the distance. The boy said it had been there for a few days and hadn’t moved. He added that the dog was not theirs and was trespassing. He also said that the animal must probably be lame. His words tumbled out quickly, as if rehearsed.
Then, without pause, he leveled the rifle to his shoulder. The Johnston boy looked down the barrel and aimed. A crack split the air. The dog toppled. Silence. He turned, as if nothing had happened. We left the body where it lay.
It was the first time I had seen a defenseless animal killed so casually. Alone and unsettled, I said nothing, out of shock, maybe fear. Perhaps he wanted to impress me. Maybe it was something darker. I never told my parents, but the brazen suddenness of that act has been an enduring memory for me.
Author’s Note: “Johnston” is a pseudonym
Photo Credit:
Photographer: Stan Shebs
Title: Farm in the Kitchener area of Ontario
https://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/Ontario_farm.jpg9331400Jeffrey Ian Rosshttps://jeffreyianross.com/wp-content/uploads/jeffrey-ian-ross-logo-04.pngJeffrey Ian Ross2025-09-28 11:50:492025-09-28 11:50:49The Clearing
The Used Car Lot Next Door
/by Jeffrey Ian RossLiving beside a used car lot can teach you about noise, boundaries, and the limits of goodwill.
Years ago, I lived in a low-rise apartment in Toronto’s Little Portugal, right next to a small lot that sold used cars. Most of their customers were newcomers buying their first vehicle, and the salesmen hustled hard. But as neighbors, they could be… challenging.
They’d rigged the office phone to a loudspeaker outside so they wouldn’t miss calls while working the lot. Too often, they forgot to switch it off at night. We’d hear the ringing phones and fragments of messages people left long after midnight.
Friends, relatives, and former customers who were passing in front of the business would sometimes slow down (disrupting the traffic flow) and honk as they drove by. And sometimes salesmen, friends, and customers would attempt to burn rubber on the small lot in noisy and smoky displays of bravado. It was a mixed-use neighborhood, after all, but the line between liveliness and disruption blurred fast.
Occasionally, someone would steal a car. One night, under the overpowering security lighting on the lot, my neighbors and I watched a man jack up a vehicle and remove the entire transmission. I’m sure the owners had insurance, but each theft still meant paperwork, deductibles, and hassle.
The police would occasionally make the rounds, knocking on doors to ask if we’d seen anything. There was always a polite chorus of “no,” and plenty of feigned surprise.
The truth is, we saw plenty. If the car lot owner and crew had been better neighbors, if they’d kept the noise down, turned off the loudspeaker, shown a little consideration, we might have looked out for them.
But they didn’t, and we didn’t. The boundary between tolerance and indifference had long since been crossed.
I eventually moved away. In time, both the apartment building and the car lot fell to the developer’s wrecking ball, and with them, the noise.
Graffiti, Street Art & Dockless Mobility
/by Jeffrey Ian RossEver since the emergence of contemporary graffiti and street art, the surfaces where it has been applied and the methods by which it has been disseminated have evolved.
In New York City, for example, graffiti writers began by tagging and bombing walls in their neighborhoods but eventually expanded to similar surfaces in different parts of the city.
Soon thereafter, writers started “getting up” in subway stations, tunnels, and cars. When graffiti was placed on the outside of trains, it enabled writers to go “all city.”
This activity, along with the places where graffiti appeared, morphed into freight and passenger trains, which helped disseminate the writers’ work across regions, the country, and in some cases, internationally.
Along the way, other mobile surfaces like box vans and delivery trucks were increasingly hit.
The shift from static walls to means of transportation introduced a crucial idea: mobility could serve as a medium, expanding both the audience and reach of graffiti and street art.
Now, in the contemporary city, dockless bikes and scooters are increasingly becoming sites for graffiti and street art.
Stickers and tags placed on these mobile platforms extend the same logic that animated early train graffiti: visibility through circulation.
This evolving relationship between graffiti/street art and urban mobility reveals how writers and artists continually adapt to changes in society to keep their work in motion and in public view.
That being said, it’s important to acknowledge that not only do surfaces present opportunities, but they also present constraints. In the case of bikes and scooters, the size is small, and because of the construction, certain types of graffiti and street art are better suited. Thus, in many cases, stickers may be the easiest to apply.
So what?
This development matters primarily for its cultural significance, technological relevance, and political communication.
First, mobile graffiti/street art challenges the static, property-based logic of the city. It asserts presence where the writer/artist might otherwise be excluded.
Second, by targeting new mobility systems (e.g., bikes and scooters), graffiti and street art are increasingly part of the digital economy and the so-called “smart city.” It turns corporate tools of efficiency into carriers of unregulated expression.
Third, this mobility transforms both authorship and audience. Finally, by using shared mobility platforms as canvases, artists reclaim space in a city increasingly privatized by technology companies. It is a subtle, yet potent, form of resistance.
The Clearing
/by Jeffrey Ian RossThe drive to the Johnston farm, one of my father’s clients, always felt long, but the visits were mostly fun and always an adventure. The place had the basics: a farmhouse, a barn, a silo, cows, pigs, and at least one dog. When my father consulted with Mr. Johnston and my mother, if she came along, chatted with Mrs. Johnston, my older brother, sister, and I would play in the barn, sometimes with the Johnston boy.
The barn was the best part. To my ten-year-old eyes, it was enormous. On each side of the main floor were haystacks and baled hay. We spent what seemed like hours playing tag in the maze-like tunnels built into the haystacks or swinging from a rope tied to the rafters and letting go into piles of hay. Below the floor were stalls with pigs and cows; they were ridiculously loud and aggressive.
But on one visit, my brother and sister weren’t there. While my parents talked inside the house, the Johnston boy, barely a teenager, asked me if I wanted to join him outside to survey the property. Just before we stepped out, he picked up a rifle, and I thought nothing of it.
After a short walk, we came to a clearing and spotted a small dog sitting upright in the distance. The boy said it had been there for a few days and hadn’t moved. He added that the dog was not theirs and was trespassing. He also said that the animal must probably be lame. His words tumbled out quickly, as if rehearsed.
Then, without pause, he leveled the rifle to his shoulder. The Johnston boy looked down the barrel and aimed. A crack split the air. The dog toppled. Silence. He turned, as if nothing had happened. We left the body where it lay.
It was the first time I had seen a defenseless animal killed so casually. Alone and unsettled, I said nothing, out of shock, maybe fear. Perhaps he wanted to impress me. Maybe it was something darker. I never told my parents, but the brazen suddenness of that act has been an enduring memory for me.
Author’s Note: “Johnston” is a pseudonym
Photo Credit:
Photographer: Stan Shebs
Title: Farm in the Kitchener area of Ontario