MONGO HUSTLE

As a kid growing up in the suburbs of Melbourne in the 80s, street art was never not in my sightline. Local gangs marketed themselves on fences behind the milk bar, throw-ups appeared in the park down the road and our neighbours’ letterboxes were regularly tagged. The Pakenham line trains we caught into the city were splashed with colour and words we couldn’t decipher, and they took us on a journey past inner city walls scrawled and sprayed with paint.

Good or bad, it existed, and its influence filtered right down to my schoolyard, where kids who’d never heard of hip hop took to canvas backpacks with Crayolas to scribble down the names of popstars and punk bands in a hand drawn style akin to what they’d seen on the streets.

Thousands of miles away in downtown Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, my friend Heesco was a kid growing up in the 80s too, but his streets looked a whole lot different to mine. The walls he saw featured Soviet propaganda murals while statues of Lenin and Russian heroes towered above. At the time, punishment for subversive or anti-authoritarian behaviour could land you in jail or a labour camp and cause huge problems for your family, so there wasn’t really a lot of street art around.

In 1990, Mongolia underwent a democratic revolution. Despite losing the shackles of Soviet rule, the nation suffered through an economic depression, and it was still a bleak place to grow up. “There were times when there was nothing in the stores. People were given coupons for monthly allowances for bare necessities like flour, sugar, rice, and bread, and you had to line up for hours to get them,” says Heesco.

It wasn’t until the late 90s that graffiti started to find its way onto the streets of Ulaanbaatar as Mongolia made the transition to a democracy and market economy. As American hip hop gained popularity, wildstyle burners started appearing on walls along with tags and references to local hip hop artists. It’s only now though, still before McDonalds or Starbucks have managed to sully the landscape with their presence, that Ulaanbaatar’s streets are starting to come alive with paint and real street art.

For Heesco, a graduate of Sydney College of the Arts, it was a move to Melbourne in 2010 that saw him pick up a spray can and some glue and explore new possibilities for his art practice. His background lies in conceptual art as well as comics and illustration, prompting parallels to be drawn between his ease of movement between the so-called high and low arts with the acceptance of ‘vandalism’ as a bona fide art form.

As the work of internationally acclaimed street artists continues to find its way into renowned galleries and expensive private collections, effectively legitimizing formerly illegal works and practices, the distinction between ‘art’ and ‘vandalism’ becomes increasingly blurred. Street art, in all its anti-establishment rule breaking glory, becomes decidedly established as it plays by the rules and sits inside traditional exhibition spaces.

Not so in Mongolia though, and that’s where the chasm between Heesco and his counterparts back home widens. While he defies the law by painting and pasting where he shouldn’t, his street work is an extension of his traditional art practice, and in the right circles, may have more validity than work created on canvas. For Mongolian artists, the street to gallery discourse simply does not exist, and with limited options to show work in general, it’s easy to see why street art is an attractive option for artists seeking an audience.

Mongo Hustle is Heesco’s chance to highlight the work of the guys back home, the local heroes, the artists who are developing the scene in Mongolia, and represent the far reach of this still growing, vibrant and energetic culture.

“To me, getting up despite harsh weather like -30C, with cheap as cans that won’t work properly, nor last, despite corrupt cops that will bash you up, fine you, then lock you up for vandalism, getting up despite all of that, like these guys do,” says Heesco, “that’s true Mongo hustle.”