Cat and Mouse with a Chilean Graffiti Writer
Written by Abigail Imas
Published on September 3rd, 2026
“This is private property. You cannot spray here.”
Chilean graffiti writer Azul, has just managed to spray a trace of the letters P-L-A-G-A. The wonky lines replace the disintegrating smile of the former Chilean president, Sebastián Piñera, as a snake crawls out of his mouth. It’s an idyllic spot to spray with the sun lighting up their canvas, a privately owned wall.
The words are spoken by a security guard who demands Azul leave. He threatens to call the carabineros (the Chilean police), and Azul puts down the yellow spray can and begins to explain. They are painting to cover up the ugly graffiti underneath, which will be replaced with a fresh mural. The guard is firm, and questions why they are there, especially with the new law.
It had been just three days since Chile’s president, José Antonio Kast, proposed a new law on vandalism and incivilities, el Registro Único de Vándalos e Incivilidades.
It had been just three days since Chile’s president, José Antonio Kast, proposed a new law on vandalism and incivilities, el Registro Único de Vándalos e Incivilidades. The bill, aiming to deter vandalism and improve public safety, proposes new punishments for vandalism (among other incivilities). Vandals would lose access to social benefits, including scholarships, housing subsidies, and public transport discounts.
The guard insists further, forcing Azul to walk away with the bag full of sprays, and paints in the other hand. Azul says, “Sometimes this happens. He is a guard at a university, so he must defend people. I tried to talk to him because sometimes if you tell them you’re doing something pretty with colors, they let you paint. But he didn’t really allow much of a dialogue. At least, on this occasion, he did not call the carabineros.”
Azul appears unfazed by the legal risks. They take us off the main road and into the hills of Playa Ancha, Valparaíso.
Azul appears unfazed by the legal risks. They take us off the main road and into the hills of Playa Ancha, Valparaíso. Looking up at the hills, everything is painted: the buildings, the houses, the fences, the bricks, even the cement. For supporters of the proposed bill, Valparaíso’s graffiti-covered streets have become a symbol of broader concerns about crime, insecurity, and disorder.
Embracing the controversy of graffiti, Azul says, “The State is constantly criminalizing graffiti in the news… They often show graffiti as synonymous with crime, so that becomes ingrained in people… For writers too, they’re trying to make you feel afraid for the sake of being afraid. Fear is a way to control people.” They go on to explain that “my reality doesn’t change that much with the new law.”
Azul was raised in Quilpué, a city near Valparaíso. They were interested in art as a child, but this did not transcend into graffiti.
This changed in 2019 when Azul began working as a concierge during a time of social unrest and uprisings in Chile, known as the estallido social. Azul started collecting cuttings from daily newspapers of the escalating protests and police brutality. Looking back, Azul recalls how this led to their first time spraying. Azul used graffiti to write anti-government messages and pasted posters on the streets calling for a change to the dictatorship-era 1980 constitution, education, housing, and pension reforms.
Searching for a space to paint, we pass some of Azul’s tags. Beneath PLAGA is a number, three years, four years, six years… Each year marks the time since the estallido social. Azul says, “I have a friend who lost his eye; to this day he is blind… the government has not done anything for him, neither psychologically nor financially… just like every year before; there’s no justice for what happened.” Questions on accountability for both the protestors and carabineros have continued to be the subject of public and political debate.
Now, Azul decides on a new off-road location. They were drawn into graffiti because of a political stance but have now found a creative outlet: “It was a way to express a lot of things, and, in 2019, I met a friend called Nicolás. He is one of my biggest influences and we began painting anti-style graffiti as Rayen Todo,” Azul says.
Azul begins to re-trace PLAGA, still committed to anti-style graffiti.
Azul begins to re-trace PLAGA, still committed to anti-style graffiti. The letters follow no traditional rules of graffiti; no hard, straight lines, no 3-D effect, nor interlacing letters. Instead, P-L-A-G-A, followed by T-S-L (Todos seremos libres, We will all be free), wiggles on the wall. They say, “I write PLAGA because it’s something that spreads, much like ideas. It was inspired by the song Ármate by the Chilean band La Lira Libertaria, which says: ‘Volviendo el recuerdo al fuego que como PLAGA se expande Porque ante todo el que mande no seré nunca borrego’ [Turning memory back into flame, which spreads like a plague. For no matter who rules, I will never be a sheep]”.
However, their anti-style meant they were often covered up by other writers. Along Avenida España, a main road passing through the centre of Valparaíso, many of their early tags were covered, sometimes by toy (a term for an inexperienced or unskilled graffiti writer).
Instead, Azul decided to make toy part of their identity. Azul says “I am a Toy, that’s what I am.”
In 2022, Azul formed a crew with other anti-style writers, reclaiming Toy as their name.
In 2022, Azul formed a crew with other anti-style writers, reclaiming Toy as their name. Spotting Toy in Playa Ancha is not difficult. Similarly, in central Valparaíso, Toy appears on walls, high-rise buildings, and subway cars.
“We paint Toy because our way of painting graffiti is super free, and it’s kind of a joke, even though we’re respectful. We are not going around blocking people’s work in the street, that’s not our idea… Toy is an invitation that we can all do it, everyone can grab a spray can and express themselves on the street. It’s not necessary to have a style.”
In broad daylight, still painting, cars drive past. One shouts, “I’m on my way to phone Kast,” chuckling as they continue driving. An elderly couple ask what the letters say, thinking it is going to be a horse or a series of roots. Azul accepts their interpretation, and laughing at the suggestion, they say, “People will look and discover or take their own meaning from the tag.”
Azul identifies as non-binary, which has been expressed in their tag no binaries que cortan y pegan (non-binary people who cut and paste). The tag is a 25-letter deviation from graffiti norms, where tags typically use short words. Since 2020, it has been inspired by the group Las Mujeres que Cortan y Pegan, a group of women creating visibility for women working in collage.
However, the meaning has taken a path of its own. People turned it on its head, creating different interpretations of the phrase and scissor graphic. They began receiving messages from people feeling safe because the tag was in the streets. Azul says, “Someone told me that seeing it had helped them tell their family they identify as non-binary. It created a feeling of protection, and companionship on the street. For people who felt like an outsider, it made them identify with something, as another outsider has passed by here, so you’re not alone.”
Naming a constant search for self and self-satisfaction as the motivator for this tag, Azul says, “I’ve never wanted to appropriate anything or say that I’m representing someone because it’s something personal. However, it has been nice that other people have introduced it or made it their own. Now, I think it’s something collective.”
Their tag has appeared across Chile, Brazil and the United States, taking on a life of its own.
Reaching the end of their mural, the sun is setting.
Azul recalls sneaking out during the night, amid COVID-19 lockdowns, to tag on run-down houses awaiting reconstruction plans.
Azul recalls sneaking out during the night, amid COVID-19 lockdowns, to tag on run-down houses awaiting reconstruction plans. In the past, Azul says, “I’ve spent the night in jail, where I have then had to sign in monthly. They take you in and make you spend the night… I am spraying more in the day now.”
It’s been three days since spraying. Azul posts a story of a van demolishing their graffiti on an abandoned, dilapidated building. At the time, a local saw us taking photos. The resident condemned the graffiti, calling it awful, dirty, and ugly. Azul quietly accepted, mentioning that there have always been those who reject graffiti; in that sense, nothing is new. “I think graffiti is kind of hard to understand, so people maybe don’t sympathize with it that much,” they say.
Azul did not express guilt. But, watching them take down the tag, they said, “It was poetic. I liked seeing how the days went by, how they were gradually tearing it down. It was something that’s been there for so long and that you’re attached to because you painted it there, and then you walk your dog by and it’s part of your daily life, but in the end, nothing guarantees that it’ll always be there.”
Azul has since painted PEST on top.
Abigail Imas, currently based in Chile, is working as an English assistant. Alongside teaching, she has written articles for OneTrackMind, Fernwayer, and prior to living in Chile, KentLive.