Can These Street-Art Pranksters Really Rally the Resistance?

The would-be Banksys of the street-art collective Indecline have been doing their damndest to wreak mischief in the Trump era. But in a world of weaponized memes and total media saturation, can they break through?

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On a Monday evening in March, a group of men dressed mostly in black hoodies and skinny black jeans assembled at Daddy Greens pizzeria in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. Three of the guys had flown in from the West Coast, and there were fist bumps and shouts of “Whassup, Dog!” as old friends re-united. A few sported copious tattoos—on their necks, fingers, arms, and even a modest face tattoo here or there. That they had some possibly extra-legal purpose for convening only became evident when conversation turned to the caper they were planning to pull off in a few days’ time. It would require them to be inconspicuous—presentable even—in a fairly posh setting.

“When I wear a collared shirt, I look like I’m in court,” said a member of the documentary team, which would be charged with memorializing the action.

“How about that suit from your wedding?” asked the wispy thirtysomething who was acting as the project’s director.

“Yeah, that was borrowed.”

The men, it turned out, were members of Indecline, a radical street-art collective, which grew out of the skate-punk culture of Southern California nearly 20 years ago and has of late been doing its best to antagonize the Trump administration via various creative actions. Its most successful to date involved the erection of several Internet-baiting naked sculptures of the GOP nominee that popped up in cities across the country in the summer of 2016. This time, they planned to hit the president a little closer to home.

The broad strokes of the latest idea had come together over the previous six months: first, book a room at the Trump International Hotel and Tower at Columbus Circle. Check in with suitcases containing tools, textured wallpaper, a disassembled fake jail cell, and other materials. Work through the night, dressing the room to resemble a correctional facility. Stick a Trump impersonator in the mock cell surrounded by McDonald’s wrappers, and invite the media. Then put everything back the way it was, waltz out with nobody the wiser, and hope people weren’t too busy with Passover and Easter to care. (The group didn’t even consider the Trump International in Washington, D.C., arguably the most appropriate target for such an action in the president’s portfolio. “We’re not really down with snipers on the roof,” the director explained.)

A few key details remained to be worked out: for instance, what was the optimal number of live rats to let loose in the cell? Maybe one for each member of the administration who’d quit or been fired, someone suggested.

“It’s way too many for the space,” the director replied.

“We still doing the little wigs?” asked the guy who was serving as the art director. Rats with Trumpian coiffures would seem to have an obvious appeal, but no.

“We’d have to answer to PETA,” the director replied. “I’ve worked with them, and they’re definitely against using animals for anything except petting.”

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