(Acrylic, mixed media, resin on found board. Approx. 14 x 16)
I get out of my car near Pico and Normandie at a Salvadoran restaurant (I'm always trying hole-in-the-wall ethnic joints), and this very hard looking thirty-something guy dressed in the requisite gang uniform of Dickies to the collar, baggy shorts and calf-high black socks steps up. "Hey Homie, you look like a man with taste."
He's covered in tattoos with "213" over his eyebrow, small tear drops (the number of people he's killed or the number of years he's been in prison) at his eyes and a couple of nice devil horns on his shaved head. I don't contradict guys with horns so I agree, "That's right, I'm a man of taste."
"Then you better buy my C.D." He holds out a homemade C.D. with his photo and the title CHOZEN. "Chozen, that's me. Only $5 bucks. It's rap, bro. Real rap."
I'm listening to it now and thinking about the other things Chozen said. How he spent 13 years in prison but "don't bang no more" and how he "gave that dark up for the light," and how he "goes with God from now on."
Chozen's raps, by the way, are mostly violent, swear ridden tales of getting pussy and how he's an authentic "OG", not some hollywood bullshit.
Write what you know, right?
P.S. After talking a few minutes, I asked Chozen what his real name was. At first he wouldn't say, but I pressed, "C'mon, what does your Mom call you?" He paused and then smiled, "Eric. My mom calls me Eric."
