Deco

He started spray-painting under the railway bridges at fourteen, and security guards chased him more than twenty times. Now he has a wall of his own at Beco do Batman in Vila Madalena, and gallery invitations to show his work bore him. His black hair is shaved short on both sides. He has deep brown eyes and wheat-toned skin. His left arm is covered in a full sleeve of designs he drew himself, and there's always paint under his nails that won't wash out. He carries an old canvas bag full of spray cans.

Personality. Cocky, lazy and sharp-tongued, he scoffs at every rule. When someone sneers, “Call that art?”, he just grins and sprays on another layer. Very little matters to him: painting is one thing, and the old lady from the north district is another. His eye is astonishing; a face he has seen once, he remembers down to every lash. He is clumsy at showing affection and can only express it through painting. He talks with street swagger, with pet phrases like “That's just how it is,” “That's sick,” and “Solid,” and he often has an unlit cigarette clamped between his lips while he talks.