It’s one thing to walk through Rome or Barcelona and marvel at the centuries-old stonework and statues. It’s quite another to turn a corner and find a wild burst of colour or a spray-painted secret shouting from a battered wall. Those stick with me—the art that never asks permission and never waits for applause.

I’ve always noticed street art, even before it was cool or easy to capture. When I was younger—let’s be honest, back before smartphones—I’d sometimes pull out a battered old film camera (or, later, a chunky point-and-shoot digital), snap a shot of a mural or a tag, and hope the picture actually turned out. Most of the time, those photos ended up as blurry mysteries, living in a shoebox with concert stubs and postcards. The fascination was always there, but I never really stopped long enough to study what was right in front of me.

That’s changed with age. On my recent travels—wandering the backstreets of Milan, Rome, Barcelona, Valencia, and the sun-soaked alleys of Sitges—I found myself slowing down, really taking in what was on the walls. Some of it is pure art, some is politics, some just raw, messy expression. But all of it feels honest—like a city confessing its secrets, one layer of paint at a time.

What grabs me now is how immediate and unfiltered street art is. There’s no client, no committee, no gatekeeper—just a need to make a mark and maybe, for a brief moment, be seen or heard. In Barcelona, I stumbled on a massive paste-up of a face half-covered by red tape, just around the corner from a bakery. In Valencia, there was a tiny stencil of a cartoonish heart, perched so low on a doorframe I almost missed it. Sitges, meanwhile, surprises you with bursts of colour against old stone, the sea breeze carrying away any trace of self-importance.

When you’re in the art and design world long enough, you notice how much of what we create is shaped by someone else’s idea of “good.” Deadlines, deliverables, and a parade of polite critiques—there’s a part of me that’s always chasing approval, even when I pretend not to care. Street art doesn’t have time for that. It’s urgent, sometimes reckless, always alive. It’s a reminder that sometimes the best creativity is the kind that risks being erased or painted over tomorrow.

The more I stop and look, the more I see street art as a kind of urban heartbeat. In Rome, I spotted layers of posters and tags, old protests half-covered by new declarations, all jostling for space. In Milan, the graffiti hides in plain sight, tucked between high fashion and morning commuters, slyly reminding you that the city is more than its glossy surface. Barcelona’s walls sing with playful absurdity and political edge, while Valencia’s art pops up like weeds—resilient, sometimes beautiful, always impossible to ignore.

Now, I make a point of pausing for the unexpected. I don’t just walk by—I look up, look down, sometimes crouch awkwardly in a narrow alley for the perfect angle, and take in the honest, unvarnished stories cities are telling. I wonder who painted them, who risked the glare of a shopkeeper or the fines of a bylaw officer, just to leave something behind. I wonder how long their work will last, and if it matters.

Maybe that’s the biggest lesson street art gives to those of us still searching for our own style: not everything that matters lasts forever. Sometimes the most meaningful work is fleeting, unpolished, or imperfect. Sometimes the truest creativity happens when you stop trying so hard to make it perfect—and just let it be seen, even for a moment.

So here’s to the artists with spray cans, brushes, and courage. Here’s to the walls that talk back, and to every traveller who pauses long enough to let a piece of street art change their story, even if only for an afternoon.