Playing in the yard: The representation of control in train-graffiti videos

Introduction

A growing number of studies of criminal activities point to how offenders document and disseminate records of their crimes, despite the obvious risk of offenders contributing to their own arrest. The widespread availability of smartphones is reported to have created an era of unlimited representations where photos and videos of a variety of behavior are recorded and shared with others (Koskela, 2002). The recording and sharing of images and videos have become a vital part of the presentation of self, in the sense that identities are enacted through representations of who we are and our activities (Stuart, 2020a). Sandberg and Ugelvik (2016: 1023) relate this to an evolving “snapshot culture” in which the immediate impulse is to record the extraordinary. Criminal activities become an example of such extraordinary events, and the availability of smartphones makes it possible to act upon this impulse. Photos or videos of an offender engaging in criminal acts thus become part of identity work, of presenting oneself to others as daring and violent as part of a performance of who one is through what one has done (Stuart, 2020b). The image of the crime exceeds the crime itself at the same time as it documents it. This includes the self-documentation of robberies, beatings, rapes, acts of humiliation, and, in some cases, even murder, that are recorded and shared with peers through messages or social media (Ball, 2012). Criminal offenses may be staged, rehearsed, and repeated whereby dominance, power, and degradation are aestheticized through the documentation of the offense. There is thus a need for investigating the role of the camera and new social media images in a variety of offenses (Young, 2014).

Drawing from extensive ethnographic work on how graffiti writers in Sweden perceive and make use of urban space, in this article, I will point to how videos of graffiti on trains constitute a unique case of such self-documentation of crime and of reciprocal surveillance. These videos involve a compilation of a variety of crimes, carried out by an array of offenders, and are recorded, cut, distributed, and consumed within the subcultural realm. Whereas crimes such as armed robberies (Einstadter, 1969), arson (Uhnoo, 2016), and kidnappings (Ostovar, 2017)—involve a fair amount of planning and organization, the analysis will show that train-graffiti is unique in that it not only includes documenting the preparation, the access, and the monitoring of the monitors, but also incorporates this very documentation in train-graffiti videos. The preparation for the crime is thus included as a substantial part of the representation of the crime. The central questions of this article, therefore, are: how is the relationship between the graffiti writers and surveilling agents such as security guards represented, and what role does the documentation of the preparation for crime play?

By combining theories on “sousveillance” and play, I will argue that the inclusion of the preparations preceding the crime in videos documenting train-graffiti is vital in defining not only the adversary but also the playground, its rules, and what is at stake. Through analyzing the dramaturgical role given to security guards, cameras, alarms, and other forms of measures by the authorities to combat graffiti, the aim is to extend our understanding of sousveillance in several ways: First and foremost, by stressing the symbolic aspects of sousveillance, this article seeks to problematize the traditional understanding of sousveillance as citizen journalism and as an overt form of resistance (see Mallén, 2016) and instead point to how it may also infer a meaning-focused and deeply social matter. Second, in so doing, the discussion will move away from an often-assumed dichotomous relation between the sur- and sousveillers and toward a focus on the reciprocal, rather than conflictual, relationship between antagonist and protagonist. This negotiation of balance has earlier been studied in terms of an equilibrium (Ganascia, 2010) or a dance (Monahan, 2006; Waghorn, 2016). In this article, the coexistence between surveillance and sousveillance will be analyzed through connecting it to the concept of play (Huizinga, 1949). Third, the focus on the reciprocal balance and symbolic use of sousveillance means that the analysis will seek to transcend traditional assumptions about the use and effect of sousveillance by showing how the exposure of those in power in this particular play encompasses only two agents: it is not intended or used to expose the abuse of power by an authority to an external third party. Instead, it is circulated exclusively within the graffiti writers’ channels of subcultural communication, including new media, to represent a sense of individual control and collective cohesion against the security officers. The analysis will thus move away from a more traditional understanding of sousveillance as a countering of asymmetric structures of power and instead show how graffiti writers make use of this as part of the delicate construction and contextualization of subcultural play. This transformation of sousveillance as play is possible because surveillance and counteracts are here addressed through the perspective of those supposedly surveilled (Waghorn, 2016: 105).

Sousveillance and play

Sousveillance was originally seen as an inverse form of surveillance in which citizens monitor the surveillors in order to challenge the surveillance state (Mann et al., 2002). The individuals monitored were thought to be aware of being “watched from below”—filmed or recorded in some other way—and were thought to act as if they were observed by others. Hence, sousveillance was seen as evoking a form of self-control in the individual who was subjected to it (Ganascia, 2010). Today, sousveillance is carried out through everyday items such as mobile phones or digital cameras (Freshwater et al., 2015: 14). However, contemporary sousveillance is not limited to the us-versus-them idea of inverse surveillance as it also includes the recording of an activity by someone who is participating in the activity (Mann and Ferenbok, 2013). It empowers individuals to be producers of observed data and images instead of victims of panoptic or synoptic surveillance (Fernback, 2013). The concept has also been studied as a means of transmitting humor or ridicule (Bayerl and Stoynov, 2016).

All of the above definitions of sousveillance are of interest for this study as they point to the power of a mobilized media that is always on, able to broadcast, and able to access a network of followers which affects broader notions of surveillance and oppression (Mann and Ferenbok, 2013). Echoing Foucault’s (1978: 95) claim that “where there is power, there is resistance,” sousveillance has been described as an empowering form of resistance against control (see Fernback, 2013; Monahan, 2006; Waghorn, 2016). This resistance has also been analyzed as a “move and counter-move dance” (Wilson and Serisier, 2010: 168) where surveilled individuals invent counter-actions to beat the state control system (Waghorn, 2016). The phenomenon is sometimes described as a state of “equiveillance,” where a balance is achieved between surveillant and sousveillant forces (Mann and Ferenbok, 2013)—and where the coexistence of surveillance and sousveillance leads to a “fragile equilibrium” (Ganascia, 2010: 491). Thus, sousveillance does not necessarily counteract surveillance, but co-exists with surveillance within a social system that provides a kind of feedback loop for different forms of looking—thus potentially creating a balancing force (Mann and Ferenbok, 2013).

The allegory of sousveillance as a move-and counter-move dance (Waghorn, 2016) resonates with the notion of social action as play. In his work Homo Ludens, Huizinga (1949) argues that play contains a dynamic of its own, which needs a coherent framework of complementary terms in order to be understood adequately (see Holst, 2017). Huizinga (1949: 10ff) stresses that play is separated from the non-play world through a spatiotemporal arena—a playground—but also through specific rules that defines both what is at stake through play and how tension should be resolved. The spatial demarcation, that is a central aspect of Huizinga’s (1949) theory of play can be traced back to the late work of Durkheim ([1912] 1995). Just as Durkheim ([1912] 1995: 303) argues that the sacred is defined by its break of continuity with the profane, to both Huizinga (1949: 10–11) and later work on play, such as Caillois (1961: 10), the playground is set apart from non-play through the rules of the play, establishing it as a bounded, isolated, and exclusive space. This distinction between play and the outside world has been rightly criticized for assuming an a priori outside reality (see Ehrmann et al., 1968), yet it is possible to retain the main point of Huizinga (1949) and Caillois (1961) while adding that play and non-play are always interrelated and methodologically inseparable. Playgrounds can thus be either materially or ideally demarcated through play (Huizinga, 1949: 10).

The stress on a spatiotemporal demarcation and the rules of play, relates to a third important aspect of play: that of rhythm (Henricks, 2015). Play means moving the body and specific objects, in a particular rule-bounded way, but it also involves an interplay where every move also involves a countermove (Huizinga, 1949: 7). The uncertainty of play, of seeking to end the imposed tension, of succeeding, is internal to play, and defines play, but also depends on the rhythm (Rodriguez, 2006). Both Huzinga and Caillois, mentions the analogy of dance so as to describe this dynamic, collective, and antiethical character of play. Caillois (1961: 47–48) highlights that this antiethical character of tension does not have to be agonistic, but that tension and uncertainty will increase dramatically when players are placed directly against each other. In such plays, both the rhythm and dynamic interplay changes, the more difficult the play is deemed, the more stress on competence, skills, and technique so as to defeat the other. In order words, the rules of play, including the tension and the playground, creates a balancing force between participants, suggesting not only what should be done, but also how (Henricks, 2015: 149). To paraphrase Sicart (2019: 519) play will here thus be used here as a “productive lens” to analyze the symbolic aspects of sousveillance.

Research material and methods

This article draws from a larger ethnographic study where over 200 Swedish graffiti writers were followed while they did graffiti, as well as when they prepared for and discussed doing graffiti (Hannerz, 2017; Hannerz and Kimvall, 2019). One of the central findings of this initial study was a repeated pattern within which graffiti on trains was linked to attempts to control conceived risks and to outsmart the security officers and alarms meant to protect the trains. This patterned relation between the control of a present and physical risk and the necessary preparations for accomplishing this was absent in relation to graffiti done in other places, for example the streets. Thus, a second smaller study was initiated that focused exclusively on the relation between participants, control of risks, and the construction of a capable and physically present guardian. In this second study, I analyzed 15 Swedish train-graffiti videos, released between 2012 and 2017. This time period was chosen due to its importance in the development of graffiti media in relation to the growing participatory and social web. Videos were selected on the basis of a combination of suggestions from graffiti writers and the videos’ popularity online in terms of their numbers of views. Together, they represent the vast majority of Swedish graffiti videos released during this period. A further decision involved limiting the study to videos that were longer than 10 minutes so as to be able to investigate their narrative structure. The videos included in the sample are thus between 15 and 90 minutes long, with the majority being around an hour long. The videos were analytically coded with a particular focus on how capable guardians (including security officers, the police, train personnel, and passers-by) and their resources (including fences, cameras, sensors) were represented. Three additional videos that cover graffiti in other spatial contexts—mainly the streets—were also included as comparative data. In addition to this, two interviews with participants who had been part of these videos were conducted, as well as seven recorded “view-alongs” with participants who actively do graffiti on trains. Similar to other research on subcultural media use (Stuart, 2020b: 196; Leverso and Hsiao, 2021: 246) these view-alongs consisted of watching one or two of the videos included in the sample and discussing these. Corresponding to the coding of the videos, the emphasis in the interviews and “view-alongs” was on the definition of risks and control, and the representations of these through video.

Before turning to the analysis of sousveillance as play in these videos, I will start by describing the self-documentation of graffiti and how it has developed. Thereafter, I will turn to how the playground and the antagonist are defined.

Documenting graffiti

Graffiti writers, along with other subcultural groups, document and record their activities in various ways (Austin, 2001). Similar to bird watchers, they keep lists of how many trains they have painted; similar to skateboarders, they take photos of and film their endeavors; and similar to punks, they create their own subcultural media channels—fanzines and videos—for disseminating these (Hannerz, 2015). Graffiti videos, just as self-documented skateboard videos, are highly repetitive, showing clip after clip of graffiti, with the activities set to - and separated by—a variety of musical tracks as well as a remix of sounds and images from popular culture or news media (Thurnell-Read, 2022). These videos are disseminated through particular subcultural media platforms online or through YouTube and Vimeo, the most popular ones having hundreds of thousands of views.

Previous research on the subcultural documentation of graffiti has primarily focused on its function of capturing the otherwise ephemeral and unique, as most graffiti—especially on trains—is removed within hours (Snyder, 2009). This immediate removal of graffiti was introduced in the New York City subways in the late 1970s as a deterrent against further graffiti—the aim being that graffiti writers would give up when no one would see their work. This has since been introduced in most North American and European subway systems (Kimvall, 2014) and forms what Kramer (2017: 35) has described as a “clean train” era. The introduction of clean trains—as well as the availability of cheaper equipment for documentation—meant that graffiti writers increasingly began documenting their work. Photos became a means to transcend the transient existence of their graffiti and extend its life beyond a few days (Austin, 2001).

But subcultural documentation has also been described as having social and symbolic consequences. Photos and videos become a resource central to interactions between graffiti writers—who did what, how, when, and with what result (Austin, 2001). Yet, at the same time, they also work to create a communal and translocal feeling (Hodkinson, 2002). Graffiti is not just something that happens in your hometown but all over the world. The development of the participatory and social web has furthered the translocal dissemination of graffiti photos and videos, to the point that writers today often experience graffiti first and foremost through social media such as Instagram or YouTube (Hannerz, 2016). In consequence, graffiti on trains revolves around a hyperreality—images and videos of graffiti have come to largely replace the physical and direct encounter of a train in traffic (cf. Ferrell and Weide, 2010: 59).

The role of the documentation of train-graffiti is thus intimately interwoven with the practice. It becomes equivalent to a catch-and-release sport fisher, where the documentation of the catch—before it is released back into the water—is paramount not only to be able to materialize the extraordinary but also to relive it and share it with others. This is also the main difference between how graffiti on trains is documented versus graffiti in the streets. In their important work on how graffiti writers gaze the city, Ferrell and Weide (2010: 50–53) stress that this involves a participatory knowledge that centers, on the one hand, on managing great risks, and, on the other, on becoming visible to the general public (cf Ferrell, 1995: 81). Whereas my research data points to that this is indeed a central aspect for graffiti in the streets, it also strongly points to that graffiti on trains is made sense of through an indirect and controlled visibility: Participants knew that the graffitied train would be taken out of traffic, more so, they knew that when graffitied inside train depots, the train would be cleaned immediately with no one but the cleaners and workers physically experiencing the work, leaving the graffiti writer with just a photo or a video. Still, train graffiti writers often described this as something positive, as it gave them control over visibility, they could decide who would see the end result, at what time, and were thus able to temporary conceal from other writers that they had gained access to a particular train yard and thus be able to return and reap more benefits from that access. As notes Lennon (2016: 28) in reference to hobo graffiti, there is rather a stress on invisibility in that the doing of graffiti is separated both in time and space from how it is noticed by others. This stress on control, not only in relation to risks but also to visibility, develops Ferrell and Weide’s description of a subcultural gaze, by arguing for a plurality where trains are set apart from other places in graffiti, yet in so doing it builds on a similar notion of what Ferrell (1996: 50) has described as a collective yet internal subcultural communication. Accordingly, even though graffiti as a whole is documented, and disseminated online, the point here is that whereas documentation of graffiti in the streets is an extension of a direct and physical visibility, in relation to trains, documentation cannot be separated from the doings. Therefore, it is of interest to investigate how train yards are dramaturgically constructed in these videos, as a bounded, separate and hence, exclusive playground.

Sousveillance, plays a central role in this spatial and symbolic demarcation of trains as set apart, as the viewer is presented with the obstacles of surveillance that surround different trains at different times and in different places. In mapping out how the antagonist and protagonist of this narrative are assigned their roles and rules, I will differentiate between three interconnected yet separate forms of sousveillance: (a) contextualization of risks and control, (b) exposure, and (c) humiliation. The representation of these three forms of sousveillance together work to represent subcultural skill, knowledge, and, ultimately, superiority as well as strengthen the subcultural notion of these places as set apart from the ordinary.

Contextualization of risk and control

The most recurrent form of sousveillance in the videos studied refers to a demarcation of the playground through a contextualization of risk: through the existence of the fences, barbed wire and gates within which the trains are parked and through the presence of the antagonist—either directly in the form of specialized anti-graffiti security officers, or indirectly in the form of alarms, different types of cameras and sensors detecting paint or movements. At the same time, the protagonist of this play is presented through a contextualization of the control of these risks—to participate requires extensive preparation, specific skills and knowledge, and regulated doings, achieved through careful monitoring, hacking surveillance systems, and acquiring keys to the system as well as work uniforms and internal schedules. All of this sets both the playground and the players apart from other playgrounds within graffiti. Hence, not only do preparations and reconnaissance work play a crucial role, they are represented as organized and elaborate to the point that they often override the doing of graffiti.

The differences between how graffiti is documented is rather obvious when comparing the street-graffiti videos included in the sample with the train-graffiti videos that are the main focus of the analysis. Whereas preparations in the street videos (see UZI 2015) are reduced to switching between tools and moving to different spots, the train-graffiti videos focus extensively on preparations and activities only indirectly related to the doing of graffiti. Participants are shown discussing maps, internal service schedules and blueprints of the transit system. The camera follows them as they monitor the monitors, hide in bushes, map out and disable cameras, and avoid sensors and alarms. More so, it records how they, as a consequence of these preparations, are able to open up the doors to the transit system and walk around freely among the trains dressed in high visibility vests and other appropriate work gear. The graffiti video Stockholm Sabotage (SBR 2015), for example, includes a rather extensive scene that captures such a contextualization of risks and the control of these risks. The boundaries of a train depot in Stockholm are presented to the viewer in black-and-white, to the intro music of the 1960s science-fiction series The Invaders, complete with the show’s logo. It presents a place that is seemingly impossible to enter, as it is protected by all kinds of surveillance. The camera zooms in on the depot’s barbed-wire fences, its countless CCTV-cameras, its locked gates, and its signs declaring that this is a restricted area under surveillance. Yet, as the reference to The Invaders suggests, the camera then cuts to inside the depot, with a shift from black-and-white to full color, showing the participants freely walking around, doing graffiti on one of the trains and then leaving.

Sousveillance, as in the detecting, mapping out, and analyzing the means of surveillance so as to ultimately avoid it, is here used to demarcate the playground. This inverse surveillance of monitoring the monitors (Reilly, 2015; Timan and Oudshoorn, 2012) is further presented as a primary task, an articulated threshold so as to be part of a play; skill, knowledge, and control are necessary to even approach the trains. Whilst in this video the security guards are physically absent, their resources are present, and need to be dealt with (see Hollis-Peel et al., 2011). Accordingly, the tension of the play is built and enlarged through an articulated imminent threat of defeat (Caillois, 1961: 7).

This contextualization of risks could be argued to constitute a necessary trope so as to set the stage for the activity that is to come; yet in this collection of train-graffiti videos, the amount of time allotted for such contextualization often exceeds the amount of time showing the actual doing of graffiti. The video Lila (MRD 2014), for instance, starts with the camera following a person slowly walking around a train depot, checking for hidden security personnel, and thoroughly monitoring every part of the place before letting the collaborators in through a door. Together they spray paint the entire side of one of the train cars. The scene of this particular mission, in full, covers little more than 2 minutes, out of which the activity of doing graffiti accounts for about 30 seconds. The majority of time instead shows participants monitoring the depot so as to avoid security. In part, this representation is proportionate to the time invested. Whereas preparations involving monitoring the monitor often take hours, the actual doing of graffiti on trains rarely surpasses 15 minutes. Still, while there is most likely a pragmatic need to extensively check the parameters of a bounded place in advance, there seems little immediate need to film this process, were it not to contextualize the extraordinariness of both the place and the skill and knowledge of the participants. The message to the audience is that these are places where an individual cannot just walk straight in unless they are able to manage the accordant risks. It demarcates not only the activities but also these places as special and potentially dangerous.

Stuart’s (2020a) work on how gang-associated youth use social media to construct authenticity is here worth mentioning. Similar to how the participants he followed documented themselves with guns, cash and a following so as to present themselves as in control of a particular neighborhood, the symbolic representation of sousveillance through the contextualization of risks and the overcoming of these risks, is centered on a dialectic relation between absence and presence. While we are shown the presence of alarms, fences, and security officers in footage taken from the outside, these are absent when graffiti writers have entered the place. This absence works to represent a control of these places to the point of omnipotence: not only are the graffiti writers able to access these places, they do so while escaping the gaze of the surveillor. In this sense, this kind of scene flips the logic of surveillance, as the graffiti writers are able to follow the security officers safely from a distance –while the latter are incapable of detecting both that they are being surveilled and the transgressive movement of the graffiti writer from outside to inside. The spatiotemporal frame of play is thus materialized into a tangible form that can be shared with other participants. As one of the interviewed graffiti writers featured in these videos commented on one of the scenes above:

Yeah but this is the essence of train writing, this is what it’s like, when you’re scoping a spot in Stockholm you will run into the officers, you will see them, and a [film] clip is nice, because it captures that feeling, the excitement of noticing them without them noticing you (View-along 2, January 2018).

This is a repeated theme in interviews and discussions with writers focused on trains: the documentation of guards, cameras, and alarms works to capture that which is otherwise hard to describe—the tedious work of spending hours preparing to gain access. It works to strengthen both what is at stake and the set of rules that define the playground.

Interestingly, despite the representation of omnipotence, this contextualization of risks also includes the failure of control. A number of the graffiti videos analyzed feature scenes where writers are detected and interrupted by security officers and are either apprehended or manage to get away (see Kör Baah! 2014; 4608 2015; FY 2017). Although seemingly contradictory to a representation of control, the inclusion of these failures of control is key to the contextualization of risk: They work to remind the participants of what is at stake in the play and the need for the control of risks through sousveillance. Just as the absence of the security officers defines what is at stake, as well as its rules and roles of play, so does their unsuspected presence. The inclusion of these failures reinstates the security officers as a consequential party in the play, reaffirming the need for skill and ingenuity in the planning and execution of the activity. It thus represents the dual role of the security officers as, on one hand, an active and powerful antagonist, and, on the other hand, an antagonist that needs to be incapacitated through sousveillance and planning so as to succeed in playing.

Subcultural graffiti in general is noteworthy in that the doing of graffiti constitutes a material representation of the individual—it is through the tag or piece that participants mobilize and validate their own and other’s identities and activities through the graffiti (Hannerz, 2017). Furthermore, the documentation of subcultural graffiti on trains constitutes a fusion between the individual, the activity, the context of risks, and the preparations necessary to control those risks. The literature on sousveillance, given its stress on power and resistance, has problems addressing the symbolic aspects of this kind of representation as well as its subcultural significance. Even though Sandberg and Ugelvik (2016) do note shifting trends and motivations for the self-documenting of crime, including the impulse to record the extraordinary, they do not stress the link to classical sociological theory on collective representation. Again, Stuart’s (2020a) work is here of importance in stressing how the self-documentation of criminal activities has an important symbolic aspect. Durkheim’s ([1912] 1995) definition of the totemic principle as the materialization of ephemeral collective feelings and experiences is here worthwhile to keep in mind. Totems, in this sense, work to preserve the “real object of the cult” which otherwise would risk dissipation (Durkheim, [1912] 1995: 191).

Just as the documentation of sexual abuse, the humiliation of others, or the bravado of the protagonist work to materialize feeling of dominance, power, or bravado, the documentation of graffiti on trains preserves and provides a tangible form for the activity as a whole—it materializes the energy that is the “real object” of the subcultural. Indeed, the sousveillance of the subcultural other constitutes the foundation for the activity. The contextualization of both risks and the overcoming of these risks is thus vital, as this establishes both the object and subject of this subcultural play. Zooming in on CCTV-cameras, fences, and security officers walking the parameters invites the audience to share the notion of these places as bounded, just as the documentation of graffiti writers walking freely around within these places extends the success of controlling these risks to the viewer. Accordingly, the inclusion of the sousveillance preceding the doing of graffiti establishes not only the playground and the rules pertaining to it, but also materializes the tension of the play and what is at stake.

Exposing the capable guardian

The second category of representing sousveillance in the train-graffiti videos is exposure. This category describes a notable shift in the role of the camera as well as of the surveilled antagonist. In the videos analyzed, exposure refers to short intermittent scenes where security officers are actively approached and confronted while at work. The camera is then shoved in the officers’ faces, zooming in on their features, showing their cars, number plates, and meeting spots. The graffiti video Wolume 2 (4608, 2015), for example, opens by showing an old television set with a flickering image. When the image settles, it shows a clip from the reality-show Tunnelbanan [The Subway], which follows the work of the security officers in the subway in Stockholm. Alongside these images the narrator from the show can be heard announcing that, “The operators at the center for security monitor the subway through the help of 4500 cameras around the clock. They watch everything that happens, and are in direct contact with security officers, the police and the emergency service center.” The image then flickers, the television set disappears, and the camera briskly approaches a private car parked in the dark. In the car, we see a set of binoculars pointed right into the camera. As the camera is pressed against the window, the binoculars are dropped and we are shown a uniformed security officer staring back into the camera. For a moment, he seems disoriented, then he recognizes the camera and attempts to hide his face with his arm. The tempo of the music increases and the image cuts to a person sitting on top of a barbed wire fence in the subway system and then to three people walking in the tunnels toward the trains.

The juxtaposition of the images described in this scene demonstrates how graffiti writers seek to overturn the roles of surveillance: on one hand the subway—a kind of panopticon complete with an all-seeing anonymous observer—and, on the other hand, there is the presumably surveilled who not only is able to escape the gaze of the surveillers but also projects the camera back at them. This signals a major shift from sousveillance as contextualization where the camera is unobtrusive and substitutes the eye of the beholder, passively following the activities of the participants. In sousveillance as exposure, the camera becomes the active subject, it becomes the means through which the antagonists are confronted and overtly engaged in play. As in the example above, it is through the camera that the otherwise anonymous antagonist is exposed and unmasked.

There are several important aspects of this exposure. First of all, contrary to the sousveillance of security officers’ routines as part of contextualization, these clips exclusively occur outside of the main playground. Whereas contextualization plays with absence/presence through inside/outside, exposure is here direct and largely unrelated to the planned reconnaissance work surrounding train places. Rather, it is presented as spontaneous: that the sudden discovery of the anti-graffiti officers in the train, on the platform, or in a car outside of the station prompts the initiation of play. The ludic character is thus extended beyond the actual playground. Second, in contrast to other forms of sousveillance that may expose authority figures committing a crime (see Singh, 2017), the security officers exposed in these clips are neither involved in any compromising activities nor attempting to conceal their identities as security officers. All of them are dressed in their uniforms; more so, they seem to be patrolling and doing their jobs, making their exposure seemingly shallow and contradictory.

For the graffiti writers, however, this need for exposure is far from shallow, as it relates directly to the rules and roles of the play and the order it imposes. Stuart (2020b) refers to a similar exposure in relation to gang-associated youth he followed. How they would try to catch their opponents off-guard, confront them and humiliate them and document it and post this online as a sign of the weakness of the other. Play, writes Huizinga (1949: 10) “creates order, is order” in the sense that it assigns and categorizes actions and roles and demands that the different players conform to the rules. Caillois (1961): 14–15), argues that the competitive form of play—agôn—relies on an artificial construction of equality. As the outcome of the play is susceptible to differences in strength and skill, disproportionate inequalities between the participants need to be managed and negotiated. In other words, ideal conditions are constructed so as to create a sort of equilibrium that works to provide meaning and value to the skills and endurance of the winning party.

The exposure of the antagonists draws from the creation of an equality of chances, in evening out the potential inequality of the anonymous and all-seeing antagonist. Among the graffiti writers included in the larger study, there were widespread rumors of security officers constantly engaging in foul play, rumors that they operate illegally in plain clothes and, in so doing, monitor and photograph graffiti writers without the knowledge of the latter. Thus, sousveillance in the form of the exposure of the security officers becomes a counter-move so as to hinder the opportunities for them to break the rules of play by, for example, following writers around or infiltrating graffiti gatherings such as gallery shows. Exposure becomes a means of controlling the antagonist from departing from their prescribed role and the rules of play.

The acts of exposure featured in the videos studied here are further represented through exclusively including scenes where the security officers attempt to hide their faces from the camera or move away from the person holding the camera. This gives the impression that the security officers actively do wish to remain unexposed and there is thus ample reason for exposing them. As one of the graffiti writers expressed when asked to comment the inclusion of exposure:

I mean they constantly film us, so it’s only fair that we do the same to them. To burn their cover. And you can see them trying to conceal their faces, I mean why would they, if it wasn’t to stay under cover? (View-along 5, January 2018)

It is important to note that none of the videos analyzed show security guards working under cover, yet the narrative structure here draws from a suggested foul play and thus justifies exposure as a necessary remedy to that which threatens the order and constructed equality of play. Exposing the other party becomes a counter-action against the control system so as to create a balance or a monitoring equilibrium: “equiveillance” (Mann and Ferenbok, 2013). This includes, for example, documenting the marked and unmarked cars and license plates used by the security officers. Exposure in these videos thus works to reproduce the very need for exposure by implying that the security officers indeed have something to hide and that they, if left unsupervised, would engage in foul play, hence their wish to remain unexposed. This parallels a traditional conceptualization of sousveillance as both a revealing and exposing form of counter-surveillance.

The sousveillance of exposure thus draws from a shared collective notion of an unjust asymmetry of power between the graffiti writers and the security officers that Mann and Ferenbok (2013: 25) describe as souveillants “looking back [. . .] uphill.” Still, its main feature is symbolic, as it re-establishes the rules and roles of the play as reciprocal rather than conflictual. This negotiation of balance is obvious in the attempts to level out this asymmetry through the use of exposure in these videos as a justified and vital part of fair play rather than seeking to expose the antagonists to an external third party.

Concluding remarks

Throughout this article I have sought to further the understanding of sousveillance in three ways. First, I have pointed to the centrality of the symbolic aspects of sousveillance as meaning-focused and deeply social. By addressing surveillance through the voices of individuals who are subjected to surveillance, I have argued that the train yard as a surveilled space—including security officers, fences, alarms, and camera surveillance—is used by the graffiti writers to reinforce a foundation for a spatiotemporal frame of play. Hence, rather than pointing to surveillance and sousveillance as limited to attempts to establish control over another party, I have demonstrated that sousveillance is also used to establish subcultural boundaries, identities, and activities. It works to preserve and provide a tangible form to the feelings, energies and preparations that precede the activities as well as their result. Sousveillance thus constructs both risk and the overcoming of risk in establishing both the object and subject of a subcultural play and delimiting the playground and setting the rules pertaining to it (MacDonald, 2001: 112). The role of the security guards and other defined obstacles are assigned certain characteristics so as to enable a particular form of subcultural play. Huizinga (1949: 47) notes that the uncertainty and tension of play is closely related to the antithetical element of the adversary. As the security officers are treated as antagonists with equal rights within a particular playground, they are therefore expected by the graffiti writers to play by the same rules (Huizinga, 1949: 89).

Second, I have demonstrated that the transformation of sousveillance as play is marked by reciprocity rather than an inherent conflict. To argue that graffiti writers resist surveillance would be missing the point that they simultaneously turn this surveillance against their surveillors, thereby establishing what is at stake in the play as well as establishing the rules that set train-graffiti apart from other forms of graffiti. As I noted in relation to exposure, graffiti writers thus seek to create an equality of chances so as to deter the antagonists—the security officers—from departing from play and thus breaking the rules. Accordingly, sousveillance becomes a means to consolidate the social, symbolic, and collective aspects of play by reinforcing both the rules and the roles of play. Similarly, the humiliation and ridiculing of the counterpart, is as I have shown, inherently symbolic: it defines and separates a subcultural “us”—the graffiti writers—from a subcultural “them”—the security officers. Simultaneously, it defines and separates the active, skillful, and knowledgeable security officer from the passive, incompetent, and unsophisticated officers. I further argue that the graffiti writers appear to strive to maintain a certain equilibrium in the surveillance-sousveillance play with the security officers, in the sense that the sousveillance in the videos analyzed never totally impoverishes the surveillance carried out by the security officers. Albeit differently, the three categories of sousveillance presented—contextualization, exposure, and humiliation—construct a leveling out of the power relations between the guards and the graffiti writers. To paraphrase Durkheim ([1912] 1995: 191) together, the different forms of sousveillance presented in these videos work to materialize the energy, emotions, and ideals that are the “real object” of the subcultural.

Third, I have argued that the sousveillance in the videos analyzed here is internal to the play. Contrary to other forms of sousveillance, it is not aimed at exposing the control agents—the security officers—to a third, external party. Rather, the symbolic and collective aspects of reciprocal surveillance are what makes it possible to address the seemingly irrelevant inclusion of the monitoring of the monitors in subcultural media. Whereas the reconnaissance work presented in these videos is necessary so as to gain access to the trains—as is keeping track of the officers’ characteristics, routines, and vehicles—this differs from other forms of sousveillance. The graffiti writers’ videos analyzed here neither display surveillors abusing their power, nor expose the power of surveillance as something negative. Their repetitive form, their lack of explanation, their memefication, and their narrative structure effectively hinder any inclusion of a third party in the antagonistic character of the videos. This is a central difference to for example Stuart’s (2020a) work on how gang-associated use self-documentation of crime as a means to build authenticity. For the young men Stuart has followed this was a means to gain recognition beyond the subcultural group and attract a wider audience as well as material advantages, so as to, at least temporarily, escape marginalization and poverty. Here, I have shown how the self-documentation of crime, and the monitoring of the monitors, is kept within the subcultural. None of those interviewed reported any economic profits for uploading these videos, neither was that an articulated intent. The do-it-yourself aspects of these videos in central in analyzing them, they are filmed by participants, taking turns documenting their graffiti, as such they are produced with, by, and for other graffiti writers. Their narrative rests on a particular set of rules and a spatiotemporal frame that is internal to the play. Indeed, it is this very separation from a defined outside that provides these videos with their meaning. However, interestingly enough, the graffiti writers studied for this paper were certain that the security officers also watched these videos, making it possible for the participants to use these videos to communicate not only their superiority to the officers but also the rules of the play.

In conclusion, by addressing the complexities of sousveillance in graffiti on trains, I argue for a broader definition of sousveillance that includes its symbolic and social aspects. This pays heed to earlier research discussing sousveillance as resistance, dance and equiveillance (Fernback, 2013; Mann and Ferenbok, 2013; Waghorn, 2016). Arguably, the way that sousveillance is represented in the graffiti videos analyzed here has much in common with the representation of sousveillance through memes (Bayerl and Stoynov, 2016): it does not aim to be a documentation that claims authenticity but rather overtly exhibits re-interpreted and re-contextualized images. This redistribution of the original content of the images used for sousveillance thus challenges the traditional perception of sousveillance as citizen journalism (see Mallén, 2016). Consequently, it strengthens the need within cultural criminology for further investigation of the symbolic aspects of sousveillance.