| CARVIEW |
a world travel photo blog by Jackie Hadel
FABEN is a French street artist / multidisciplinary artist named Benjamin Fabris, who works under the name FABEN.
He comes out of the graffiti + street art scene and also does painting, sculpture/objects, and digital art.
A signature motif you’ll see a lot is his “Mister Love / MLOVE” universe—bold, pop, heart-forward imagery that shows up in murals and collectible-style pieces.
8jan26
This wall at the Embassy of Portugal isn’t just “painted street art.” It’s carved—literally cut into the surface by VHILS (Portuguese artist Alexandre Farto), who’s famous for making portraits by chiseling, drilling, and peeling back layers like an urban archaeologist.
The piece is part of his “Scratching the Surface” series, made here in February 2017 (it reportedly took about five days).
And it fits this neighborhood perfectly—the Creative District energy, the river nearby, the sense that the city’s real stories live in textures, not headlines.
For me, it reads like a reminder: every face has a backstory—every wall does too.
8jan2026
Sometimes I think I’ve spent a lot of my life chasing “meaning” like it’s a destination. Like if I just get to the right city, the right job, the right person, the right version of myself, I’ll finally arrive at this neat little truth: Here. This is it.
And I’m here, in Bangkok, moving through it, feeling existential and tender and strange, like my soul is trying to learn a new language.
Because once you start seeing the remarkable in the seemingly unremarkable, you can’t unsee it.
The streets become paragraphs.
The train platforms become chapters.
The strangers become mirrors.
Every city becomes a kind of moving meditation, even when it’s messy and loud and you’re sweating through your clothes.
And you realize you’re not searching for meaning.
You’re practicing it.
January 2026
4jan25
4jan25
December 2025
One of my favorite scenes in Bangkok is the canal at night—the khlong water moving like dark tea, the air heavy with that warm, urban humidity, the lights shimmering like the city is melting. And then, right there along the edge, you get this long stretch of graffiti—layered, loud, messy in the best way.
There’s a character painted into the wall—comic-book style, sharp-eyed, looking like they’ve been through something. Next to it, there are pieces that feel like they were painted in a hurry and pieces that feel like someone planned them all week. Together it becomes a living archive: different hands, different moods, different eras stacked on top of each other.
That’s what I love most about street art. It’s not precious.
It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t wait for a grant. It doesn’t need a gallery opening or a white wall or a champagne smile. It just shows up—sometimes brilliant, sometimes rough, sometimes half-finished—and then it gets weathered, covered, repainted, erased, resurrected.
Street art teaches you how to let go.
You take the photo because you might never see it again.
29dec25
29dec25
Artist: Otto Schade
December 2025
And then I turn a corner and the city hands me a scene like it’s been saving it just for me.
A wall shouting “BASUKA!” in yellow and pink—the kind of graffiti that isn’t asking permission and isn’t apologizing either.
And right in front of it: a row of guitars. Not behind glass. Not staged for tourists. Just…there.
Then there’s the man.
Straw hat. Light shirt. That posture I’ve seen a thousand times in a thousand countries—the posture of someone who has spent years in public space without needing to announce himself. He’s not performing. He’s just there, present, grounded, watching the street like he knows exactly what the street is capable of giving me. We stayed and talked to him for quite a while and he’s a gentle soul proud of the two squirrels looming in the trees above, that he takes care of…
The whole thing felt like Bangkok doing what Bangkok does best: improvising a composition.
Graffiti isn’t just decoration here—it’s a declaration. And the guitars aren’t props. Even if nobody plays a note, they still change the air. They suggest music the way a closed book suggests an entire world. It’s the promise of sound in a place already packed with noise.
We stood there longer than we meant to.
Because this is why I wander. Not for landmarks. Not for “top ten.” Not for the clean narrative of travel writing where every moment is curated and meaningful on cue. I wander for these accidental collisions—the art and the human and the clutter and the color and the little ache of realizing the world is always doing something interesting, even when you’re not looking.
Bangkok is a city that doesn’t pose for you. It doesn’t slow down to become your backdrop. But once in a while, it gives you a frame anyway:
A wall that wants to sing.
A few tired guitars waiting for the right hands.
A man in a hat, calm as an old song.
And me—passing through, grateful, trying to capture it before the city rearranges itself again.
Because it will. It always does.
24dec25
