As I walk the sloping streets I see the words sprayed in black across a wall, "We are Woodstock". Murals rise from cracked plaster and corrugated iron, a gallery without ceilings, where colour bends and sprawls across the old industrial bones of the suburb. Faces stare out from brick facades; birds in flight unfurl their wings along alleyways; words and symbols layer themselves into secret codes only the attentive can unravel. What was once the grit of factories and warehouses has become a canvas for memory and imagination, a testament to resilience and reinvention. The art here doesn’t just decorate—it tells of displacements and homecomings, of voices long ignored now shouted in pigment and spray. Generations of artists have left their mark, making Woodstock not only a place to live or work, but a living archive of creativity. Each mural is both fleeting and eternal, a legacy painted in broad strokes, renewed with every new hand that dares to climb the scaffolding and join the conversation.
