Guerilla Artist

“Fortuna,” a painting by the artist Calamus, appeared in early January at Carmel’s Devendorf Park restrooms. It’s the second “surprise painting” the artist has left out locally. Although he makes art for the public, he declines to make himself fully public.

The woman dressed in blue, with long flowing hair, an artist’s palette in one hand and a brush in the other, suddenly appeared in the Serra Shrine niche in Carmel Woods last August – a mysterious goddess on canvas that no one seemed to know about or who the artist was. The 4-by-6-foot painting was an unauthorized addition to the empty niche, where a Jo Mora statue of Father Junipero Serra once stood.

The Serra statue was removed from the 103-year-old shrine in 2020 for safe keeping, after depictions of the priest elsewhere in the state were being vandalized, amid other symbols of racism and colonialism across the country facing similar fates. When “Delinea” appeared in the niche, it was a surprise to members of the Carmel Woods Neighborhood Association, who are responsible for its care. After several days, the painting was removed.

The mystery behind the painting is now solved, but the mystery surrounding the artist continues. Delinea was created by a local artist calling himself Calamus The Mighty on Instagram. The Weekly messaged Calamus and an email-only conversation began. The artist refuses to pull back the curtain on exactly who he is. After Calamus left another “surprise painting” depicting a woman named Fortuna at the Devendorf Park restrooms in Carmel in early January, only to have it removed, he agreed to an interview over email.

“I feel an irresistible calling to put paintings in certain spaces, usually empty spots where it looks like artwork belongs or is missing,” says Calamus, a Carmel native from a family of creatives who learned painting from his grandmother and went on to become a professional illustrator.

“Since I started making art for public spaces, I have been noticing more environmental details wherever I go. It grounds me,” he says.

In his job, he says he constantly thinks about whether people will like his art enough so he can advance in his career.

“Most of the time, it has to seem like it will ‘sell,’” he says.

Calamus started asking himself what would happen if he painted something, “and selling was out of the equation? If I could paint exactly whatever I felt like?” The series of mystery paintings of women began, dubbed “The Art Protectors.”

Besides Delinea and Fortuna in Carmel, Calamus has created Miranda, Quill and Laurel, left in public spaces in New Jersey. Quill and Laurel were slim, tall paintings created to stand on either side of a neo-gothic stone arch – he says he is inspired by gothic architecture, like that found in cathedrals. Miranda was left in a spot down the street. All have been removed.

“The first time my paintings went missing, it hit me a lot harder than I thought it would. My heart sank,” Calamus says. “But that’s part of this process: making art knowing it will be lost. It’s freeing, in a way. I like the idea that the paintings might be hidden safely somewhere, waiting to pop up years later.”

He’s currently working on a painting for a bridge in Pennsylvania.

Calamus references Banksy on his Instagram account, a street artist famous for his satirical, distinctive stenciled graffiti whose identity remains unconfirmed. The reference came after someone referred to Calamus as “Banksy-by-the-Sea,” in a nod to Carmel. “I wasn’t thinking about Banksy at all when I placed my first unauthorized painting, but ever since that name came up I’ve been studying his work more closely,” he says, adding that his own work is not graffiti “and leaves without a trace.”

In his social media posts, Calamus references his “shadow self,” the one he kept hidden until he began creating his surprise paintings. “I used to think I needed to hide my shadow self but the truth is it is giving me life,” he said.

Yet by remaining anonymous, isn’t he still hiding?

“I haven’t thought about it like that before, but you’re right. I am still hiding, or at least masking my personal identity. But in the past I was not showing my ‘shadow art’ to anyone; it was completely hidden. Its significance was a mystery, even to myself,” he says. “Gradually, its current form revealed itself to me and to others, and that was a great feeling. I guess I want these shadow-muses to be visible, while I hide behind them – sometimes literally.”

(1) comment

Rosemarie Barnard

It is really sad that your presuppositions got in the way of your reporting. I had to read the article twice. The sentence you quote reveals far more about the author’s personal ideological bias than it does about Father Junípero Serra himself. To casually place Serra among “symbols of racism and colonialism” is not historical analysis; it is racial and cultural stereotyping masquerading as moral certainty.

Father Junípero Serra was not a member of a ‘dominant Anglo ruling class’, nor a product of American racial ideology. He was a poor, physically disabled Franciscan friar born on the island of Mallorca, Spain, who left academic prestige behind to serve indigenous populations thousands of miles from home. To retroactively impose modern American racial frameworks onto an 18th-century Spanish priest is itself a form of historical bigotry, judging a man not by his actions or intentions, but by a caricature assigned to his ethnicity and era.

If Serra were motivated by racial contempt, why did he devote his life to living among Native Americans, learning their languages, defending them from abuse by colonial soldiers, and insisting they be treated as human beings with souls and dignity? Why did he repeatedly confront Spanish authorities on behalf of indigenous people, often at great personal cost? Racists do not endure hardship, illness, and isolation to protect the very people they are alleged to despise.

The irony is unavoidable: the author condemns Serra through a racialized lens, reducing him to a “symbol” rather than acknowledging him as a complex human being shaped by faith, sacrifice, and service. That reduction, judging someone solely by ethnicity, origin, or association rather than individual conduct, is the very definition of prejudice and racism.

Erasing Serra from public memory does not advance justice; it replaces history with ideology. And it reveals that the true intolerance on display is not Serra’s, but that of modern commentators who feel entitled to condemn an entire person, and culture, without intellectual honesty or historical humility.

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