CAP is one of the most infamous graffiti bombers of all time. Featured in Tony Silver and Henry Chalfant’s 1983 documentary, Style Wars, which spotlighted New York’s early 80s graffiti and hip‑hop culture. Unlike other writers during the time period, CAP wasn’t focused on elaborate murals, he actively tagged over others’ pieces, carving out a reputation as the movie’s antagonistic figure. He even embraced the role, famously declaring himself a “graffiti bomber, not a graffiti artist” and prioritizing quantity above all else. He is quoted saying “The Object is More”, summarizing his philosophy of graffiti.
CAP was part of an era when graffiti was alive and thriving on the New York City subway system. This was a time when the trains were the ultimate canvas and the whole city was watching. Writers bombed in the lines, dodging the third rail, security guards, and the police in the pursuit of having their names run through every borough. CAP took that idea and pushed it to its most militant extreme. He didn’t care about pretty colors or wild styles. What CAP cared about was domination, covering space, burning names, and making sure his presence couldn’t be ignored. Nobody was exempt. The feeling you got watching CAP was his willingness to engage in wars against entire crews. His tags weren’t meant to be graceful, but they were aggressive. They were acts of warfare, often laid directly over top of “masterpieces” by style kings. By going over respected pieces without hesitation, CAP disrupted the unspoken hierarchy of graffiti, forcing writers to confront a new kind of threat. His approach was less about battling with style, and more about shock and saturation. In that sense, CAP changed the game. Whether people liked it or not, he exposed a core truth about graffiti: it was born from rebellion, not refinement. CAP stripped graffiti back to its essence—getting up, being seen, claiming space. His militant mindset was a direct challenge to the direction graffiti was heading in. While others sought respect through style, CAP sought it through sheer dominance and repetition. And the impact went far beyond New York. The way CAP bombed became a reference point for generations of writers around the world. In Europe, South America, and Asia, countless kids took cues from that footage in Style Wars, mimicking not just the tags but the mentality. They saw CAP not as a villain, but as a soldier. Someone who wasn’t scared to step on toes. Someone who reminded everyone that graffiti wasn’t supposed to be polite. To this day, you can find “CAP” references, direct inspirations and homages sprayed across walls from Paris to São Paulo.era have described him as sharp and in control of the image he was projecting.
It’s no secret that Style Wars had a narrative to push. Every good story needs conflict, and CAP gave them that. But off-camera, he was more complex. He knew the system he was playing in, and he used the camera to his advantage. In many ways, he was the first graffiti writer to fully weaponize media attention, not by polishing his craft, but by doubling down on his reality. Looking back, it’s clear CAP wasn’t just painting trains. He was making a statement. He stood for a type of graffiti that didn’t care about approval—from the public, from other writers, or from critics. He stood for the idea that presence itself was power. That getting up everywhere, no matter how, was its own kind of art. Today, as graffiti becomes increasingly commercialized and co-opted by brands, CAP’s legacy serves as a stark reminder of where it all came from. Before the sponsored murals, before the streetwear collaborations, there were guys like CAP—rolling solo into layups, climbing fences, and hitting trains with a mission while taking on entire crews by himself. He challenged the entire structure of graffiti culture. And in doing so, he cemented himself not only as a legend, but as a myth. You can debate his style, his ethics, or his tactics—but you can’t erase him. Because at the height of the subway era, when graffiti was alive and dangerous, CAP left his mark on the system.
Photographs by Sam McKenna , interview by REBOE LNE
What drew you into graffiti at a young age in the Bronx?
Around 1975–76, I started seeing local writers’ names around the neighborhood. I got to know some of the older teenagers like Shorty 5 from the 5 Corners, Hippie 44, Jake, and John 150. That’s when I started to take a real interest in it. What really hit me was seeing the elevated trains with graffiti on them—especially a red, white, and blue piece by Spirit and Billy 167. It was right around the 1976 Bicentennial, just before July 4th. All the fire hydrants, light posts, and mailboxes were painted red, white, and blue—it was incredible. It really lifted my spirit. I first wrote Sarge 34. My dear friends Elsie from the Bronx Girls and Flash from the Bronx Boys helped get me, a hardcore rocker at the time, into the hip-hop scene. We were hanging out around Unionport Road and Bronx Park East, and I started writing with TBB. From the start, I liked that crew name the best. I started out doing small single hits with a blue El Marko chisel marker, tagging lamp posts, mailboxes, and commercial property. Then I got a Pilot marker and my tags started getting bigger.
Who gave you the name CAP?
I gave it to myself. I was always thinking ahead. I was planning out my Sarge outlines on trains but realized five letters was too long. I figured I could get up more—and faster—with a three-letter name. I thought about it for like two minutes and came up with CAP 1. I always believed that getting up had to be speedy. I started spray-painting tags on the 22-line buses while they were in motion, hanging with my boys Edster and Cal 3 from the Katz Crew. We hung out on Lydig Avenue and Bronx Park East. They introduced me to the small tester cans, so nobody could see a large paint can in our hands. That was a great life experience.
Were you influenced by any writers at that time?
Definitely. Writers like Billy 167 (RIP), Tracy 168 (RIP)—true style masters. Also Smily 149, Ted (RIP), and the Inside Kings like LK. On the outsides, Blade and Comet were kings of throw-ups. Later on, Iz (RIP) from TMB also stood out to me.
There’s a term that defines going over people’s work that comes from your name. What do you think about that these days?
“Cap” means being on top of your game—as I was. People asked me to cap them many, many times. It became a thing. I didn’t invent the term in that sense, but it stuck because of how often I was doing it, and how hard I went.
Do you have any memorable wars from back then?
At first, there were no problems. All the beef started when Case 2 from TFP, Cue from Cool 5, and I think Kool from Cool 5 were at Esplanade on a Saturday night. They were coming out of the tunnel, saw us, and ducked behind a pillar base. Colt from MPC, our prez, laughed and said, “Don’t worry, we won’t vic you.” Then Case jumped out and said, “You don’t worry—we aren’t vicking you.” We all laughed as they went upstairs to the street, and I didn’t think much of it. But the next day, I went back to do some insides and saw MPC throw-ups crossed out with racist remarks over them. Two top-to-bottoms were ragged by Case and others. I went hard after that—I banged their stuff out and kept going as long as the trains lasted.
Did any of those beefs escalate beyond just graffiti?
Hell yeah, a few times. What stands out the most is the time T-Kid snuck me at a gallery on 149th St. It caught me off guard because I was checking out some girls. He brought out the fire in my heart saying he doesn’t like white boys in the ghost yard. I then jumped on him, punching his face and grabbing his head, and he hit the floor and then I went berserk on him, beating him down. I was rocking him hard! We both spilled blood that night, I only stated these facts because T-Kid is telling people in an interview, that he punched me, like he beat me, simply preposterous. That first punch was his last. There were at least 20 people there that night.
*Full interview available only in-print.
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