By Roselyn Fauth
I was in Oamaru, wandering through the Victorian Precinct, looking closely. Admiring the front façades, then I then walked around the back.
It feels different back there. I realised behind the tidy fronts, the buildings show the working lives that they left behind.
I could see repeated scratches where heavy sliding doors once moved back and forth. It doesn’t look like damage, more like evidence... marks left by labour, repetition, over time.
Then I saw something else... a love heart. Two names. Declaring love, scratched into the surface...
It was a bit of a juxtaposition... in a place this carefully preserved and steeped in history, I felt miffed. Why would someone do this?
I kept looking. Hearts. Initials. Names. Across quite a few buildings. Once you saw them, you couldn’t unsee them.
Standing there, it didn’t feel like anger or rebellion. It felt smaller than that. More human. An “I was here” moment. A brief desire to make a feeling last.
There was an imbalance. The act is quick. A few scratches. No permission. No cost. Yet the mark can last far longer than the feeling, and longer still than the people who made it.
We go to such effort to remember people properly. Cemeteries. Headstones. Plaques... Historians piecing together lives and legacies and writing them up. Remembering usually takes work.
And here, it can be done in seconds. For free.
This effect is called vermiculation. It is crafted to make a building look older than it is by carving artificial wear into it. This effect looks like it was eaten by worms. This is "double vermiculation," the word comes from the Latin word for worm. Hence vermin, vermicelli, vermiform appendix. (Thank you Gregor from Darkest Dunedin Tours for teaching me this fun fact!)
I found myself wondering when these marks were made.
Perhaps the precinct was quieter then. Idle. Even abandoned. The bustle of grain and harbourside labour long gone. The backs unseen, unguarded.
I wonder if someone would do the same today.
Surely, not after the thousands of voluntary hours, the fundraising, and the investment that brought this place back to life.
Today, the Victorian Precinct feels iconic. A moment frozen in time, yet very much alive. Where there was once industry, there are now crafters, artists, shops, bars, and cafés.
The front façades are tidy and proud. Carefully restored. Carefully loved.
The backs, rarely ventured to by visitors, are weathered and layered. History is carved by masons, worn by doors, and scratched by individuals wanting to mark their place.
I pulled out my phone and learned from Google, some of the oldest graffiti in the world is thousands of years old.
In Ancient Egypt, visitors carved their names into temples and tombs. Ordinary people passing through. One inscription reads, “I was here with my brother.” It could have been written yesterday.
The Romans left graffiti everywhere. Pompeii is covered in it. Love notes, insults, political slogans, complaints about bad bread. None of it was meant to last. All of it did.
Vikings scratched runes into the Neolithic burial mound at Maeshowe in Orkney. Some boast. Some simply record who was there. Still visible. Still readable.
Graffiti isn’t new. It’s a deeply human impulse. Long before cameras or social media, people wanted to say: I was here. I mattered. Even if it was rebellious.
I suppose the difference is what happens next, as some marks survive long enough to become history. Others erase it.
It feels important to acknowledge the people who pulled this place back from the brink. The Victorian Precinct is cared for by the Oamaru Whitestone Civic Trust, a charitable trust that has spent decades restoring and stewarding these historic mercantile buildings, supported by tenants, craftspeople, volunteers, and civic partners. The life and energy here now did not happen by accident. It was rebuilt with care.
It would be interesting to learn how the Council supports the area. A space that is iconic and a drawcard to pull locals and visitors to town.
I remember going to Oamaru with my dad when I was around 8. This area had not been touched for decades and decades. As the pigeons flew around the rafters making their own graffiti, people discussed the potential for the area. They were the founders of their local civic trust. Now I'm here many years later, exploring the care and rejuvenation.
Examples of graffiti at Oamaru's Historic Precinct - Photos by Roselyn Fauth Jan 2026
Man, they did a good job. It must have been very challenging.
I wonder, when the precinct was being revitalised, did they have to remove a lot of graffiti? Did they ever choose to leave some, as a layer of social history? We know these decisions can be contested. In one documented case, older graffiti on a precinct building was removed after complaints, sparking debate about whether such marks held heritage value.
Legally, scratching or carving into buildings in New Zealand, including heritage buildings, is an offence. Fines, community work, and reparations can apply. Yet standing there, surrounded by so many marks, it’s clear most were never challenged. Or were made at a time when the buildings felt forgotten.
That’s where the difference between the carvers and the scratchers matters.
The carvers were skilled. Masons whose marks speak of labour, function, and care. They weren’t trying to be remembered. They were simply doing their work.
The scratchers were different. Individuals pausing briefly, marking a moment, a feeling, a name. Did they feel entitled or bored?
Time has blurred the line between the two.
Some scratches now feel historical simply because they survived. Others feel intrusive because the place has been so carefully revived.
History hunts teach you this. Once you start looking closely, places stop being neutral. Every surface carries responsibility.
I walked away thinking about those hearts. Not angry. Just wondering what it really means to be remembered.
Maybe the lesson isn’t that the urge to leave a mark is wrong. It’s ancient. Human.
Maybe the lesson is knowing when not to add ourselves to a story that is already doing the remembering for us.
By Roselyn Fauth
