Graffiti, Grit, and Giving Back: Sterling Downey’s Life in Layers

I had just settled into one of the few small tables inside Dillinger’s/Johnnie’s Café, a coffee and barber shop integrated into one, situated right on Verdun’s very own Wellington St. I had a large latte between both hands when a text buzzed on my phone. It was Sterling Downey telling me he’d be a few minutes late. Typical for a man who seems to have lived his life as ten different people in ten different timelines at once. Outside, Verdun bustled with early spring energy, banners hinting at the borough’s 150th anniversary swaying in the breeze. Inside, I was waiting for the man who’s not just lived Verdun’s evolution but helped shape it.

Downey has called Verdun his home for nearly 52 years. Over that time, he’s been a graffiti artist, a festival founder, a three-term city councillor, and most recently, an infantry soldier. But whether he’s holding a spray can, a microphone at City Hall, or a military rifle, he’s remained unapologetically himself. “I’ve never left Montreal,” he tells me when he arrives, settling into the seat across from me. “I’ve always stayed true to who I was. Graffiti writer and all.”

The moment feels timely not because of any one event, but because Sterling Downey is in a new chapter of his life. Reflecting on three terms in politics, 30 years in the arts, and, most recently, his decision to join the military at 51. It’s a rare vantage point: looking back on a life spent building community while stepping into yet another role of public service.

One of the first things he talks about is that his journey into politics wasn’t exactly planned. “My arm was twisted to get into it,” he says with a wry smile. “People in politics asked me to run. I said no. Then people in the community asked me… so I ended up doing it and got elected.” He’s now served three terms, never fully shedding the signature beard and outsider attitude that made him instantly recognizable and impossible to ignore. “I was known as the guy with the big white beard in politics.”

Politics, he says, is like chess. “You have to understand the purpose of each piece,” he tells me. “It’s strategic. You don’t get to move fast, you have to think about how every decision plays out.” That slow pace often clashed with Downey’s DIY roots and street culture instincts. “I still criticize stuff we do for the city,” he says. “I don’t think everything’s perfect.”

Before politics, and still after, there was graffiti. “I was a graffiti writer,” he says simply. “There was something romantic about working anonymously in the middle of the night.” Downey describes the early '90s scene as raw and unfiltered. “Graffiti was a subculture when I started, and now it’s hyper-commercialized. Street art didn’t exist back then. There was no such term.”

In 1996, he co-founded Under Pressure, one of North America’s longest-running street art festivals. He was just 22. “It was important for me to stay true to that person, and that image. I didn’t want that to change.” That sense of identity runs through everything he does, from politics to military training. “It’s more than just being able to paint with a spray can,” he says. “It’s a culture.”

That culture, he believes, is being diluted. “In the ’90s, I saw studio art students from Concordia pick up spray paint cans and call themselves graffiti artists. I was like, ‘No, you’re not. You know nothing about the culture.’” Even today, the fight to maintain authenticity remains central to his outlook. “It’s funny,” he says, “I still haven’t been officially recognized for my 30 years in the arts. That’s probably because of how commercialized it’s all become.”

But despite the lack of formal accolades, Downey was awarded the King Charles III Medal, an ironic twist for a self-described delinquent. “It’s a funny little thing,” he says. “For the high school kid who was supposed to go to prison for the rest of his life, to end up getting that?”

Downey’s reach stretches across generations. JB, the owner of Dillinger’s Café where we met, is part of that ripple effect. “He grew up knowing me as a graffiti writer,” Downey says. “Now he owns a business here. I don’t own a shop, but I get to watch it and play a part in it.”

JB Riel remembers Downey from long before the city council days. “He was that larger-than-life figure in Verdun. Literally and figuratively,” he says with a laugh. “When I was a kid, everyone knew who Sterling was. He was loud, creative, always doing something. And the thing is, he never left. He stuck around, kept fighting for this place.” For JB, Downey’s presence helped shape his own sense of community and possibility. “I opened my business here partly because I saw people like him doing things that mattered. He made it feel like Verdun could be something more, and that we could be part of that.”

Another layer of Downey’s story is his openness about personal growth and vulnerability. “I had taken on the responsibility of becoming a spokesperson for graffiti because I had a big mouth,” he admits. “I wanted attention. I’m not shy to say I needed that attention because of my insecurities, but I learned to use it in a positive way.”

At 51, while most of his peers are thinking about slowing down, Downey did something few would expect: he completed basic training to become an infantry soldier. “Most people do it at 18 or 20. Hell, most people are retiring from the Armed Forces at my age, but I’m just getting into it.” Even in new environments, Downey brings his layered perspective. He sees parallels between graffiti, politics, and the military. Each has its own structure, code, and community. Each demands respect, discipline, and a thick skin.

He’s also watching closely as AI makes waves in the creative world. “I think AI is interesting,” he says. “But as an arts community, we have to find a way to grasp control of it, just like any tool. If the person behind the AI is a creative individual and is using it to push their creativity, that’s more acceptable. But if it’s someone trying to cut corners, that’s when it becomes touchy.”

It’s a reminder that at the heart of Downey’s worldview is intention: why we do things, and not just what we do. And as Verdun celebrates its 150th anniversary, Downey’s story mirrors that of the borough itself: once rough around the edges, long overlooked, now emerging with renewed pride and purpose.

Before we part ways, Downey mentions he’s heading to Concordia University later that day. “A friend of mine is lecturing,” he says, almost offhandedly. “I’m going to go sit in.” It’s a poetic full-circle moment: the former street kid, turned artist, turned politician, turned soldier who has never attended university, walking into a classroom not as a student, but as a quiet observer.

The man who never left Verdun is still learning, still showing up, still watching the city evolve. And in his own unmistakable way, he’s still shaping it.

Photo courtesy of Maxime Beauregard-Martin