There’s something deliciously maddening about the fact that we still don’t know who Banksy is. In a world obsessed with oversharing and tagging, he stays untagged—literally and metaphorically. The mystery around his identity is part of the experience. It forces you to focus on the art itself. The message. The impact. No flashy bio, no press tours, no curated selfies. Just walls, stencils, and statements that hit like a punch in the gut—or a smirk in the middle of your commute.

And yet… I can’t help but wonder. Is he brunette or blond? Does he have green eyes? Is his name John or Paul? Does he go to the supermarket and feel smug when he skips plastic bags? These tiny, everyday thoughts sneak in. The curiosity is human. The idiosyncrasies, oddly comforting. Imagining Banksy doing totally normal things—burning toast, forgetting his keys, nodding at the barista who knows his order—is weirdly satisfying.

But then again, maybe not knowing is the point. Maybe that’s what keeps the focus right where it should be: on the wall, not the man behind it.