VISITING FOLD GALLERY

Seeing Her Working At The Fold Gallery In Los Angeles


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Seeing Her Working At The Fold Gallery In Los Angeles

The Gallerist

When selling, you smile bright
Retorting true polite
Posh styling hews so right!
All twining you too tight
Gallery jails firmly
Your gloomy wails stir me
Artistry hails to free
Below the fold to see.

Below, you fester dreams
The Fold bars seller screams,
I wish these flawless scenes!
To know your august schemes
The you who’s choosing
Haunting, luring, musing
My thoughts, for pursuing
So true is this yearning.

Below the fold we go.

When selling, you smile bright; below, you fester dreams,
Retorting true polite: The Fold bars seller screams,
Posh styling hews so right; I wish these flawless scenes!
All twining you too tight to know your august schemes

Gallery jails firmly the you who’s choosing
Your gloomy wails stir me: haunting, luring, musing
Artistry hails to free my thoughts, for pursuing
Below the fold to see, so true is this yearning.

Further below the fold.

When selling, you smile bright; below , you fester dreams,
Retorting true polite: The Fold bars seller screams,
Posh styling hews so right; I wish these flawless scenes!
All twining you too tight to know your august schemes

Gallery jails firmly the you who’s choosing
Your gloomy wails stir me: haunting ,luring musing
Artistry hails to free my thoughts , for pursuing
Below the fold to see, so true is this yearning

Below the fold I wish to know the you haunting my thoughts so true.

Gallerist

I once wrote, "Artists are the most arrogant and self-filled people to ever grace us with their presence." Though written long ago, I would not retract that statement because the description portrays the artist honestly, not negatively. In fact, I would expand my definition to include "disturbed" since to be an artist means seeing the world in a unique yet abnormal way. We see this peculiar vision sometimes in their works, but simple logic defines its necessity: if artists saw the world the same as everyone else, art would only be mimetic.

As a writer, I sometimes wear the artist moniker but secretly reject this characterization. Sure, authors share the quality of creation with painters, sculptors, musicians, and other artists, but their act of invention manifests with radical differences.

The Fold Gallery

Beneath soft light’s glow where acrylics speak the language that we all know.

The way poems or prose articulate worlds, the painter opens a portal to peer into these realms. Similarly, musicians amplify those places constructed of emotions with their lyrics, voice, and instruments. Art is tangible and does not rely on the viewer to immerse themselves; rather, these arts immerse them. The only thing tangible about literature is the paper and binding.

Still, authorship and other arts share a purpose of creation, and achieving this feat takes that bizarre perspective and an arrogance unfathomable to believe the worthiness of their warped view's birth. Good art is born of flesh, independence, conflict, disturbed, critical, and beautiful. That disturbed, altered state of perception reveals as a fearless honesty where the result is vastly more important than the means to that end. I think most artists 'get it' when I say,

I will know the truth and will lie to discover its meaning.

The Fold Gallery Hallway

Under sculptures flow the prophetic speech to languish or boldly grow.

The Fold Gallery Hallway

Beyond the strange machines dispensing gifts-artistic for finer dreams.

Contradiction and fabrication are the artist's tools as much as the brush, camera lens, piano, etc. Armed with these accouterments and mediums, the artist becomes the provocateur of truth, obsessively mining, sometimes annoyingly, the wisdom of the surrounding world. Whereas a nonartist might wonder when or how they will fall in love, the artist captures, defines, and expresses the meaning of that love, often at the sacrifice of affection. Like the philosopher finding a maxim at the end of rational inquiry, the artist arrives at her axiom via snapshot, sketch, song, and many other avant-garde syllogisms. Yet the artist also becomes a self-perpetuating enigma, understandable but never known.

Like the images and content below the fold, we never truly know the artist.

I fell in love with a fine arts major attending the Ringling College of Art and Design. Before learning of her education pursuit, I knew she was an artist. She captured my fascination from behind the counter, where she toiled mere feet from my department in the grocery store where we worked. Her motion behind the counter layered with style and grace as if she were a work of art. My curiosity blended with my writing, which, at the time, likened to literary, broken-line psychotherapy more than poetry.

The Girl in the Bakery

The Cowards Song

1.
I left like a speeding arrow
To live the straight and narrow
Got a job in a supermarket
Felt I was on target
Now I’m punching the clock and counting the day
Until I get my hard-earned pay.


2.
Who’s that girl standing there?
Who’s that girl who caught my stare?
My eyes have never been more blessed
By this girl who seems above the rest
Could this be the one to test
My moral mettle, my soul’s best?
Who’s that girl standing there?
Who’s that girl who caught my stare?

The Girl in the Bakery I.

1.
When I’m working
I’m mostly listening
Your voice is like a symphony
Chopin
Bach
Beethoven
They’re all a fluent Dali
Melting in time away
But you’re a one-tongue orchestra
In my dreams, forever plays.

One of our first conversations whirled in topics, and amidst her conversing repertoire, so naturally, she posed the question, "What do you think of porn?"

"If it's art, it is certainly overdone," I answered.

With anyone else, I might have assumed the question a test, seeking a correct response to a values quiz, but as natural as she asked, I answered, knowing she worked her craft, seeking truth’s visionary fuel. Similarly, I presented her poetry on our third or second date, and after reading my masterpiece, Blackheart: Love is a Whore, she moved in with me.

During our time, I saw below the fold, on many occasions, like watching her from our apartment's living room window as she used a spatula to scrape a dead squirrel from the parking lot, which she promptly transferred to the pavement and sketched. Another time, I awoke from an afternoon nap on one of those rare days off work. (Truly, we starved as artist and writer.) I discovered her sitting on the bed staring, just before pulling my boxers down to work her charcoal sketch.

She was sharp, sweet, sexual, vain, and volatile. Moodiness and rationality shared the same space, which I did not understand as the byproduct of artistry. Love for her largely fixed on this persona yet escaped understanding, no matter how often I peered below the fold. I am certain she was similarly perplexed over my dark, brooding, arrogant writer pretense. Immaturity, lack of experience, financial struggles, and a few mental health issues inspired our marriage and divorce.

Such stories are so common amongst artists and writers that it is trite to speak of them. Yet, a truth rises from the mind that views all things as art’s subject, even love, hate, or insanity. I wholeheartedly believed writing heart-drenched, rage-filled lines with her as the poetic object manifested love, not just bad poetry. I am sure, as a model for her art, she blindly loved the same. Though hackneyed, the story clarifies the inability to make the artist into art and the unwavering desire to do so.

the fold

Beneath ranged pieces, our dreams escape to ecstatic and kinder scenes.

the Fold

In arranged faces, lore told diverse, emphatic – powers sayers bold.

I am drawn to finding her below the fold because we understand each other, even if we do not comprehend ourselves. It is a familiarity beyond shared purpose: a longing for the truest, impossible affection. We are compelled by the promise of her insights for better or worse, with lies and deception, and only at the cost of sanity or insanity. We desire the authenticity only art can conjure, and that is the most necessary, powerful love that cannot be sustained. No matter the passion offered, she remains unbound, ever divining wisdom with her intrinsic, shareable lens, never adorned by another: the way two cannot share the same pair of glasses.

fold gallery

Amidst rare voices, you're spoke in verses too perfect below The Fold.

She calls to me: a siren singing, promising her magic and the inevitable doom.

There, from below the fold.

1 / 13

In underverse’s myth and dreams
The thunder source of guitar screams
(Place sundered from astral silk screens!)
Of heroicness lashed with fiends
Discerning verse, I focus dreams
My tongue works liar’s locus keen
Art adjudges this world, so it seems!
I am this Goddess: Lord of means!
Am I too terse, proud, or just mean?
Creating imparts me this lean
Will smiling bring forgiveness’ scene?
You clutching my fingers pristine
See pacing hinders not your queen!
Me racing, then spins figurine
Here, curling toes bends tangerines
Smiling below stars carved serene

2 / 13

In
The
Place
Of
Discerning
My
Art
I
Am
Creating
Will
You
See
Me
Here
Smiling

3 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see past the cloudy brush stroke
See restless thieves: proudly, plush joke
The listless scenes: loudly unwoke
Buyers grandiosely baroque
Hearing past libretti star spokes
The voice relentlessly provokes
Gleeful beam distracting mistook
Seller concern for me invokes
Hyping so tritely ego’s roke
How pieces preen brassy guy’s cloak
Art forces these surly thoughts broke
Screams contrarily, “Love is woke!
Their purchase cures haughty folk.”
Polishing imagery emotes,
You’re just lost in ghostly pen strokes
A faceless dream, another bloke
Keen writer blears quickly to smoke
Schemer words seem to me bespoke
Grifting with miens sundry they hoke
Orbiting words round me: I look!
Gravitating blindly: I look!
Us aimless; knowingly I look!
Drifting futilely to convoke
To be in artistry partook
Our love's tragedy is forespoke
Joining art fails when so betook

4 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I
See
The
Buyers
Hearing
The
Gleeful
Seller
Hyping
How
Art
Screams
Their
Polishing
You’re
A
Keen
Schemer
Grifting
Orbiting
Gravitating
Us
Drifting
To
Our
Joining

5 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below stained glass sky in motion
The low panes pass life’s erosion
Fold opens fast in strife’s corrosion
You know that lie is corruption
I contain relief’s creation
See projection’s vice perfection
Ethereally, my mission
Finely feigned lies: my injection
Legerdemain’s sly construction
Fantasy plies affirmation
Of those lame asses’ convictions
Profane reigns art in deception
Reality finds correction!
Waking pain cracks their delusion!
Verses splayed wracks with exhaustion
Rise! Know art gives resurrection!
Fully changed by my direction
To souls my craft brings reflection
Sing truths beneath imperfection
For hearts seek art's true affection
Transfiguring lacks detection


6 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below
The
Fold
You
I
See
Ethereally
Finely
Legerdemain’s
Fantasy
Of
Profane
Reality
Waking
Verses
Rise
Fully
To
Sing
For
Transfiguring

7 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below the fold, you I see
Ethereally, finely
Legerdemain’s fantasy
Of profane reality
Waking verses rise fully
To sing for transfiguring

Here, I am the vapor and bone
I’m a fine, soft paper and stone
With me, designer is renowned
You see in me painter profound
Eternal sculptor who astounds
Ears of the singer gold disc bound
Fine-tuned musician fusing sounds
With lithe dancer who floating round
Eyes all others with soul unbound
Servile above, but here I’m crowned
Fierce passion in every work found
Lines of love and fear that astound
Sewn into hearts, the threads beat loud
In souls, art's power is shown proud
Skies of canvas: color tone pounds
Purfled with dreamer scores unknown
Oh, my writer, we’re all alone!
Art’s the power: poetry’s bones
Age eternal, not overthrown
Is internal: lot never known
So deep-sculpted in the flesh's stone
Vernal suited these minds are sown
Lo, in art, true beauty is shown
Art’s reward chooses not this throne
Wage of love, pays another loan
Pays in joy: hear me, brother, moan!
Infernal fights of lovers known
Delusion’s charm in art is grown
Way of art’s disarming is known
Is facet shimmering this stone?
Carnal core peering out alone


8 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below the fold, you I see
Ethereally, finely
Legerdemain’s fantasy
Of profane reality
Waking verses rise fully
To sing for transfiguring

Here
I’m
With
You
Eternal
Ears
Fine-tuned
With
Eyes
Servile
Fierce
Lines
Sewn
In
Skies
Purfled
Oh
Art’s
Age
Is
So
Vernal
Lo
Art’s
Wage
Pays
Infernal
Delusion’s
Way
Is
Carnal


9 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below the fold, you I see
Ethereally, finely
Legerdemain’s fantasy
Of profane reality
Waking verses rise fully
To sing for transfiguring

Here, I’m with you eternal
Ears fine-tuned with eyes servile
Fierce lines sewn in skies purfled
Oh, art’s age is so vernal!
Lo, art’s wage pays infernal!
Delusion’s way is carnal

Never to live loves I render
Parting you is curse's splendor
Fold’s just due pays this creator
Ether blew, spins round this flower
On to new stars rich with power
This kingdom is both mine and yours
Larking between dreams we so soar
Souls environed in artist lore
Tether taut; there’s no escaping!
Where we are forever making
We, the two, together waiting
Create true scenes of our fating
Forever souls separating.



10 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below the fold, you I see
Ethereally, finely
Legerdemain’s fantasy
Of profane reality
Waking verses rise fully
To sing for transfiguring

Here, I’m with you eternal
Ears fine-tuned with eyes servile
Fierce lines sewn in skies purfled
Oh, art’s age is so vernal!
Lo, art’s wage pays infernal!
Delusion’s way is carnal

Never
Parting
Fold’s
Ether
On
This
Larking
Souls
Tether
Where
We
Create
Forever



11 / 13

In the place of discerning
My art I am creating
Will you see me here smiling?

I see the buyers hearing
The gleeful seller hyping,
How art screams their polishing
(You’re a keen schemer grifting!)
Orbiting, gravitating,
Us drifting to our joining

Below the fold, you I see
Ethereally, finely
Legerdemain’s fantasy
Of profane reality
Waking verses rise fully
To sing for transfiguring

Here, I’m with you eternal
Ears fine-tuned with eyes servile
Fierce lines sewn in skies purfled
Oh, art’s age is so vernal!
Lo, art’s wage pays infernal!
Delusion’s way is carnal

Never parting fold’s ether
On this larking, souls tether
Where we create forever.




12 / 13

I
M

W
I
T
H

Y
O
U

B
E
L
O
W

T
H
E

F
O
L
D

N
O
W




13 / 13

I'm with you below the fold – now.





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Note: Feminine voice in italics.
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