OCTOBER 2022Celebrating Autumn, Balloons and Cranes at Little Bird !
Featuring Louise Coleman
First Friday Artscrawl, October 7, 5-8pm
1222 Mountain Road NW, Albuquerque 87102
“I am a collector of broken memories, an anthropologist of cultures long gone. I gather articles belonging to others’ pasts. When I add these found objects to my dismantled and unfinished art—to pieces I have filed and left inert—my sleeping paintings wake and are replanted. They grow and follow a fresh path to breathe anew. That path, that added physical dimension, allows them to bloom. My paintings respond to the call of discarded objects; they become the supporting voice for those objects. My art boxes are a sanctuary for a collection of broken copper hearts, lost photos, aged wire, iridescent mosaics, vintage keys, feathers, and bottle caps from sodas of past decades.” ~ Louise Coleman
Little Bird de Papel is open every Saturday from 10am–4pm
Richard Wolfson, poet, will be writing spontaneous poetry, some from dreams, some that emanate back from Woodstock days.
September included my first immersion into a comedy festival. I was surrounded by other comics for just over one week, so I got more of a sense of the mindset and motivation of dozens of people who endeavor to go onto a stage and attempt to elicit laughter out of people they have never met. We also attempted new comedic art forms, like RiffaPalooza, where 30 comics individually spent 2 minutes riffing on the last comics material and 1 minute of their own work for the next comedian to riff off of.
The result was as intriguing and joyful as a good theater production.
The most memorable experience of all for me was working on the same bill with a disabled comic from Denver whom I had met 5 or 6 years ago and have wanted to share a bill with her ever since. When I got on stage, I informed the audience that I have been crippled for almost ½ of my life, but she has been crippled her entire life, so expect her material to be much darker than mine. My humor is geared to the exterior world; hers is geared to her interior world and therefore was much darker than mine. We are both “differently funnied.”
I still continue to write poetry. This is a recent effort.
PRESERVATION OF MEMORY
The opaque sleeve drifts by night,
as sacrosanct as an escaped dream,
screams heard from behind a cloud,
where the mounting servitude of envy
looks tired, like a grandfather’s passion,
the sweet sauce that rings the solar system,
time like the soft flitter of sorrow,
hidden like a magnetic magician.
The lonely edge of a computer generated tonic,
a stick that runs away, returning as a wand,
the cork that closes up the world,
a single sip that exposes the “all in all”
When voices echo like tiny eggs,
silence seeps among us, like the gratitude of giants.