an old writer and his words

  • A TROIS

    Each night I crawl under the sheetscurled against the woman I loveand beside me slips your ghost.For sixty years you were no morethan a fleeting dream faceless, nameless,an infrequent visitor to my galleryof hopes, desires, and wishes.You never had a face, did Ihave one you could remember beforeI was plucked from you too soon, youlurking…

    Lou Faber

  • PLACE NAME HERE

    Among all of the so-called artswriting does stand alone.How often have you seen arthanging on gallery wallsand look at the card next to itto see what the work is calledand find that all too uniquitous title,UNTITLED, as if the artist’s powerof language escaped into his brushes.And let’s not talk about composer’swhose work is later numberedand…

    Lou Faber

  • GALLERY?

    I have come to realize that I am,and have been for many years,an abettor of criminal activity.it was always intentionalbut also involuntary,and, I must add, lacking anymens rea whatsoever. In my defense I would assertthat I was defrauded as well,fleeced by someone offeringculture, albeit some of itpurchased, a few clever forgeries,some bought from those whose…

    Lou Faber

  • TRIPTYCH

    A triptych hangs in the gallery of memory. Admission is by invitation only. The first panel is a time fogged mirror into which I stare. The adopted image hides behind the tarnished silver. My adopted mother’s voice is heard from a hidden speaker: “You were named after my father.” I want to tape his picture…

    Lou Faber

  • RED DOT

    I have visited countless galleries,stared at or shielded my eyesfrom all manner of art, butI always read the plaquesaffixed to the walls, nameof artist, of work price,the relative  amount speakingto the financial state of the gallery. I actually care very little aboutthe name of the artist otherthan as a historical reference,for the piece has already…

    Lou Faber

  • FIFTY-EIGHT MINUTES, MORE OR LESS

    In a bit less than an hour a new exhibit will open empty space will be occupied with moving bodies of artist and viewer, universes will form a thousand children will be born an old man in a distant city will slip away a contented look pressed into his face world leaders will ask why…

    Lou Faber

  • ART

    As you walk through this particular space will you see a small child perched on a stool, crayons in hand, a small rectangle of paper on the top of the desk laughing, creating a world you could never hope to understand, or an older woman, leaning on her walker, staring into the canvas, struggling to…

    Lou Faber

  • GALLERY (IN) CONCERT

    Kandinsky, Braque, Matisse and Degas all stand patiently in the hall wondering if anyone, this night, will notice them as they always seem to do, while Motherwell and Pollack lurk around the corner, feigning indifference, dreading being ignored. The sound check is long ago complete and the three men sit in the cafe lost in…

    Lou Faber

  • ESCAPE PLAN

    Open the door quickly for you may find a wonderland: a bottled djinn waiting for your wish, a mangy dog looking for scraps his fur wet and matted, head down. Open the door quickly – it may be the entrance to a gallery or another door, and another until you are outside and must open…

    Lou Faber