This week I’m featuring Lou Beach, if you don’t know his work already, see also Flash Friday #3. He is a writer of short fiction and an artist. He is a master of the short genre, but art was his first creative profession.
“Grabbing a ride with a couple of other nascent hippies, I fled to California and a tent in a beach side commune, followed by a few years in a Hollywood bungalow, menial jobs: machine operator, truck driver, book store clerk. It was during this time that I was introduced to the Surrealists, began going to galleries and museums, scouring art books – LOOKING. And finally making art – collages and assemblage.”
THE POND froze over last night, black pane frosted, framed by a stubble of cattail and brush. A blackbird sways on a stalk of swamp weed, the red and yellow patch on his shoulder his rank, little corporal. Geese fly overhead, big V honking south. Jesse and I bring the old skiff back to the barn. She wants to buy some red paint, give the boat a facelift. I say why spend the money, we’ve got grey paint right here.
I LIKE NEW YORK
“I LIKE New York, ok? I just don’t want to be its darling.” I walked back to the barn, stomped through the puddles, made a big splash. Having a show in a NY gallery was a way for me to pay for the luxury of looking at a pond filled with ducks and frogs each morning. Why, besides the shopping, would she want us to live there six months of the year? I opened the barn doors, exalted at the sight of my canvases, the hay.
THERE WAS A SPIDER
THERE WAS a spider in the glove. Stupid of me, I suppose, to just leave it out on the potting bench, so inviting, five long dark tunnels warmed by the sun. Hell, if I was a spider, I’d gallop right in there myself. The brown widow is not known to be aggressive but if some big pink monster pushes you up against the wall, what are you supposed to do? I’m still able to play the bass. What’s one finger more or less?