So Place is a neighborhood overrun in recent years by a growing community of creatives and hopefuls. They come for the low rent and stay for the burning energy of others like them, all on the hunt for some great future. Part-timers and café loiterers make up the denizens of this emerging little borough. They are the artists.
And where there are artists, there is art. And where there is art, there are galleries. The Hidden Frame is one of these.
The large golden frame that marks the entrance catches the eye, contrasting with the plain building it's attached to. Every visitor must walk through the frame to get inside, each person momentarily a work of art. The frame is welded steel, spray painted to look precious. Commissioned by Lindsay Erstwhile - the fledgling gallery owner - it's an eye-catching frame on an otherwise bland street.
Two large windows flank the entry, displaying some of the wares from inside. They show off two romantic portraits of This Place's northern shore, painted in shining, textured oil. The paintings are nothing remarkable until you peek closer. The paint, far from sitting flat on the canvas, undulates and spirals with the motion of each scene. In one, the light of a dusky sky is sucked down into the dark ocean horizon. In the other, a roiling sea pounds the walls of an aged lighthouse. Brush strokes wash over the eyes like waves on rock. Like fleeting sunbeams in a technicolor sky.
Inside, the gallery is small and well air-conditioned against the day's heat. The pristine, white walls are packed with paintings. Though there are many pieces of work, each offers a unique perspective that claims the focus of the viewer. Over here is a painting of a teacup next to two hands holding one another. Details hint at a deeper, darker subtext - the lipstick on the cup, his jeweled cuff links, her bright red nail polish, the wedding ring on his hand but not on hers - all clues to a greater story.
Over there, on that wall, a posthumous painting of an old woman hangs next to the original photograph it was painted from. A plaque explains that the painting was done by the woman's granddaughter. It's a delight of flashing colors and creative abstractions surrounding an otherwise realistically painted figure. It's hard to understand what the artist was going for, but there is meaning here somewhere.
Each painting has a small placard with the artists' name and a price. Nothing is under five hundred dollars or over two thousand. Each artist is here for their big break, to be seen, to be paid. They work on commission, as does Lindsay.
She sits at a modern style desk just inside the door, reviewing a binder of submissions for her gallery. Her red hair hangs loose and curly around her angled face. She looks to be in her late twenties, still new and starry eyed, but stressed. This is the third year the gallery has been open and new competition is popping up every day. Lindsay used to trust her instincts, but she's wavering. Will next year favor landscapes? Portraits? Abstract? Or is there something else on the horizon - a new avant-guard waiting to overtake the art scene?
Lindsay sighs and closes the book, looking passed the glass of the front doors and into the potential future.
Outside the day wears to a close and the streets cool down. The gallery is open late because that’s when the art buyers come out. Lindsay sets out a tray of fine cheese and a bottle of cheap wine to entice them inside.
Outside the day wears to a close and the streets cool down. The gallery is open late because that’s when the art buyers come out. Lindsay sets out a tray of fine cheese and a bottle of cheap wine to entice them inside.
An older couple, in polo shirts and khakis - no doubt from West Main - take the bait and stroll around the gallery. As more people file in, Lindsay is all smiles and happy greetings, cheek kisses and banter. She sells five paintings before it's time to usher everyone out into the night.
Miss Erstwhile throws the empty wine bottle away, along with a few slices of leftover cheese. A small price to pay for finding art a home and earning her percentage. She locks up and crosses the street to her apartment building, where the rent is cheap and she can keep an eye on her gallery.
Streetlamps morph the display paintings into something new. In the dim lights of late night So Place, they are the dreams had by a young, hard-working idealist. In their corners, hidden just behind the frames and in the curling brushstrokes, are the stark black initials: L.E.
This Place is a podcast written, performed, and produced by me, Ree Callahan.
If you'd like to learn more about This Place, or even tour the city, check the description for details.
Thanks for visiting and don't be too shy to stop by again!
Miss Erstwhile throws the empty wine bottle away, along with a few slices of leftover cheese. A small price to pay for finding art a home and earning her percentage. She locks up and crosses the street to her apartment building, where the rent is cheap and she can keep an eye on her gallery.
Streetlamps morph the display paintings into something new. In the dim lights of late night So Place, they are the dreams had by a young, hard-working idealist. In their corners, hidden just behind the frames and in the curling brushstrokes, are the stark black initials: L.E.
This Place is a podcast written, performed, and produced by me, Ree Callahan.
If you'd like to learn more about This Place, or even tour the city, check the description for details.
Thanks for visiting and don't be too shy to stop by again!
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