In Honor of Aidan Immerfall 1991- 2014


– Aidan Erin Immerfall, 2014


Waiting for Felix

pppart2Quintessentially American; refrigerator door Louvre
stylistically Picassoesque, Daliesque
though Dadaism and Mamaism predominate

as pudgy-finger tempera on newsprint evolved into
more complex designs, bolder expressions
of the artists vision in markers on white paper,
macaroni on tag board, leaves melted in wax paper

Like any good museum, the exhibits rotate; handsomely,
haphazardly framed via magnets-on-white-enamel

”l’art pour l’art”

Great art appreciates in value as the artists output declines
from striking, carefree, post-modern, outside-the-lineism topppart
photos-from-magazines montages, lopsided-clay bowls

groundbreaking quirkiness giving way to more sterile,
artistically utilitarian ‘art’ for-the-masses prints

practice schedules, bake sales, dates of note, deadlines;
dentist appointments, scribbled grocery reminders, odd
phone messages all lacking appreciable aesthetics

”l’art pour l’art”?

the gallery stands dormant; the art in cardboard storage,
unseen but appreciating in value with the artists now retired

having moved on to other pursuits, different mediums,Easter 2013
none displayable here; we are curators with empty frames

”l’art pour l’art”…

Though the artist-as-a-young-woman has a budding protégé
his apprenticeship just beginning with stark, bold lines of color;
marker-on-white copier paper, crayon-on-restaurant-placemat

in his future there will be gallery openings, oohing-and-ahhing
over his immediate masterpieces; form always trumping function,
experimentation will be celebrated, inspiration never questioned

”l’art pour l’art”!   We are waiting for Felix.

– Mark Lucker

“Portrait de Madonna; mère de mes fils, vendredi soir” (Madonna portrait; mother of my sons, Friday night)

After some ongoing, sad-eyed cajoling
you agreed to a Friday night date night
not of your choosing or comprehension
posing for nervous artist and sketch pad

you acquiesced to your best black pumps,
resolute: no clenching of rose in teeth –
concession gladly made by your love-struck
middle-aged, middle-class, modicum talent

Renoir with shaky charcoal pencil, prop
linen pad and still skeptical, self-consciously
reclining, propped-on-solitary-elbow model
in the candle-lit tableau before me surpasses

that of my very imaginative faux-artist’s
mind’s eye, having seen you as I have this way
a thousand times…but never quite like this

You are Louvre worthy; a study in pure form
glowing alabaster in flickering votive light minus
gilded frame, stay behind the velvet rope policy
shaky charcoal pencil strokes begin to quiver

across gray newsprint as this erotic charade
plays itself out, much as my artistic talent did
many years before the twenty I have known you
yet you graciously allow me this opportunity;

me – sans beret, palette; you, lacking not shoes
and all I can put on canvas is a stick figure
devoid of any of your revealing, inviting contours,
leaving all to the imagination, nothing to chance