Louisville Magazine

SEP 2018

Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.

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LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 9.18 103 mulberry trees wouldn't eat up his sun. Blankets spread on the tin, he'd look for anthropo- morphic figures in the clouds and guide a big-screen TV lens around, cooking up fish after fish, his first animal of study. "at's how I wound up a folk artist," the 44-year-old says, holding a circular rear-projec- tion mirror he found on a solar pyrography Facebook page. Keith took his art to the streets about a year ago and comes out any day the sun's out, even in winter, when there's just less light. To cool down on the hottest days, he occasionally soaks his white long-sleeve cotton button-up with water. When the sun's not out, he misses it. He doesn't have another "job-y job" and doesn't want this one to turn into one either. "I like that the art owns me," he says. Sun out, Keith will load up the small cart he's rigged with completed pieces (pine trees, mountain scenes, dogs, geometric illusions, cosmic visions), blank canvases, four or five of his 40 lenses and a pouch of sandpaper, flathead screwdrivers and a toothbrush to smooth indentions. He'll walk from his house in Smoke- town to his regular haunts (Highland Coffee, Fourth and Chestnut streets in front of Re- galo, Garage Bar, Slugger Field or the Flea Off Market), the cart's handle strapped around his waist. e man mule. e slow and steady pace reminds Keith of walking the Appala- chian Trail, Georgia to Maine. e city's different than the forest, sure, but he has learned to find the zen within, to tune out the jackhammers and horn slammers. He'll talk to anyone he passes, "sharing in the conversation, sharing in the mystery." He'll stare into the sky, notice the airplane trails criss-crossing, and hope for no haze. — AC OLD BOOKS MAKE FRESH POEMS b Before Zachary Goldstein left Louisville a couple months ago to travel the country, the 28-year-old J-town native lived in a one- bedroom apartment above the sushi restaurant Osaka on Frankfort Avenue. He turned the half-bathroom into a darkroom for his photography, and he also created music in the apartment as the singer- guitarist-drummer in his "confessional lo-fi indie punk band" Trouble Sleeping. (In June he released the album msyoulvyou, which he likes to leave around town, sometimes in the "T" section at record stores.) "With music, I'm creating something from scratch, and there's all these decisions to make. I freeze up in those situations," he says. "Having some sort of limit on what I can do can be good for me." So he started making "black-out" poems, also known as erasure poems. At Goodwill or the Crazy Daisy Antique Mall, he found books — Willie Nelson's autobiography, a guide to caring for gerbils, "a very much old-fashioned, mildly sexist book for preparing for weddings" — and set up in a coffee shop with a black Sharpie. He'll flip to an aesthetically pleasing page — bigger typeface, space between lines, a glossy surface that the marker doesn't penetrate instead of "thirsty" paper that allows bleed-through — and picks a word. Like "Hell." en he starts with the black lines. "Sometimes I'll go over a word and realize it was a great missed opportunity and there's no going back," he says. Eventually, a poem emerges: "Hell set an attendance record the year country music found an audience." e process helps him write lyrics. He has completed about 300 poems and has several collections, including Poems for Boys, Luv pommes, Poems for stripping paint, each featuring pages from many books. "It's like that famous quote about sculpture," he says. "e sculpture is already in the marble. You're just taking away what's not the sculpture. I'm just finding what's in there that the author didn't realize." — JM

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