2005. The gallery space was formerly a butcher shop located right across the street from North Beach Pizza. As I walked into the gallery, Philip Hackett was sitting at a table conducting business. Artists wanted to schedule show time, poets wanted to sell their books, the installer needed a final nod on the display. When we finally had a moment together, he pointed at the front corner of the gallery and asked me to make a display there.
“What would you like?” I asked.
“The Chinese instruments from Clarion. You can also display your books. I’ll sell them for you.”
I didn’t have a book so I decided to make one. I printed the pages out and hand bounded them with ribbons. Philip was pleased. He told me about the upcoming North Beach Poetry Festival and invited me to read at the gallery.
The festival was a most impressive event with a packed audience from morning until well into the afternoon. It was a bonanza for the art community. But it was also too good a thing for San Francisco. Money was always tight, and in 2007 the gallery space was taken back by its owner. The setback didn’t stop Philip. He now produces regular readings as well as art shows in twenty cafes around North Beach, calling himself The King of Poetry.
Credits: PH Images
Bill Mercer’s Question Project opened its fourth installment at the Live Worms Gallery yesterday. Five poets—Stephanie Manning, Buford Buntin, Mark Johnson, Jack Hirschman, George Marchi—and artist Edward Millet, gave poetic responses to Bill’s black ink, brush stroke artworks. Chuck Bernstein played the berimbau. North Beach wine hostess Lonnie set up a table serving wine and juice, and the beat was on.
San Francisco’s poetic luminaries made their appearances. Bill’s project has pulled the community together by involving artists and poets to express themselves around a theme. The place began to thin out around nine o’clock. A man walked in with his own bottle of wine was asked to put it down. “A new face,” Lonnie said. She knew everyone. Another man came in, not so steady on his feet. Soon there were three of them. They were not there for the artworks. It took a while before Bill could politely usher the men out the door and lock it.
Just after Lonnie left, a small woman knocked. She wanted to use the toilet. OK. Bill said. When she came out she eyed the opened bottle that was left on the table.
“May I have a cup?” She asked to no one in particular, and began helping herself.
Bill came over. “No.” He said. His big body hovered over her.
Instead of leaving, the woman sat down on Bill’s chair and whined. “Why you bein’ mean ta me? Ah jus whon a cup with ice, that all.”
Bill did better than that. He filled the cup with ice and poured a full cup of wine. The woman followed him to the door. He handed her the cup when she walked out.
“They said over at the Trieste, if Live Worms doesn’t have wine at a show it’s not worth going.” Someone chuckled.
The alcohol level was becoming more and more saturated as the night wore on. When I walked into the street the bars were filled with people. Someone behind me was rushing. I could hear her high-heels stomping on the ground. I moved away. She stumbled and plastered herself on a restaurant window. Young, blond, well dressed, stoned.
