The Art Critic & The Mosquito /  by Laurence Fuller

A satire as sharp as a mosquito’s bite, the fable of The Art Critic & The Mosquito is a theatrical short that hovers between the grotesque and the sublime, probing the strange intimacy between critique, obsession, and desire.

In a sweat-slicked summer evening, an art critic taps away at her latest dissection of an elusive artwork that she simply cannot stand — or understand. Her frustration, wrapped in typewritten keystrokes and the buzz of professional fatigue, is interrupted by a tiny, insistent intruder: a mosquito.

But this is no ordinary pest.

Drawn by her discontent, the mosquito becomes a kind of vampiric muse, feeding quite literally on her lifeblood as she claws at the edges of understanding. The scene spins into surrealism as the act of critique becomes an act of consumption, of violation, of surrender.

With a painter’s eye and a poet’s wit, Laurence Fuller crafts a metaphor for how art takes from us, how criticism becomes a dance of intimacy, and how even revulsion can become a strange kind of affection. As the critic slaps her own blood across the surface of the painting she once despised, she realizes what she’d been missing all along:

It was love.

A fever dream of irony, flesh, and ink, Art Critic & The Mosquito asks: Can one truly critique what one hasn’t yet been bitten by?

THE ART CRITIC & THE MOSQUITO

A mosquito floated lazily in the hot Summer air,

Buzzing exactly in the same spot of that warm evening in the art critic’s living-room.

The study tapped, with sharp notes of a type writer, tapping out the latest essay dissecting an oeuvre.

The mosquito followed the sound that tapped throughout the house.

The air was so wet with Summer night and sweat of discontentments, the mosquito hung by barely buzzing .

Portraits on the mantle, their subjects sweat past the empty whiskey bottles.

Until he heard by closer proximity, her whispers and shrill exclamations at the end of a sentence;

“Why don’t I like this art?!”

She could not uncover what was it about this art which irked her so??

That raced her fingers by the night lamp’s glow.

The mosquito landed on her arm and lifted its nose,

To the air in order to thrust down into her veins,

Piercing her skin like a pin pricking balloon.

He gulped and gulped and gulped!

The sudden loss of blood at first made her giddy and she at the thought of her subject until her arm went blue and she stood up in shock;

“What, what?!”

But the mosquito kept gulping,

She grabbed the nearest book to swat what she thought was her attacker,

But as she thwacked the bug buzzed away, and she slapped her arm leaving it red again.

She went back to typing

Nearing the end of her column and pronouncing;

“Now then”

The mosquito licked his lips for what was the best feast of his life he had just tasted;

He must return to the banquet once again.

Yet this time as he landed, like a blood

sucking bandit, she was prepared.

And when she thwacked the mozzie!

Lifted up the cover, there was the painting

But covered in her own blood.

And at last she felt it,

It was true love.

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller

Adaptation of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis"

@laurencefuller

www.laurencefuller.art

Metamorphosis Gospel /  by Laurence Fuller

Adaptation of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis" @laurencefuller www.laurencefuller.art

At one time I thought he was a God.

He did change, from what he once was,

The charmer who walked in from the fog.

That charm turned from light to dust,

I watched, him sway the whole court.

With laughter and universal thoughts,

Until the time he did transform.

But first let me show you what he once was;

A giant on the stage,

Who could bring the mightiest King to his knees.

With a song.

The rise of the great Balong,

Astounding audiences all along.

Until he was stripped of all the feathers that once brimmed his hat.

The rules he chose,

That made margins one by one,

Along a desk that rest his head,

And grey did fall from the clouds unto his bed,

To fill his head with all the things,

That could trip out of step,

Or all the laws that fall upon his head.

The parrot that was his friend,

Did wallow in the scraps of red.

And there I sought watch him strong,

To watch him build foundations of the future,

But as the treasures did role in,

His thoughts turned only then to management.

It’s a strange feeling,

It started with a rumor that he’d changed,

He was a different man that passed these days.

That passed the halls, And declaimed the ways,

Dictating his preferences and rules,

Which changed each day,

According to his plans, his knowledge,

His hands weighed down with documents,

Directions to which road was paved.

As wealth rolled in,

So did trinkets, trade,

A never-ending tide of gain ~

Until one morning,

He woke to find his hands withdrawn into themselves,

Fingers curled into brittle claws,

His spine arched into a husk,

His head folded into a helmet,

The colors that once swayed the crowd

Now dulled to grey, like distant rain.

The bold stories, declaimed aloud,

Had shriveled into memos ~

He once did set the world alight,

With a funny smile and endless fight,

Now it was only papers that he lifted to the heavens;

“Let me speak to the manager”

It’s not a good time,

We’d rather speak to people who had a human spine.

What are you doing up there?

I called his name all morning upon the stairs.

Lazy. Just ignore him.

Taking a step back.

We’re taking a step back.

Now’s not a good time.

Wait until you’re feeling better.

Because we don’t want people to say.

Because we want that we just don’t want to pay.

This is just a little bit of money in the…

Don’t have expectations.

Something better come through for you.

Something’s got to give.

Yes let’s just pray that something improves.

Let’s see what he does. Test him.

Make him feel… less than. He’s not doing enough.

He’s not doing what we asked.

Why don’t you talk to him?

We shouldn’t have to.

Maybe he’s just not good enough.

Tell him reasons. It doesn’t matter what he says.

Just fill his ears with excuse.

Is he dust yet? No he’s still breathing.

Why is he still breathing? You’re the expert.

Why aren’t you making any money! I don’t want to hear his opinions.

It’s twaddle. Worthless twaddle.

If he’s not going to work he won’t get any bread.

It’s predictable.

Does he think he’s better than his superiors.

How arrogant.

How stuffy.

Not the kind of person I want anything to do with.

Make him go homeless.

He doesn’t deserve a home.

Dismantle what he has failed.

What has he learned.

He used to be wonderful.

Don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.

You have failed your family.

End of discussion.

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller

Adaptation of Franz Kafka's "Metamorphosis" @laurencefuller www.laurencefuller.art

WINTERMANCER /  by Laurence Fuller

A letter to Molly and Jane from Case My girls;

I think of you, in these cold Winter nights,

Not too long before I’m home again,

To see your faces, through the rain

This city may be cold, but it’s people are warm

I was given the code to the WINTERMANCER

Everything is about to change my girls,

I want you to prepare, for the oncoming storm

Set traps by the window

Set traps on the stairs If they discover you hiding

Don’t leave one alive

Don’t leave them a prayer

They don’t realize these ghosts in the machine are more powerful than their cogs

We move as owls immersed in the night, above the factory’s glow

They are but mice

Burning beneath our trees

In a sea of ice, matches won’t last the night

No matter their sulfer Our friend is time

Be safe my loves,

Dream and hold each other tight

One word matters now ~ survive. ------------------

Written and performed by Laurence Fuller

Visual storytelling by Erythric

Music & Sound Design by Martin Delisle and Erythric

Miami Recap ~ The Fortune (Scope, NINFA and M2) /  by Laurence Fuller

The Fortune at Nolcha Shows just exhibited immersively on 50 LED screens in Miami ~ it was a meditation on the whales, the details of creating for this large space, the poetry, the sound, the images & then to watch them all come together in symbiosis was a great joy.

NINFA INTERVIEW

Carlo Borloni: The Fortune is rooted in your award-winning novella and explores humanity’s complex relationship with nature through the lens of whaling. Can you share how the idea evolved from a written narrative into a cinematic poetry and immersive exhibition?

Laurence Fuller: I first became interested by the plight of the whales about ten years ago. There was Sea Shepherd and their pirate-like efforts to stop whaling hands on in the Southern Ocean and then The Cove. Their rebellious and decisive actions made me pay attention.

Around this time my mother started painting a lot of whales, Migaloo the white whale off the coast of Australia. It seemed to me there was something mysterious about the whale’s song.

This sound which read like a biography of the animal, where they have been, their relationships, what they discovered and how they felt about their environment, and their psychology are all subtle notes in this echo which they send outwards from their body to communicate for miles around. A novella in itself, and a poem from the ocean that is being constantly recited from the beneath the surface of the waves.

Yet man’s connection to whales has thus far been a superficial one of extracting basic resources from their bodies, their blubber and their bones. Millions of whales once thrived in our oceans ~ yet by the time the international moratorium on commercial whaling was put into affect in 1986 some species were hunted to the brink of extinction. You hear these facts and it sounds like a cause like any other. But there was something much more than that.

For me they symbolize the soul of the ocean, and of Mother Nature itself. I went back and read the Novella I wrote about whaling in 2020, and I saw it was very cinematic, the language was very visual and it was nominated for several awards under “cinematic writing” categories.

The characters centre around the generational traditions of whaling in Iceland. And it was the opportunity posed by NINFA and Nolcha Shows to create a series of cinematic works for Miami that challenged me to take on this subject.

By adapting the story into cinematic poetry, I could weave visuals, narration, and music into a deeply immersive experience.

The transition allowed me to explore the text as a living, breathing entity, one where viewers could step into the luminous mist of the sea, hear the whales’ haunting song, and feel the weight of time through layered, evocative imagery.


Carlo Borloni: The collection features themes like legacy, spiritual connection, and humanity’s exploitation of nature. What personal or artistic experiences led you to tackle such profound and timeless issues?

Laurence Fuller: Growing up, I was deeply influenced by stories of the sea—both its beauty and its brutality. The concept of whaling, with its dual nature of human ambition and destruction, felt like a powerful metaphor for our relationship with nature, Mother Nature and our own human nature, the laws of human nature.

My father’s philosophy of Mother Nature being an integral factor to artistic life lead me to explore how personal legacy intersects with global responsibility. The Fortune became my way of processing these ideas, of reconciling the awe I feel for nature with the grief of what we’ve lost through exploitation.

It’s both a personal and universal journey, exploring how our actions echo through time.

I thought more on that concept of a Whales echo and realized that we must be etched in that music as much as we speak of the whales to eachother.


Carlo Borloni: Collaboration plays a significant role in The Fortune, with AI models trained on Stephanie Fuller’s brushstrokes. How did these collaborations influence the final vision?

Laurence Fuller: The collaborative process was essential to expanding The Fortune beyond my own imagination. It’s no mistake that these were trained on my mother’s brushstrokes. Seeing as Mother Nature is an essential theme to this story and the artworks and that she has been painting whales for many years.

My father’s writings on art and psychoanalysis and his reading of DW Winnicott’s infant mother relationship where transitional objects like a baby’s blanket serve as metaphors to play out larger concepts in society, forming the basis for human’s fundamental need for art to understand in ways logic and reason cannot explain.

My mother’s brushstrokes served as the material basis for the visuals, Mother Nature is created the model from which this world of The Fortune was born and the whales swam in the ocean of our dreams.


Carlo Borloni: Each act of The Fortune represents a distinct chapter in this narrative. Can you elaborate on the emotional and thematic journey viewers will experience from The Harpoon to Patience Is a Kiss?

Laurence Fuller: The journey begins with The Harpoon, a portrait of Uncle Svenson and the legacy of whaling—a brutal yet deeply human story of ambition, power, and loss. This sets the tone for the exploration of humanity’s relationship with nature.

Act II, The Echo, shifts to a deeply personal perspective, as a whaler dreams of home and love while reconciling the sacrifices made at sea.

Act III, The Whale’s Song, dives into the spiritual realm, where the protagonist connects to the ancient resonance of the whales and the mysteries of the ocean, finding harmony in their song.

The final act, Patience Is a Kiss, is a reflection on love, destiny, and transformation—a culmination of the emotional and spiritual discoveries made along the way.

Carlo Borloni: The medium of NFTs often raises questions about the intersection of technology and art. What does the integration of Web3 and AI bring to your storytelling, and how does it complement the traditional poetic and cinematic elements?

Laurence Fuller: There’s many artists who create still image artworks that I love Tania Rivilis, Henrik Uldalen, Jenni Pasanen, Victoria West and Peter Howson to name a few, all of whom I have collaborated with.

To be authentic to my own understanding of the world I was always going to be a storyteller in some way and a video artist. To see the world through a dreamlike cinematic lens.

The formats for video art have been really problematic up until now. I think of Matthew Barney DVDs selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars, the most expensive selling for $500k. I’m a huge fan of Matthew Barney one of my favorite performance artists and video artists of all time. But DVDs cannot be the best format for his art, and I believe the format in this case has held back the true value of the artwork.

Also from a storytelling perspective in this case three video artworks can become a triptych ~ and digital artworks can connect to eachother in ways they never were able to before.

Carlo Borloni: You’ve portrayed iconic figures on screen, including David Hockney, and worked extensively as an actor and writer. How have these creative disciplines informed your approach to The Fortune?

Laurence Fuller: My experience as an actor taught me how to inhabit stories viscerally, to understand language as lived experience. Much of writing for most people, stays on the page, acting is really the one kind of experience where literature comes to life in a fully realized way.

Especially the way I wanted to do it, like an immersive experience, to be enveloped in the world. Like a blanket.

For The Fortune, I approached each panel like as a character unto itself ~ imbuing each act with its own voice and emotional arc.

Carlo Borloni: Nature is central to this work, particularly the symbolism of the whale. How do you hope viewers will connect with the environmental and spiritual messages of the exhibition?

Laurence Fuller: The whale’s song is really the most poignant metaphor this world has created for the unseen poetry that’s all around us. I hope The Fortune sparks a sense of reverence for the majesty of nature and a reflection on our shared responsibility to protect it.

Carlo Borloni: As The Fortune debuts during Miami Art Week in partnership with Nolcha Shows and Scope Art Fair, what role does the immersive aspect play in making the exhibition resonate with audiences?

Laurence Fuller: This is an artwork that you have to feel and experience, whether that’s on the big screen at home or all around, swimming through oceans of the unknown.

Carlo Borloni: Your late father, art critic Peter Fuller, influenced your understanding of fine art. How has his legacy shaped your perspective on creating art that bridges classical and contemporary elements?

Laurence Fuller: My father’s work instilled in me a deep appreciation for the intersection of tradition and innovation. He believed in art as a reflection of humanity’s spiritual and intellectual struggles, and I’ve carried that belief into The Fortune. I aim to honor his legacy while forging a new path.

His deep study into art, was one of the most comprehensive of the 20th Century, and not that he was correct in his assertions, but that he had them, that he thought through these matters that affect art and human life so extensively, that pertained to philosophy, politics, ecology and ultimately spiritual matters through the canvas.

Carlo Borloni: Lastly, your poetic verse, “Fortune is the home we find ourselves,” is a poignant meditation. What do you hope this project communicates about the human condition and our relationship with time, nature, and destiny?

Laurence Fuller: The Fortune is you.

The Fortune: Immersive Exhibition during Miami Art Basel by Laurence Fuller /  by Laurence Fuller

“Time is falling like autumn leaves in decay. Life hangs in the balance of our next breath, and paradise speaks from within: ‘Patience is a kiss.’”

The Fortune is a cinematic poetry immersive exhibition taking place at M2 in partnership with Nolcha Shows and Scope Art Fair with Superchief Gallery, during Miami Art Week. Exploring humanity’s fraught relationship with mother nature through the lens of whaling—a brutal tradition that serves as a metaphor for mankind’s attempts to dominate the natural world. Through four acts, the work examines the legacy of exploitation, the yearning for connection, and the spiritual resonance found in nature’s mysteries. From the harpooner’s relentless pursuit of power to the whaler’s longing for home, from the haunting song of the whales to the quiet wisdom of patience, The Fortune invites viewers to confront the consequences of their actions and rediscover their place within a greater, harmonious design. As an immersive exhibition during Miami Art Week and at Scope Art Fair, this piece fuses poetic narration, stunning animation, and timeless themes, creating a visceral reflection on how humanity’s relationship to nature mirrors its own inner struggles.

Each act unfurls a distinct chapter in this profound narrative, weaving together themes of tradition, longing, spiritual connection, and the timeless rhythm of love and destiny. The final act, Patience Is a Kiss, completes this meditative journey, creating a poetic symphony that bridges the past, present, and future.

Based on the Award Winning Novella by Laurence Fuller and AI models trained on the brushstrokes of Stephanie Fuller.

Act I: The Harpoon

“The sea was his kingdom, the knife his crown,

Where whales were felled, their greatness drowned.”

The first act opens with a portrait of Uncle Svenson, a man carved from the harshness of the North, bound to the sea and its brutal traditions. Through his eyes, we see the clash between legacy and decay, power and the cost it exacts. The animation reflects the rusted harbors and crimson tides of The Fortune, where the cry of the seals mingles with the creak of old machinery. Svenson’s shadow looms as both a ruler and a prisoner of the ocean, a man whose ambitions are drowned by the very waters that sustain him.

In this act, we are introduced to the eternal dance between survival and conscience, as Svenson’s legacy becomes a cautionary tale of conquest and consequence. His life is a harpoon cast into the depths, pulling back the weight of centuries, yet echoing the ocean’s refusal to forget.

Act II: Echo

“Fortune is the home we find ourselves.

Home is a paradise we fly decades away from,

Before landing on its brim once again.”

The second act shifts to the perspective of a whaler out at sea, writing to his love and longing for the home he left behind. Through lyrical narration, we feel the tension between duty and desire, courage and vulnerability. The animation captures the restless motion of the waves, the soldier’s resolve, and the distant shores that haunt his dreams.

This act bridges the internal and external struggles of a man caught in the tides of war and love. His father’s wisdom lingers in his heart: “You will learn pain, and through it, you will see that we are all one.” The words guide him as he confronts not only the tyranny of empires but the quiet battles within himself. The sea becomes both battlefield and sanctuary, its echoes carrying the voices of the past and the hopes of tomorrow.

Act III: The Whale’s Song

“Something ancient pulls us where we are,

Floating on machines of our making.

What the generations said was for the taking

Becomes the hum of a hymn in the waves.”

In the third act, the whaler dives into the depths and discovers a spiritual connection to the whales. Their song resonates through his soul, a hymn that bridges the divide between man and nature. The animation captures the glistening currents, the majestic rhythm of the whales, and the fragile balance of life in the ocean.

As the song unfolds, it becomes a conversation between the whaler and the forces of the universe—an acknowledgment of the ancient wisdom embedded in the sea. The animation contrasts the mechanical grind of the ship with the organic harmony of the whales, showing humanity’s struggle to align with the natural world. This act is a moment of awakening, as the protagonist begins to see himself as part of a larger, eternal design.

Act IV: Patience Is a Kiss

“I sailed into the night, through the luminous mist,

All the world was quiet, and dreaming in bliss.

Before the day of the dead and the week of reveling trysts,

I sailed to the edge of the sea.”

The final act, Patience Is a Kiss, closes the triptych with a reflection on transformation, love, and destiny. The protagonist stands at the edge of change, penning a novel by the glow of the stars. The scrolls unfurl like waves, each word a meditation on the urgency of connection and the eternal rhythm of patience.

The sand beneath his feet is like unformed pearls, the stars above like scattered stories yet to be told. The animation glows with a luminous mist, a metaphor for the unknowable future. Paradise whispers its truth: “Patience is a kiss,” a reminder that love and destiny are not found in haste, but in surrender to the flow of life.

An Immersive Experience

Presented as a large-scale immersive installation, The Fortune transforms poetic cinema into a visceral and spiritual experience. Hundred-foot screens envelop viewers in textures of light and shadow, each frame a living poem. The narration guides the audience through the themes of the triptych, creating a dialogue between the self and the infinite.

A Timeless Vision

The Fortune is more than a cinematic poem—it is a meditation on humanity’s connection to tradition, nature, and the divine. It invites viewers to step into the luminous mist of their own stories, to confront the tides of their own memories, and to find solace in the eternal rhythm of life.

At Miami Art Week and Scope Art Fair and M2 in partnership with Nolcha Shows, The Fortune stands as a testament to the transformative power of art, merging ancient themes with contemporary vision. It reminds us that the stories we tell—of love, loss, and longing—are not bound by time but carried forward by the whispers of the sea and the eternal glow of the stars.

Redemption ~ collaboration w/ Peter Howson x Laurence Fuller at the British Art Fair /  by Laurence Fuller

Redemption exhibits at the British Art Fair at Saatchi Gallery in partnership with Sedition, MuseFrame and Flowers Gallery on September 26th - 29th 2024 and immersively at Lume Studios in NYC at the same time.

This interview explores the creative exchange between Laurence Fuller and Peter Howson in their collaboration on Redemption, a project that merges cinematic poetry with the striking visual language of Howson’s paintings. Known for his powerful depictions of human struggle and resilience, Howson has been a towering figure in contemporary figurative art since his early days at the Glasgow School of Art. His raw, Renaissance-inspired works capture the spiritual and psychological complexities of the human condition, earning global acclaim and an OBE in 2009.

Laurence Fuller, a British-Australian actor, writer, and artist, brings his multifaceted talents to this collaboration. With a heritage steeped in art — his mother a painter and his father a renowned art critic — Fuller has carved out a space that bridges performance and visual arts. Known for role HBO’s Minx, where he portrayed David Hockney, and independent films such as Road To The Well. Fuller’s creative journey reflects a deep engagement with artistic history and innovation, particularly the intersection of traditional and digital mediums. Together, Fuller and Howson explore themes of redemption, transformation, and universal human experience in their latest collaboration.

This deeply personal exploration of the universal themes of struggle, transcendence, and salvation, expressed through the merging of visual art, poetry, and cinema.

At its core, Redemption brings together the powerful, raw intensity of Peter Howson’s paintings with Laurence Fuller’s poetry, animated through AI to create a living, breathing dialogue between form and language. Both Howson and Fuller have embarked on personal journeys marked by internal conflict, growth, and a search for meaning. These experiences are woven into the fabric of this piece, where redemption is not just a distant goal, but an active process of reckoning with one’s own past.

Howson’s paintings are known for their uncompromising portrayal of humanity’s darkest moments, and yet, within these depths, there is always a search for salvation. His own journey ~ marked by battles with addiction, faith, and a return to spiritual awareness ~ imbues his work with a profound sense of vulnerability and redemption. In Redemption, this inner struggle is brought to life as his static images are animated, their textures unraveling to reveal layers of emotional and spiritual depth, mimicking the cyclical nature of personal recovery and growth.

Through words, Fuller wrestles with doubt, guilt, and faith, much like Howson’s figures. "For when I transcend, a greater fool takes my place" ~ speaks to the cyclical struggles of generations, the son surpassing the father. The medium itself tipping its hat to Laurence’s father Peter Fuller who championed the truth to materials in paintings and sculpture.

The use of AI animation serves as a cinematic reconstruction of the given, transforming Howson’s paintings into a moving embodiment of beauty. As in cinema, where sequences of images represent the imagination, these animated works create a dream-like space where the viewer is invited to engage with the story of redemption on both a visual and emotional level. Through the interplay of thought, sound, and action, the audience is drawn into a sensual experience where ideas and emotions are reconstructed, creating a dream ~ an invitation for the audience to find their own redemption within the fluid movements of both painting and poetry.

In Redemption, the personal struggles of both Peter Howson and Laurence Fuller merge with the universal desire for atonement, offering a pathway for the viewer to traverse their own journey. By integrating poetry with painting, and animating these forms with cinematic fluidity, we create a shared space where the internal search for redemption is not only observed but experienced on a visceral level. Though this piece draws on the creative legacies of Charles Baudelaire, John Keats, John Berger, and Peter Fuller ~ in their own search for meaning in language and visual art. It is also a reflection of our personal stories, transformed into a universal narrative that beckons each viewer to explore their own path to redemption.

Paintings by Peter Howson

Redemption

For when I transcend,
A greater fool takes my place,
And in that redemption,
I find the road, for my own way,
Casting my doubts out on the rocking waves,
Begging my sins to wash away.

I clutched at the morning,
It dripped away,
There were tingling rumbles in the streets,
I heard sounds like dropping pennies at my feet,
I must pay my penance,
For the guiltless I do menace,
The sins I have witnessed,
I must not play the victim,
Street lamps glowed at me like the moon,
But they weren’t,
Like the eyes of God in the dark early morning,
Piercing my thoughts,
Like a lamp in my mind,
And my words the the discarded scrap paper thrown out the window,

For when I transcend
A greater fool takes my place
And in that redemption
I find the road, for my own way,
Casting my doubts out on the rocking waves,
Begging my sins to wash away.

Crumpled and landing at the port,
On their way out to sea.
What is going on in our world?
I’ll ask the moon before it fades to the sun,
At long last, I’ll climb the ladder on the bridge from the bottom wrung,
I have struggled to reach even the nearest star,
I grazed my flesh, to check I’m still here,
So many poems to write and never enough time,
Never enough time,
And what have I got for my toil and strife?
Splayed out on the wall for all to see,
This arena of humanity,
Violins playing at the degenerates ball,
This grand opera,
An incomplete Iliad,
I left it unwritten, by my pen and note pad.

Washed against the muddy shore,
Wash up the brilliant and trusted oars of a discarded rowboat that left the trash and seagulls flying with empty cans in their mouths and an empty chest where a ticking clock once was,
The tragedy of the evening and heavy breeze of eternity.

For when I transcend,
A greater fool takes my place,
And in that redemption,
I find the road, for my own way,
Casting my doubts out on the rocking waves,
Begging my sins to wash away.

~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Curation by Makersplace

Brady Walker:

How did this collaboration with painter Peter Howson come to be?

Laurence Fuller:

As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to work with Peter Howson. Peter’s haunting portraits hung on my wall at Drama School, and as I stared into his characters on the wall they stared back into me.

I had acquired seven etchings by Howson, portraits of men on the street Peter had captured, called "Alec and Mac etc." I had acquired them soon before I left London, for my year studying Shakespeare in Bristol, from my now dear friend of 20 years Matthew Flowers, the director of Flowers Gallery and Peter’s art dealer.

I was studying classical theatre at the time at Bristol Old Vic, and I thought of how the bard wrote both for the nobility and the everyman at the same time. His writings transcended social barriers to speak to the human condition. I saw that in Peter’s work too, it is great in its universality. His figures are wrought with tension and striving, they seemed characters in a Shakespeare play like Caliban or Falstaff ~ as much as they reflected the pedestrian lives in Goya and Rembrandt.

Those etchings still hang in my home in Los Angeles, and they still inspire my performances somehow. I’m sure there’s been a piece of them in every part I’ve played and somewhere in every poem I’ve written.

Peter is a very well-known Scottish artist, I recently did a series of adaptations of MacBeth on Objkt that were a great hit, it’s funny that the Scottish school is finding such a home in web3 first with Trevor and Violet Jones, then with Paul Reid, now with Peter Howson. Soon I have to bring in John Bellany as well, I shall have to speak with Matthew Flowers about that.

After things took hold in my journey with web3, there have been some people from my life in film and traditional art I kept in touch with about it. That I believe in it as the best way to own digital art and solved a lot of the problems when it came to formats for video art. Collectors acquiring Matthew Barney’s epic operas Cremaster on DVD for $500,000 cannot be the best format for video art.

So Matthew Flowers was one of those old friends I kept in touch with and he saw what I was doing could be a very interesting experiment for some of the artists he works with at the gallery. As a director of one of the longest-standing international contemporary art galleries, I’ve always admired Matthew’s open mindedness to the evolving dialog of artistic practice, not as an inevitable evolution with technology at its end point, but more as an avenue, down which art may wander for a time.

So Matthew sent me a catalogue of Peter’s most recent paintings and drawings, and we began a dialogue about the work. Peter’s paintings don’t merely document; they inhabit the psychological and spiritual scars of war, war on the battlefield and war of daily life, giving form to the unspoken and unseen. In adapting Redemption, we sought to channel this gravitas into a cinematic exploration of universal themes: suffering, revelation, and transcendence. This universality resonates powerfully on platforms like Blockbook, where the piece has inspired over 20,000 adaptations by artists worldwide in just a few weeks ~ an unprecedented level of engagement and a testament to the transformative potentialities of this work.

Redemption comes to us at a moment of transformation, a moment before revelation. It is not the angels falling from the sky to save us — that comes later. It is the first peek at the morning clouds parting, through which that glow may speak, after the ravaging night we left behind us.

Web3 has enabled us to engage our audience with this universal concept, on the Blockbook platform with Story IP, where the piece has inspired over 25,000 adaptations by artists around the world in just a few weeks — an unprecedented level of engagement and a testament to the transformative potential of this work. Its visceral appeal to the human condition, that is the power of poetry when in communication with art. Where the language of words and of visual symbols are in a symphony with each other.

It is the quiet of a late-night harbor, where homeless drunks grill rats, mongoose, and scraps of fish over glowing coals. It is the dust of dreams rising from the fallen rubble of the playhouse. Revelation follows close behind, and with it, the opportunity for transcendence. It is for those still standing, after the fall.

BW:

At what point in the process did you write the poem?

LF:

Perhaps it started to form in my dreams after watching Peter’s portraits before I went to sleep at night, at drama school. And I started to dream of Redemption for myself.

A dream of some other life when all these human flaws I have will drift away.

Yet I always start a poem from where I am, from where I stand. Without a net or screen to save me from the page. Just a hope that you see in me, that you read in my pages, all that I could be and can become — and that makes you proud. That’s where I started writing it. Thinking of Redemption as the subject of the poem, and the value of humility in great works of art.

I recently re-read Peter Howson’s article in Modern Painters where he talks about Frans Hals. And that many of Hal’s gifts could not be taught, particularly his observations on the relationships between the painter and his subjects — the patrons of the art, who paid good money for the art to be made by their commission.

This aspect of Hals’ work has often been commented on throughout the art criticism of the 20th Century — some, such as John Berger, chose to reduce the entirety of Hals’ output to this exchange, while others like Peter Fuller saw such reductionist theories about the art to be missing the point of the humanity in Hals’ art which has inspired generations of museum goers for centuries and ironically the only commercial value that remains in the paintings themselves, as their subjects have been forgotten with time.

Hals’ portrait of Willem Heythuysen sold for $11 million, yet was later found to be a forgery. Perhaps these subjects were immortalised by Hals’ brush, as without Hals’ voice attached they would be virtually unsalable, while even the simplest of Hals’ paintings of a Fisher Boy would fetch millions at auction.

“The Fisher Boy looks as if it had been done in a couple of hours; it is the sort of thing I used to do when I was short of money and I wanted to try something commercial, something I knew people would adore to sell. And yet I dearly love this painting. It captures a boy’s character with great freshness. Look at those teeth! They are rotting, and yet they are beautifully painted. Of course, this is just minor work, but I love it. I prefer even a picture like this to the more formal works. I feel there is a lot of character in that face, and it’s not so put on… He’s a good painter, a great painter even, but not the greatest. He’s not first division.” Peter Howson, Modern Painters 1990

Peter spoke too of his love for Goya, and how Goya used his traumas to change his art. I thought in that instance about the persistence of memory, that memory is like a subjective jar we’re all trapped inside or maybe more like a hall of mirrors that we’re sheltered by.

In contrast to an artist like Picasso, who was one of the wealthiest people in Spain during his time, accumulated his vast fortune from the market for his artworks, sketching a wide range of subjects, from muses in chairs, Guernica, The Minotaur, to Les Demoiselles d’Avignon. Both Fuller and Berger were at odds about Picasso as well; Fuller often argued that great art transcends its socio-economic context and speaks to universal human experiences. In his view, Picasso’s work, particularly pieces like Guernica, represented a powerful engagement with universal themes of human suffering, resilience, and creativity. Fuller felt that Berger’s critique underplayed this aspect of Picasso’s genius by focusing too narrowly on his later career and his commodified success. Fuller celebrated Picasso not just as a product of his time but as a transformative force whose work continues to resonate on multiple levels, beyond the confines of ideology.

I don’t think Howson was brought down by commercial success either, after being collected by David Bowie, it never seemed to have commodified his aesthetics nor detach his from the plight of the human struggle, certainly never a departure from spiritual matters. In fact it was Howson’s depiction of the Bosnian war that Bowie acquired.

Other People's Bliss ~ Immersive collaboration w/ Laurence Fuller x Tania Rivilis /  by Laurence Fuller

Other People’s Bliss will exhibit as an immersive art experience at Lume Studios in NYC

September 29th at 2pm

This collection between myself and painter Tania Rivilis, titled Other People’s Bliss marks our tenth collaboration together. This project animates Tania’s evocative paintings, fusing them with my poetry narration to create an immersive experience that guides audiences through a narrative of self-discovery and the transcendence of ego. The animation breathes life into Tania’s already dynamic brushstrokes, making her figures move through time, drawing viewers into the world of sensation and emotion that we have crafted together. At the core of this experience is the idea that we, having once been trapped within the confines of our own ego, now step outside of it to fully see and celebrate the joy and bliss of others. 

This partnership between Tania Rivilis and myself is an artifact of its time, asking us to reconsider the relationships we forge within the art world. It serves not only as a reflection of our individual practices but also as a compelling argument against the rigid frameworks that have historically governed artistic creation. Does knowledge of the process impede on the experience of Bliss? And is this knowsledge counterbalanced by authenticity at its origins?

The poem, deeply inspired by the Romantic poets, ties the themes of nature, unity, and legacy together with an ethereal touch. Lines such as “The mountains they are all / From one side of the moon, / The other the sun” reflect the Romantic era’s preoccupation with nature and the sublime ~ where the vastness of the world mirrors the depths of human emotion. This merging of art forms not only calls upon the spirit of poets like Keats and Shelley, who sought transcendence in beauty, but also channels Peter Fuller's aesthetic philosophy, in which art's emotional power connects us with others, binding the personal and the universal.

Fuller believed that art has the capacity to unify our fractured world with the “aesthetic dimension.” In Other People’s Bliss, that dimension is a complete sensory experience ~ through the animation and soundscapes of my poetry, the paintings become an expansive field of collective emotion. Rivilis’ classical figures, move like spirits between our world and the next, embodying both personal and communal forms of bliss.

The union of painting and poetry dates back to the ancient Greeks, where ekphrasis ~ poetry about visual art ~ was born. Romantic poets furthered this tradition, drawing inspiration from the emotional weight and symbolism within paintings. Our work builds upon this lineage, fusing animation with poetic narration to create a sensual experience, a space where the language of the visual and the poetic intertwine, and art no longer exists in static silence. The motion in the paintings is brought to life with the help of cutting edge AI tools ~ echoes the movement of life, of relationships, and of spiritual awakening. The sensory world becomes a portal to empathy, where other people’s bliss can be truly felt, shared, and celebrated.

The exhibit at Lume Studios in New York City will transform the space into an all-encompassing environment, where the audience can live inside the artwork, surrounded by the textures of Rivilis’ paintings and the bliss of my poetry. Immersively, we invite our audience to touch the bliss that extends beyond the self.

This collaboration marks a moment of unification, where art transcends the barriers of ego, medium, and individual experience to celebrate the beauty found in the collective joy of creation. Through this synthesis, Other People’s Bliss becomes not just a work of art, but a living legacy, an aesthetic experience that calls upon the spirit of the Romantics to evoke unity, love, and the deep bliss of being human.

From one side of the moon,
The other the sun,
And in the middle we will watch all,
The cat, the pig and the owl,
To all the sea, we watch and see,
And never shall we run,
What is now, laying on the towel,
By me, that we cherish now,
An angel’s wings,
Flutter all the things and what we promise to our vows,
My love to this, we wonder in bliss,
A hundred notes unto us kiss,
The poems we allow,

A beautiful collaboration,
What we create,
Will be the port at every station,
What they say on this date,
And bring unity ~ unification,
Above the nations,
To make the whole world great,

Our family, our gardens dwell the trees,
The woods, the mountains and all the rocking seas,
Waterfalls through the night,
We love this life,
The books and art and poems we made
It was all for future generations.

Find my son,
Find my daughter,
What we left for you,
In the sculpture park,
In the library,
And in the dark,
It matters not what they say,
That day,
For the legacy was left for you,

The ringing bells,
The fables they tell,
The questions of our legacy,
For when we climb the first and last wrung,
Where they reach the top?
What do you see my love,
The world in an ocean’s drop.
~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

The doctrines of their marching orders,
In the halls their sons and daughters,
A hold on the flags in our fields,

The way I see you,
Like reading the deepest book on the shelf,
My hand slips between the cushions as I recite silk around my shoulders,
And no fear of growing older,
A life now lived much bolder,

I’ve been thinking about my life,
From beginning to end,
Trapped behind my eyes,
Unknown to all my friends.
Could this shell know,
Are all around the manifest of my thoughts,
Do people grow?
Or are they often caught,

How can I know this,
But it was written in omens,
The tumbling crowds,
Rioters we love and fall,
The good, the great,
Have we lost romance?
In our world, not in our hearts,
It raises from our doubts with open arms,
And beckons to its calling (all of ours)
The same arms we used to build this house,
The same arms that nurtured all of ours.
That we are angels on the beach in a sultry summer.

That he disappears upon a time,
When the world’s agendas all compete against his wishes, the magicians box of tricks,

Only full of springs and napkins and empty wishes,
All the artists just puppets in the puppeteers closet,
To cut the strings that kept them tied to his fingers.

At last a man to peg all our ideas to a pinup board of psychological reelings,
The dust on his vest, evidence he’s earned his afternoon,
With paper and pen,

At last the nightingale’s friend,
A candle not here for long,
But here for the ascending comes above time itself,
We are caught between the notes of this beautiful song,
And his tones the strings of Endymoin’s violin

Dreaming in the shaded walkways of even beneath the summer’s heat,
Inspires in the poet, the most beautiful dreams.

Memories Of Modernity /  by Laurence Fuller

This series is bound together by the mystery of travel and adventure. A surrender to the universe, in an unspoken bond that we will be given clues as to our destination if we look deeply enough into the poetry of life ~ to hear all the movements of existence as a poem, to see all the world as a work of art that unfolds.

"Tell Me More" represents a day in New York City ~ two people finding their way through the labyrinth of the streets, its' history and its future. Finding through the city’s gardens what it means to know oneself and each-other.

The poetry was written like a journal as I stopped by cafes and park benches always with a notepad in my pocket. The people I met like characters in a novel or film and the things they said part of one long narrative that flowed like a river.

TELL ME MORE

A voice that whispers,

Like a sage on the wind through the windows cracked with age,

Searching for answers they want it to matter,

Gather the pieces where others did shatter,

See all the petals from tulips did scatter?

Dropping from the sky like it was raining down ashes.

The fall of elation,

Euphoria’s follies in Deus creation,

Just a day in the park for Miss Polly,

Old money and something sweet,

Writing poetry in the New York heat.

The lightness of her feet,

Like a dancer without any shoes,

Loose laces, do they look loose to you?

Matches lit the flame in blue.

Guru with all the answers to the labyrinths of our mind,

To what kind of cult do you belong,

The spiritual undoing of our finely tuned song.

Over oil, steam and grated vents, they stepped to a silent music,

Missing the elevation from the pollen off the trees,

The devotees waving as they leave.

Caper simmering streets,

Echoing meeting place in the heat,

They stopped by the tulip beds to rest,

Buds that keep pattering by the beating of her chest,

Morning in a poet’s corner,

Printing metaphors of each other,

Impressions on paper,

Nobody challenges their defiant behavior.

Rest their legs from the labor,

Baudelaire and his green fingers,

My passionate neighbor.

Is the day another way to hide the shadows?

Do the final hours before beauty is formed make up her face?

New lovers embrace,

No regrets.

A moment in France’s cabin,

Duck of any kind, what he gets is confit,

Confident cauliflowers,

And moments of bliss,

Picked up the ocean what she got was a kiss.

As they left ~ a question posted by the door, with a note beneath;

"Tell me more

Those petals told a story, but tell me more."

Laurence Fuller, 2023

Poetry, Produced and Performed by Laurence Fuller

Animated AI Art & Music by Laurence Fuller

Curated & Produced by Animus

@laurencefuller

www.laurencefuller.art/web3

An adventure from my travels to Portugal.

COSTUMES TO FILL by Laurence Fuller

A great shuddering chandelier,

Beneath pearls drop like ancient tears,

Toes on the edge daring their fears,

Eyes of sparkling onyx,

Which pulled them in with a promise,

Skin like a glistening shell,

Past reflections of the deepest well,

Mysteries dancing on the balances of the lines of her lips,

Marquees left it all for the talents and her gifts, 

Circling the wheels of time,

The distant silhouette of a kiss,

Through mirrored doors and colorful bells,

A velvet coat, his fabrics draped and felt,

The hem between her fingers.

Before she left the room,

The faintest scent of perfume,

Her youth in full bloom.

What is a word worth,

On the edge of this world,

A shadow which hangs from his lapel.

Memories of a headdress by the tomb of an angel,

Contained 12 pins, each one pricked by the small drops,

Those first gems of the sea.

Weaving tapestry of her garments,

Curtains hang from the glass door where she leaves,

That fate kept them inch by inch closer to the trenches,

Where young soldiers, ships and the remnants of a great adventure.

Where few sacrificed all for their nation,

Hearts beating across the land in unison,

Mirrors reflecting stories of the lives they lived behind the glass.

The hours preserved without beating hearts,

But a costume to fill,

With skin and scars.

To journey to that fountain,

The spring which boils so hot,

Where passions overwhelm but a thrill to stand there so close to see it’s steam rise,

They risk it all to touch.

Laurence Fuller, 2023

Animated AI art & music ~ Sound, Poetry, Produced and Performed by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller

www.laurencefuller.art/web3

Pigeons know the city's secrets and they pass messages to each-other about its’ rises and falls.

City speckled bird, Dusty wings covered in dirt, Black gum stained feet, The salty chips from the street.

All the city, the pigeon's mission, And it’s stories they do listen.

How much do they know, Do they read? How far do they see? The sacred above the steeple, People’s angel freeing the unfree A company of the murky valor.

The eyes and ears of the streets, Whisper their comings and goings. The flea ridden and sacred, Run the show.

Original Poetry & Performance by Laurence Fuller AI Cinematics by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller

Richard III /  by Laurence Fuller

Gammatrace x Laurence Fuller (Directed by Vincent D'Onofrio)

“My work with Gamma has been a contemplation on the craft of acting in Contemporary Digital Art, and new depths that working in this way helped me to discover about this classic. The substance of performance is changing, the mediums of the human soul, though some things are always constant. Gamma and I find ourselves at this forefront rediscovering Shakespeare’s classic in an entirely new way. Traditions are uprooted by technology and yet resurrected.

Where one face exists, another is shown ~ Richard III gave us a glimpse at the madness that power can bring, to even undo his own family and peers at the expense of climbing the next rudder on the ladder. To take his credit at the throne on the backs of the fallen. And we with each succeeding generation find ourselves standing on those same backs, yet returning to them once again to claim their robes ~ either in triumph or in humility.”

The 67th 'Festival dei Due Mondi' -

Exhibit Dates: June 28 - July 14

Location: Palazzo Collicola,

Produced by @valuartdotcom

Val Kilmer Collaborations ~ Portrait Series /  by Laurence Fuller

“Sand” was Val Kilmer’s audition piece for Juilliard, which resulted in him gaining acceptance as the youngest student ever admitted to their drama department. Halfway through the line “I’m sorry can I start over”, when his auditioners responded he knew he had done a convincing job of delivering a believable performance. Val then went on to become one of the most prolific actors of his generation. This piece is an expression of the beginning of Val’s journey as both an actor and poet, really the only choice for Val’s SuperRare Genesis.

Home footage of Val as a young actor in training appears from the shadows of this portrait of Val performing his iconic role of the poet rocker Jim Morrison by the accomplished painter Michele Petrelli @michelepetrelli https://superrare.com/mpetrelli The Award-Winning actor poet Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller gives voice to these words and produced the new media aspects of the piece. https://superrare.com/laurencefuller Produced by BLKPRL Studios @BLKPRLStudios & Kamp Kilmer @kampkilmer

Acquired by Misan Herriman for Tezos Foundation Permanent Collection for 10,000xtz

"Rocked in the rhythm of the train sway" Val Kilmer's Tezos Genesis ~ Original poem “Bird Poetry” by @valkilmer Animated painting by Tania Rivilis @tania_rivilis Produced and Performed by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller Produced by Kamp Kilmer @KampKilmer

The follies of youth reflected in memories as man faces the eternal, what will he say? This piece is an iconic collaboration between Val Kilmer @valkilmer, Tomer Peretz @TomerPeretzart, and award-winning actor poet Laurence Fuller @LaurenceFuller. A true collaboration, the conception of this brilliant piece was started at Peretz’s studio where he meticulously oil painted Kilmer on canvas as “incomplete”. The piece was then delivered to Kilmer who wrote an original poem inspired by the piece, and painted and signed by hand onto the canvas. Once complete, the spoken word, performed by Fuller, was incorporated, and the mixed media cinematic elements were constructed to bring the essence of the masterpiece to life.

Original poetry and painting by Val Kilmer @valkilmer Painting by Tomer Peretz @TomerPeretzart Performance & Mixed Media by Laurance Fuller @LaurenceFuller Produced by BLKPRL Studios @BLKPRLStudios & Kamp Kilmer @kampkilmer https://superrare.com/tomerperetzart https://superrare.com/laurencefuller

A mind melts away ~ dissolving within the loss and pain of a Utopian society. The fatty iris, swirls to create the illusion of man in his creation ~ a poetic portrait of truth, dropping to the floor with its ideals. Dripping on sanded lips, it will be a different day in heaven. Poetry by Val Kilmer Digital Portrait by Ilya Shkipin Animation by Mihai Grecu Music & Performance by Laurence Fuller Produced by Laurence Fuller Produced by BLKPRL Studios

SOHO ~ Live Immersive Performance /  by Laurence Fuller

With a new Immersive cinematic poetry piece coming to Lume Studios on September 27th ~ I reflect back on the SOHO Immersive Performance earlier in the year.

1/1 Now Live On Transient Labs (4 ETH)

SOHO Collection has been curated in;

The Verse Verse in collaboration with the Estate Of Allen Ginsberg,
Lume Studios and Stellar Gallery during NFT NYC,
Etyett for Crypt Gallery at the Dream Hotel in Manhattan,
Artcrush in Times Square & Ghent,
Nolcha Galleries during NFT NYC,
Neuronexus Exhibition,
Art Beat by Xcollabz in Lisbon,

SOHO was originally written in collaboration with The Verse Verse and the estate of Allen Ginsberg ~ inspired by my trips to New York, the people I’ve met and adventures I’ve been on. Red bricks and terraces contrast a New York street from any other. The rain is always present, wether falling or in potential. But there is a soul to this city as if it were a poet to all the world. When Ana Maria Caballero, Sasha Stiles and Elisabeth Sweet contacted me to contribute a poem to After Ginsberg I was at the time roaming the streets of Soho writing poetry. I swiftly acquired a copy of “Gates Of Wrath" from a booksellers on the streets of Brooklyn. Ginsberg saw in his poetics, as in his collection “Gates Of Wrath” which takes its name from the poem by William Blake;

“To find the Western path,

Right thro' the Gates of Wrath,

I urge my way;”

SOHO exhibited at the Crypt Gallery at the Dream Hotel in Manhattan, curated by @Etyett

Comparing those gates to the gates of Manhattan, walking through its sun drenched streets ~ in the Spring which May at any point turn to grey. At times Ginsberg spoke of a writhing hell in Manhattan as much as cascading angels. It was for him the devil’s parlour. I saw that parlour too and sat on its couch, its smoke filled rooms of a culture on the tides of change.

Ginsberg was at a vital part of that tide in his time. Where structures of tradition, perhaps the best of tradition was overhauled by the radicalisation of the changing times. Poetry was protest, love was protest, humanity was protest. 

Soho came at a time when for me I felt lost wandering New York without direction ~ but for where the street guided me and the promise of digital art I thought if romance fell from the sky, it must land on the streets of Soho and those pavements where Ginsberg tread, outside the theatre down Broadway. Below were the pigeons perched on bronze sculptures that changed in the sunlight throughout the day. 

I wondered into bars throughout Manhattan with my poetry book in hand and visits to the Chelsea Hotel ~ accompanied at times by the curator Haiver as we discussed the state of digital art, whiskeys in hand.

At the time I was releasing the Fable exhibition with SuperRare ~ I felt as if a transformation was occurring, and once it did the world world around had changed. I had changed, things would never be the same, and poetics of my life. I saw the city and its people in a chorus of poetry unlike any other. The buildings touched the skyline and Ginsberg’s ghost whispered to me of a letter I had not sent.

Below is that letter.

The first live reading of SOHO during Art Basel Miami with theVERSEverse

SOHO

Poems by Laurence Fuller

1/1 Now Live On Transient Labs (4 ETH)

Burlesque where I went that day,
Through the smoke and pink,
Red and black lingerie,
It’s left and ran away,
To the dance floor, to dance all day,
I write the ending on each page,
Write in hopeless decay,
She arrived and went away,
It’s unlike everything on display,
Staring at the flower of the faded stained and hopeless hour,
Redress the red dress,
Garters stretched across soft skin,
A potent pink flesh,
A single sweet intoxicating voice trembles in the seductive silence,
Like a hummingbird’s tweet in a volcanoe’s chaos,
Bizarre disturbance like a flaming cross,
Into the wretched gardens where we lost,

Umbrella’s shade hides the despair,
hides the raincoat of violence,

Secret rooms where they exist,
Find you in the parlor of the rubrics cube boudoir,
Pipes and libraries,
Serpents and time burning
Spurned to the last this club’s hurting my eyes,
Dusted the cupboards well enough surely
Desire, lined up by a house of lies,

It seems so sweet,
Though tinged with the devil’s hashish
I will pull you under
Where the merchants peddle their feet
Above the devil’s conceit

Stuck in the halls,
The blank pages,
Rusted frames on the walls,
My own note could be the mark of the sages

Enough of the pigs trough through the pages

I know what I’ve done
Capital down the sink,
Capital on the run,

Circles on the pages,
Ashes in my drink,
Cigarettes in the sink,
Painters friends and myrtle,
Worried so they think,

I climbed the walls of the museum,
And visit the visions,

Pure splash of paint,
Pure chains of fate,
Paint the relish of subconscious tastes,

Odalisque why was there dark patches
Wondering alone with a notepad and pen
Carrying these lonesome bags
Where is happiness in the bricks and stains

I’m never scared
Never hoping
Doesn’t care
Silence is broken
As I walk down Mayfair

Paintings stacked from the floor,
Much of the time, I’m at their door knocking for hours,
Lost in limbo,
Cello struck a chord,
It’s bow damp in the twilight,
It’s player dripping from rain,
Suits soaked and puddles in the floor boards,

Have I become such an arbiter of degradation,
Sectioned off by the yellow lines at the train station,
Never met her shadows in the park,
Because it was too dark already,
Madeline maiden, of the darkest arts,
Stumbled at the start.

Burnt perfume thick with lavender oil,
The pastiche black, colors of a geisha’s umbrella
I loved her, in my own sick way
I wanted her, still perhaps to this day
It’s easy to take shots at a man in love, for we love in secret
The mirrors always in front of our eyes
Guilty by suspicion and always suspect in disguise,
But still I smile
Maybe it’ll be good enough this time,
I feel like I’ve done my best,
I left my stool at the burlesque,
An aging ticket fell from my pocket,
We can put it all to rest,
Holy and entropic,
Close to my chest.

ICE CREAM

The sun in Soho melts the ice creams of all that pass by,

It melts the smiles on all their faces and melts the ice in their coffee,

It melts the sound from all the instruments of a street choir roaring melodies of this city,

The sun’s dust gathers in piles,

All the clouds in the sky floated like puffs of ice at sea,

And the ice bergs at sea like mirrors reflected,

As you and I saw in eachother the earth like shattered glass that floats on the surface of this life,

Lillies in a pond of consciousness we float too as the sun shares its presence with us,

For what eclipses, what shines off the ice that’s glinting,

Some hope of a portal into paradise,

The garden where we reside,

Is that through the iris perceive,

The true flowers from the weeds,

Strawberries on the vine, give all your beauty unto me,

As we lay basking in the sun beneath,

Our fingers dripping wet with ice cream.

Contact to inquire about acquiring this 1/1 on Ethereum via Transient Labs

Destiny by Laurence Fuller /  by Laurence Fuller

His stories echoed in my ears,
Their tickling with sorrowful cheers,
Of the faun I once was now drifting away.
Fading with the silhouette of who he was for years,
Small figures twisted from clay,
Played out the theatre of dreams washed away,
Broken branches left in my wake,
Unto the river to cleanse my thoughts, at the break of day.
The rising sun reflecting off the water’s face,
Aphrodite’s daughters were bathing in the lake,
Sheets of falling crystals shattered in the pool,
She was the eyes of the forest,
And it’s downwards spiraling iris compelled my very being to its centre,
A frozen stream at the core of its soul,
Grasped my feet, my calf, my body in whole,
As it dove with me through the dancing shadows of eternity.

In that deafening darkness I heard a voice,
So sweet it could pierce a leviathan’s roar,
Let alone the dull droning of the abyss that obscured,
The eels and catfish from my gazing,
At its beautiful source,
The Queen in all her glory,
Her presence divine, her whispers that story,
Of a place where poetry was all of life,
She gave me an amulet,
This piece, this piece I held in my hand,
The piece itself, a map of the land,
A vessel for the spirit’s release,
Just like the King Of Paradise,
Had told me in ghost-like reflection,
But who was this faun that now sat on his throne?
Who thinks he basks in paradise reborn,
But doesn’t he know all around him are spies,
They send word, back to the King of Paradise,
And they watch through covetous eyes,

“Enter the library,
For what awaits inside,
A thousand years since Elysium fell,
Scrub off the rust,
In tournament you will thrust,
Hold it to the light,
It is the omen of your life,
Beacon to Elysium,
To it’s call you must stride,
Emerge from the forest,
Like the ghost of night.
The King is falling,
Take Paradise.”

It was then I heard soaring beating wings on the wind,
Growling paws thumping on the forest floor,
Where did this amulet fall from?
From where did it come?
Increasingly, my thoughts turn to destiny.

For what comes to me is my own,
And the prophecies of this big wide world,
Fall at the shore of a reaching unknowable ocean,
But that abyss in the distance began to form both shape and sound,
Like a ship that peered from the great beyond,
Followed by legions of voices,
Caroling with passion,
A chorus of Romantic roars that bellowed its chants to Elysium,
The sound of a great billowing cause,
Beauty rising with the dawn,
We shall rally and tumult at the grey falling skies.
For they scuffed and fought for the lord of the fauns,
And then raising my fist for that lord is I,
Dust and clamor at desire for this life,
In tribute to the heavens, for that time is ours.
With wreathes of roses adorned they let their bellows howl at the moon.
Elysium was ours for the taking,
At the fall of day we did run, carrying the thorns, the stem and all,
We met the followers and climbed up the heights,
And savored the day for the lions and wolves.
From that vantage I saw, a life that did shine,
Scaled the citadel walls,
The parlor of Gods and Monsters of chariots all of fire,
The falling wheel spins in wonder and the birds chimed with desire,
A sudden burst of feeling as if death crossed our eyes and existence sprang anew, an eternal sacrifice,
Elysium was overrun with the bastions of beauty,
They scoured and tasseled and felt the ornaments and sculptures and paintings,
They shuddered, dripping with power,
For paradise was ours.

~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

CONCEPT

The concept for “Destiny” evolved partly from the painting “Nymphs and Satyr” by William-Adolphe Bouguereau. One of my favorite paintings, and I see it recurring everywhere in my adventures. I had always wondered what would happen when the nymphs do eventually pull him under the water. Today we find out. He discovers the Queen of the nymphs and she hands him an amulet that shows him Elysium and a world he passionately desires. I write my poetry by hand ~ because my love for handmade beauty, is still stronger than ever. Technology and AI actually takes me further in this love, for when the human touch becomes symbiotic with technology is when things become interesting. I think this has always accounted for my love of cinema too. When surrounded by the artworld as a child, I felt myself within a lived experience of the paintings that surrounded me and I dreamt of them moving, and of great adventures within the picture frame. I would sit up close to the television and imagine myself within a greater world that was expansive beyond. And around me the static paintings on the wall spoke to me in a different way, they questioned me, and impelled me to write. I cannot bring myself to write poetry on a screen, only pen to paper. And with pen to paper I wrote this story. It began with “Elysium Awaits In Bliss” ~ (acquired by @basileus_eth)

An antique dealer’s nephew comes upon his uncle’s latest project, a painting that comes to life and shows him a vision of the King Of Paradise fallen into a state of complacency and Elysium crumbles around him. In the next chapter of “King’s Faun” (acquired by @comfydevil)

A faun lost in the first comes upon the ghost that claims to be the King Of Paradise and tell him of some haunted visions he had. Next in “Paradise Reigns” an army of fauns descend on Elysium and behead the disgraced King taking over and doing what they will, a bacchanal of pleasure ensues. "Destiny" finds again that faun from “The King’s Faun” soon after his encounter with the ghost as he wanders to the lake. This story draws from a rich tapestry of mythological and fairy tale elements, painting a narrative that is both timeless and contemporary. The faun, a recurring figure in my work, serves as a symbolic vessel, navigating the turbulent waters of fate and the quest for paradise. His journey, filled with moments of revelation and confrontation, mirrors our own struggles with identity, purpose, and the pull of destiny. To bring this vision to life visually, I used AI to create cinematic fine art with a painterly touch. The result is an immersive, dreamlike landscape where poetry and visual art converge. This approach allowed me to capture the ethereal quality of the story, with visuals that echo the depth and emotion of the words. It’s a reminder that even in an age of rapid technological advancement, the essence of art—its ability to move, inspire, and connect—remains rooted in the human experience.

Specters Triptych /  by Laurence Fuller

 “Here lies one whose name was writ in water,” ~ is the quote written over John Keats’ gravestone. 

There are beings who live inside of us, & yet walk beyond our mortal grasp. These specters, like the phantoms of a dream, dance between the veil of life & death. Shadows that neither dwell in the past nor entirely in the present. In poetry, they are the figures who carry the weight of what is unseen ~ those fragments of soul that whisper in our ear, beckoning us toward truths half-known & worlds forgot. 

Specters are those fleeting thoughts, the melancholic stirrings of an autumn wind, the moment between breath & silence. They are the very essence of life’s impermanence, & through poetry, we lend them form, as though the act of creation allows them to slip for a moment from the abyss.

Specters are not merely the shadows of our emotional landscapes, but the echoes of human potential, or what he might call; entelechy. These phantoms represent the dynamis, the potentiality that is ever within us, never fully realized but always present. To encounter the specter in poetry is to confront the essence of what we might become. It is to understand that we, too, are shadows cast by the forms of our highest selves. Specters are our teachers, pointing us not toward death, but toward life, urging us to reconcile with our unrequited dreams & desires.

Specters, then, are figures of great duality. They walk the lines between absence & presence. They are those which we both fear yet miss, the reflection of all we have lost, & all we may one day gain. They are the lover glimpsed in a dream, the lost friend whose great voice we cannot forget, the distant stars that twinkle not in the skies nor the heavens, but in the deepest thumping beats of the heart. And as we encounter them in poetry, we are asked to bear witness to their liminality, and in doing so, we ourselves are called to reckon with the fragile boundaries of our existence.

Specters are not mere figments. They are the poets' gift ~ the embodiments of longing, regret, & desire. They remind us that while we may walk in flesh, there is much within us that resides in the realm of shadows. To embrace them, then, is not to surrender to death, but to accept the preciousness of life. They are, as Keats said, “a joy forever,” and yet, like all joy, they are as fleeting as the breath that carries their name “greatness”.

There is no magic any more,

That time is done,

What was concealed is a wide open door,

You see the doves fly, their wings cover all the sun,

For when they flap again I’ll see your shining face revealed,

And what it was all for,


There is no magic anymore,

You’ve seen it all before,

Read it in books,

Watched the shows,

Seen the unimpressed looks,

They clap obediently at celebrities,

Because everyone else is taken,

Their half sunken eyes wanting something more,

More than makeup and shadows,


There is no magic anymore,

The ringmaster is a bore,

He unravels the same fate,

From the games he played before,

Put him too the task,

Ask questions not of the future but of the past,

For he has no North Star.


I learned my tricks from the devil himself,

Wore his cards on my sleeve,

My heart in my vest pocket,

And you think you’ve seen them all,

But you haven’t seen this one yet.


Who is the magician?

And who is the mark?

We watch in wonder,

At who was from the start,

A big surprise on the table,

Not a snake bite to predict,

Not a chess piece too soon,


Now listen to this fable,

Because you haven’t seen this trick before.

A cinematic poetry collaboration between NurArt and Laurence Fuller.

Visuals by @NurArt_

Poetry by @laurencefuller

Something felt different this year,

A visitor brought a specter which never left,

And it grew and grew and grew,

Until the whole garden was subsumed;

With a light from the spirit,

Which glowed like music,

And glistened everything with it,

The air felt different,

Reflections off the window shine brilliant,

The very ground tingled between my toes,

Frost was all broken,

Engraved his name in the snow,

The smile on his face was radiant and changed,

When he spoke it drew blood from a stone.

I could hardly believe it was the voice of a man,

Though the day felt longer, we all grew younger,

And sticky sap from blackberries dripped,

The garden felt different this year.

I heard laughter from the shadows;

“Follow me I’m over here!”

~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller.

Minted for FakeWhale's "Art Market" exhibition.

Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller

laurencefuller.art

Do you speak to ghosts?

How do you know?

I speak to them,

And watch them glow,

They’re everywhere,

They’re everyone that you know,

They’re all around.

You’ll see them everywhere in the shadows,

I read their words in the doctrines and manuals they left on the tables of

Look at what they left behind,

I think they’re still here,

In the ecstasy of death,

We leap like giants from our skin

All the while the angels sing.

Do you speak to ghosts?

Do you speak to them?

In the ecstasy of death,

We leap like giants from our skin,

All the while the angels sing.

The bells around my morning,

When they have tendered been,

The rake next to the cobbled walls,

The merchants bask in sin,

I think of all the travels of our ancestors,

And the stakes they claimed at last.

To build their homes and make their mark upon the mast.

When the person is out of body,

And the world is fractured in time,

The location unify our spirits is in the sacred wine,

They speak to others and to us, through the vessels of our being,

Memories are the bedrock of a world beyond our own.

Where ghosts are made at the omens place,

And question Kings upon the throne.

I often wonder if I am a ghost,

And I cannot transcend,

I speak to the living as they question my existence.

Hosted by the Holy Ghost

And it’s choir’s rendition,

A parade of the fallen,

Walks in our lives,

We are their ghosts,

And time is our conductor,

~ Laurence Fuller, 2024

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller.

Minted for FakeWhale's "Art Market" exhibition.

Original poetry, performance, sound, AI cinematics by @laurencefuller

laurencefuller.art

FIELDS OF MORNING /  by Laurence Fuller

In collaboration with Kesja Tabaczuk, adapted from the exhibition (at Arcadia Contemporary from July 11 - 31) ~ the digital collection will launch on Sedition on July 24th.

Each digital artwork was adapted from the paintings of Kesja Tabaczuk and the poetry of Laurence Fuller.

Fields Of Morning is about our connection to all the world around us, as creators and poets of each moment. About presence and the beauty of being alive.

The first steps that we take out into the fields each morning with the rising sun, on our road back home again to self discovery. The Lyca character is loosely based on a series of poems by William Blake.

I first came across Kesja Tabaczuk’s work on social media, the precision and careful deliberation of her works were counterbalanced by elements of the absurd. These wondering wild animals and half finished birds, questioned the mundane.

These masterful portraits, left an open space that was an opportunity for poetic storytelling.

Figurative painting in our time has become more rare and special with the reduction of all art to the instant. Yet we know there are some instants in our lives which rest in our memories with more potency and contemplation than others.

When all you have is sentiment, the imagination has even greater weight than life itself. The world around becomes an extension of our inner lives. And beauty echoes back to us ~ a paradise in this life.

When we were young the fields of the morning find in early memories of Mother Nature, our true potential.

My Sister was lost when we were young,

She was lost in the forests and by the lake,

There was a buzzing sound as she walked over those bridges and thought those thoughts,

But through the parks and brushes they swayed,

I was sad, I missed the things she would say,

I missed the games she would play,

Although sometimes in my heart she would sting,

Like a beautiful wasp,

And in pain I would sing,

For how happy I was that she gave me that kiss,

Though it was tipped in poison, I lay down in bliss.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Those fires raging in our blood,

They burn through the years,

And embers may heat the furnace of their tongues, 

But some flames never dull their lashings,

Not even with cool niceties of song birds,

Lyca knows this,

She knows her matches they lit,

She went out to the red wood forest,

And it was then fell their many fears,

To a pool of elemental heat,

In her pursuit of all the corners of California,

Lyca’s father was an angry man,

She wanted to teach him what love meant,

With something he could understand,

A fire to match the flames he had sent,

Though his bonfires roared at the first gust of wind,

There was something more that he could not contend,

The benefit of time.

For though his scolding did sear with marks that scarred,

Not every mark did mend,

Her abandonment would last as long as it would take, 

Her affections were hers to give and this he must learn for good,

Even if it meant an everlasting burn,

Smoke filled up every corner of the wood,

For her fires would last much longer.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

The years have passed now, Lyca’s a little older,

The city’s bigger than that little village that controlled her,

Faster she ran, on streets cold and stark, No village lanes, etched in memory's dark. 

Coursing through the cafes, shops and madness of the night,

Her independence worth more,

For that she would fight,

Press her feet to the ground by the bridge that sped by all its passengers mid call,

As she looked over the edge, she could stand, or she could fall,

How much further was it to the ground?

Would it feel like floating,

Gazing below, a choice stark and bare, 

To stand in the storm, or fall to the air.

Or would that landing make a sound?

That wind it blows her hair through the streets of New York City,

Lyca’s father was an angry man and forced her to carry his bags,

He said he loved her like the blowing sands across the desert,

Before she opened that door he asked; 

“Are you sure you want to die by that sword?”

She replied;

“I am the sword”

Lyca could bear his crooked ways no further,

She ran to where he could not hurt her,

His legacy, built on the backs of the weak, 

A love for the nation, and its soil,

Ghosts penned his story, in blood-stained disguise, No prologue of pain, in truth's honest eyes.

But that prologue is written in blood.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Sweet to me, 

Though drowsy wanderers pass by in mystery,

The night floods in from their absence and suddenly; 

Many more join in raucous roars,

To interrupt our whispers in the corner.

Stories of the ocean floor,

And when the night has fallen,

You grace to me an open door, to paradise,

When all the world banal,

Wether good or bad, naughty or nice,

Freedom is our canal. 

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Strikes in the sun,

War for frivolity, 

Contemplate this stubborn mystery,

Each person their own labyrinth by the sea,

People revel by the beach,

While palaces rest easy and speak, 

Carnival of the soul,

We are beyond this world,

We are of the soil, sand, strength, beauty and resilience,

Simply Summer son and daughter as he sings to us,

Wisdom rows the lakes.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

There’s a cupboard in our past,

It’s full of all the art that didn’t last,

Nor fell by leave of grass,

And printed on the flag upon the mast,

All the things we whispered over suppers,

And decades sketched journals, books and buried treasures,

Wrought with meaning in their placement,

Boxes packed and unpacked in the basement.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

A parrot sits on her shoulder, 

It recounts the volume of chapters she wrote, each day the things she could never say herself,

The mercenaries who knocked on her door and the darkest caverns of wealth,

She knew where it all was buried and where all their stories were written.

She dared not speak a word but the parrot saw all those visions,

Where the farmer sowed seeds and the wretched made those decisions,

The parrot then did speculate, the parrot then did listen,

Not green at all were its feathers darkened by the years.

She knew all their reckonings, she knew all their fears,

The parrot knew their wants.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Thoughts of them in Lyca’s elation.

In every new sensation. 

God of the sun,

Sun of the earth,

The mountains in the Summer ~ shelter more than you may know. 

By the shade that is the greatest heights,

Even in the snow,

For when snows glowing from the light. 

The radiance to and fro. 

By the lion with its main of gold,

And guards its gardens until night.

She drops those daises by his feet and wishes for them right,

The only place that they can grow,

For the deserts arid by the desert wind as it blows,

There is a beacon in the sky.

That this world could not deny,

Something rallies us to its glow and its glow is bright, 

Something we can never know,

Lyca what the pride has in store for us tonight.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Try to remember the clouds,

They carry the sky above their shoulders,

When they fall they form of water, because water seeks the lowest ground,

Rumbling skies pass the crescent moon,

She passes the shore like the sea’s daughter,

And her shadows gone too soon,

Holding on to the last breathe,

Hold back all her thoughts with every step,

Permission she asks for every word to speak,

The clouds this morning were nowhere to be seen.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Imagine a people who speak a language without words,

Who create a location in the human soul with their intention,

And that place they make is called beauty,

Beauty isn’t your kitsch Christmas cards and candy wrappers

It’s the last breathe your great grandfather took as he watched his last sunset.

You’ll breathe that sunset too, we all will.

Beauty is unforgiving,

It’s with you on the most unexpected evening,

And gone again as soon as you see it.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

 By the desert trees and through the 

End of the dwelling caves that close

Lyca sees through that far horizon

That they proclaim she doesn’t know

And every grain whips up what she came for,

Patches of sand that were ruined by the constructs of man

The time that passed by,

Step forward and their right answer is written in the land

Climb the heights, wear the golden band

They’re not so far away, 

They twinkle in the eyes of the great landscape before her,

In the distance Lyca heard the lion’s roar 

As the big cat folded over its paw

Much louder than before

The call Lyca was hoping for

The desert wind blows, even louder than before

Let it take you, as it carries the lion’s roar

You are destined for much more,

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

On the run from her parents' home.

She could not find the beginning from where she started,

though the lines kept her safe throughout the night.

From where the tigers run the word,

It passes from one today, to another the next. 

The word of Lyca’s walking at day's rest.

Her parents, the friend of the gentry,

Who spread word throughout the land.

Where had their daughter wandered,

Or was she carried by the sand, 

A wild spirit not made for courtly life, 

Though one day she will settle they said, 

And this her fate was writ.

They spoke of distant mysteries from shores they'd never visit, 

Of rules they made, in worlds that only they permissed.

A tapestry of conventions,

To hide their true intentions.

Time to break those casts for her own invention.

Collaboration with Laurence Fuller and Kesja Tabaczuk

Night & Day /  by Laurence Fuller

These past couple weeks have seen my spiritual ruptures that brought me to my knees.

I was absent from my life and from even exhibitions that were calling for my presence. I had wondered, but not through forests, through the jungle of man that was Los Angeles.

My home became the cocoon of a new blooming idea that came from the death of a self that sat on my chest. An ego death, that was not my first. The casting out of the bad habits that kept me addicted to the unobtainable and inhabitable side to my spirit that no longer belonged in my home.

Night was created for FakeWhale’s “Art Market” exhibition

Do you know my name?
Do you know me?
For I am your mischief,
And there are none who call me master,
Only those I wish to make believe,
As you read in my diary.
Prophecy is writ on signs that are parades in your honor that my name will be there in less than score, but ten years.
And when they stitch my name above that frame where his once was,
It will my crown be framed.
I may break the glass of this mirror I stare into,
Like a screen in front of my visage that shows me untamed.
Breaking my reflection.

Simple has no place in the plotting journals of my rise to unimaginable fame and glory,
Unlike any that came before me,
Surprise the veil of my protection,
Deny their affections.

For I will paint their portraits no more,
But paint my own and say it is in their honor,
Let them think they hold the reins and catch their good favors as it rains.

Redact their language they one day learned for their own March,
To their own throne,
I will block their path with rocks and stacked toys and puppets that may dance,
Impossible to grab.

And pay credit to the master,
Though his likeness be not worth a penny.
Tend to those who have the countenance to be nice,
I wish I was one.
People think I am nice,
But I know not why,
Maybe it is because I have blue eyes.
But stare long enough into them,
And they stare back into you. 

I am compelled to prove ~ to all and make the world my oyster that I might sup it clean.
For when I am immersed and supper was the world,
Then I dined as a fiend.
My celebrity will mask all, especially my subtle treachery.
Nice be my countenance and all the while success is written in prophecy.
False only to that smile that I bely,
May it seem an angel’s twinkle in my eye.

They may smoke the weeds,
I encourage them,
The places of sin be my dwelling places and I will gode them in.

They used riches as carrots strapped in front of mine possession and the dropping pennies I leave behind.
My tongue it speaks the language of different lands as I fit in one of the people,
Alike my fellow man.

And all those languages twist over one another but they tell the same story ~ a villain is who I am.
The snakes that I embody, allow them to turn about my hands.
Conspire this system to my favor,
A villain's tapestry,
My life unfolds,
A web of twisted threads where darkness binds.

Devils lurk at every turn,
Ready to punish for deeds both foul and dire.
Is this the price of power?
An endless, burning pyre?

I shall not shine too bright in the sunlight and my glimmer will flash rage in their squinting eyes,
And alike them too,
Should I see a shine glimmering in the water
Step on it before it gets too bright,
Make sure it drowns.

For they will reign me in,
And strap those carrots to my chin.
I will be grateful for the whip upon my skinny hide,
It’s my memory I was more vicious than you, my poison more potent and my strength more sturdy.
My oak trunk didn’t move an inch each time you pushed and pushed and tried so hard to push.
I bade my time, did you know what cauldrons I had in the fire?
Or did you just assume?

For who did you think it would not end well?
As your crown rocks back and forth at my feet,
All I need do now ~ is reach down,
Time is my friend,
Not yours,
And time will unfold,
Whether you like it or not.
When did he claim to be gracious or nice,
Do you remember?

Come closer,
Get to know me,
Because one day I will learn,
How to feel remorse,
Because I am not finished yet.

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller
Original poetry and performance by Laurence Fuller
Visuals & Music aided by AI by Laurence Fuller
Minted for FakeWhale’s “Art Market” exhibition
@laurencefuller


When that purge of the compulsive relationship is bound to an imaginary self, and the two feed off eachother. And it’s when that purge begins that the devil makes his last bid for your soul.

Day was created for FakeWhale’s “Art Market” exhibition

Yesterday I found myself on my knees in front of where a cross once hung in my home.  

It is an old converted church that now has its seats as empty thrones,  

That my only hope is surrender.

That I can find a paradise in this life,  

To be good while hazard folks that walk and tred with me across my wounds that bleed,  

If I could only run to beauty and to know that road which is clear in its guidance.

My heart tells me it is by the air on the wind,  

I cannot find the right answer in any of the gargoyles in my way it’s only,  

Beauty will come hurtling towards me.  

Beauty’s in the garden of the Kingdoms that were before their time.  

It was too her voice that sent whispers to my heart that was an uncontrollable tremor in the bliss of unending splendor.

The years were caught,  

In a hanging loop on the unknown that wrapped around my foot and pulled me up to the ceiling. 

I tried and tied the knots around my legs and wished it was a plot of libels instead.  

But those ringing bells around my head they clanged a different sound I knew that was a rupture,  

That all my sound, and all my ears received through my body and my toils of worry.  

But they were the echoes of that reflection I could only crack with my sword in swooping silver.

I walked home barefoot on a road of light.  

It cast out every demon from my path at night and I was down the road of sound and hope.  

At distant shores she was not one but many until beauty met me on that road.  

Barefoot I walked,  

Mild were my clothes,  

Opportunities came not from the celebrities  

But from the mild mannered that I met,  

Who marked the wood I carried with something good,  

Something from the fruit they plucked with their own hands.  

Those who once and still deny my will,  

Now carry my steps home to Victory.

Cinematic poetry by Laurence Fuller  

Original poetry and performance by Laurence Fuller  

Visuals & Music aided by AI by Laurence Fuller  

With some painting references by Stephanie Fuller  

Minted for FakeWhale’s “Art Market” exhibition  

www.laurencefuller.art  

@laurencefuller

The illusion of the Master, is that they are one. This assumption of power is a precarious position to take. Because while the lion prowls proudly in their fields, they inevitably come upon a snake, who by all appearances is much smaller and more meek than the lion. According to Aesop should the lion choose to bat the snake with its paw, the repercussions echo much louder than a lion’s roar.

Lion & Snake was exhibited at Art Basel, 2024.

There was a lion that never learned how to use its teeth or its claws, At the first shadow of a snake it jumped and mewed and pawed, Shaking inside, just a frightened little mouse, But that shadow was just a stick, how silly he looks, how ridiculous, The lion sighs, “I never needed to learn how to fight, Upon my flesh a simple stick will not bite,” The lion laughed and rested for the night, Dreaming away and drifting through memories, In front of him a whole circus he sees. He saw himself a great ringmaster, all around they dance and sing, He held a hat and a cane, And truly believed it was for him they sang. “When I wake up, I will be the one holding the stick” He believed. But when morning broke those singers turned to birds in the trees. And it turned out it was not for him at all that music was playing. In anger he roared, “Where’s my stick?!” He sauntered over and picked it up, hoping to reclaim his cane. But wait, it was more scales than he had imagined, not hard at all. It was the snake after all, and it bit deeper with a poison that felt like fire coursing through his veins, more pain than he had ever imagined, his blood turned to flames. The lion roared… and then… collapsed. The bird’s songs went on, and day past into night and time passed. The snake had waited for its chance, throughout the night, It did wait and wait for the lion to grab the bait. Adapted from the fable by Aesop ~ by Laurence Fuller @laurencefuller

In Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”, the wizard Prospero subjugates the native creature Caliban to a life in a shadows. Though he teaches him language, what Caliban does with that language, for better or worse is his choice.

Created in collaboration with Von Doyle.

Paradise Reigns /  by Laurence Fuller

I want to tell a story. It is about the big parade ~ NFC Lisbon.

My biggest thanks for all that transpired in Lisbon must go to these pioneers in live digital art John Karp and Grida.

My first discussions with John Karp regarding NFC Summit were all about where this medium becomes most compelling, when it pulls out the dreams of our subconscious into being and surrounds the audience, we’re all seeing the lights shining of this new medium.

Cinema, poetry, fine art, and live performance. The first opera was coined by pulling together these disparate art forms into a synthesis that lived aesthetic experience beyond a solitary screen, perhaps beyond the still painting which sits idle though beautifully instigating the imagination of the viewer as it may do.

John and I discussed for weeks the power of the live experience, in the arena of digital art  that has become NFC Lisbon ~ where artists go to battle in that Amphitheatre of art that surrounds us all. And for that moment on the stage, five screens surround, one voice is all that matters ~ one voice is all there is.

The commanding presence of live cinematic poetry performance, lives at that stage in Lisbon just once a year for three days.

The stage is a home I spend too long apart from. She is the bow of my soul, my heart & I stand with her traversing the most fervent oceans.

On the day of “Paradise Reigns” those were fervent seas indeed ~ stepping on the stage, the poetry memorized and layered images embedded in my subconscious the dream of paradise swirled around my mind and feeling, the poetry was ready to express itself outwardly through my vessel and instrument.

It was the ancients too who taught me to memorise ~ those orators that stood on street corners in Ancient Greece reciting whole sagas and epic myths through various memorisation methods. As there are many problems with the prevailing methods of acting and those of the past which dealt with the subject of memory in misguided ways, working against the natural course of human subconscious thoughts and associations. Many practitioners and self-proclaimed Kings of the craft have overlooked this ancient wisdom. That to learn from one’s own imagination and not by motor memory denying the feelings that rise up from the core of our being. That even those that Romantics could see and the likes of Lee Strasberg touched on himself in poetry;

“I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origins from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion kindred to that which was before the object of contemplation is gradually produced and does itself actually exist in the mind. In this mood successful composition generally begins, and in a mood similar to this it is carried on.”

Though that is sadly largely where both Lee Strasberg and Stanislavki’s pursuit of poetry finished, favoring more trendy techniques in psychoanalysis which suppress the human will, that have since been outdated. For there are many parts of the spirit in human beings that cannot be coded, nor predicted, but are pursued by greater depths than theories and exercises which barely scratch the surface, let alone unravel threads to make a parchment, and not nearly enough still to write a well crafted poem.

Both men acknowledged the beauty in art and in poetry and touch on the truths and depths of Romanticism but for reasons unbeknownst to me left it alone at surface level ~ when it came to pursuit of study or an integral part of the craft and practice. And no amount of time spent in the latter’s study could remedy this missing link in the method, but to pursue art wholly and fully, not just to study it, but to feel it, more-so to know it. The pursuit of art and poetry should never be finished.

Standing in front of the room filled with digital art lovers, the talk and preparation was done, the time to realize this vision was now.

Though after a stellar introduction by Dyl Blaquiere of MuseFrames as I stepped on stage though the right, left and centre screens unraveled ~ the screens in front and back were off.

I looked over at Grida, her raised to her ear as she spoke directions urgently into her microphone. I know if there was a possibility for the screens to come on at the time that Grida would make it happen.

And yet I was compelled by that wind in your eyes and ears, staring up at the brightest stars at night, propelling me to bring to life this poem. All of us experiencing the dream in a collective being.

I saw Basileus in audience, one of the beloved patrons of digital art ~ the passion in his eyes and the vision he has for our community, the strength and search for beauty.

The show must go on ~ I read the poem with half the screen blaring Paradise to a room full of fauns. My memories arise and I could feel those poetics blooming. As those giants of the soul bounded through the room on hind legs that raised them in the air.

When I came off stage John & Grida walked up to me and said “we must go again”. “Let’s play it again” they bellows to the technicians and audience alike. A microphone was plugged into my ear again and an announcement for a second screening to be played.

The screens lit up all around and we were all pulled in now. A second time, it reigned in Paradise, and we ran through those battles once more, the battles for beauty. Though the old King lay defeated on that stage that day, the long march to paradise has only just begun.

A story of satyr and soldiers of beauty, those great Romantics who came roaring through the forests to conquer Elysium.

A King whose old ways had concurred and calcified into a dry pile on the floor. Time had passed him by and what once worked for a moment in time, turned out to be the snake oil of yesterday.

And that King fell to his knees by my feet. As I held his head in my hand and removed it with my blade, like Oedipus before me, I saw in slow motion he sank to the floor and it was the end of his reign. I would like to say that’s where the story finished, but it is not finished, rather the beginning of a new era.

Even the eternal truths of the human spirit, those things that are resistant to the changing winds. That last the test of time, and time is on their side.

Those who cannot accept the oncoming reigns of paradise as their vines take root in the souls of its people and their minds and voices spoke with truth.

Until next year my memories still will cherish NFC Lisbon, from that first night I drank and dined with the Cult Of Crypto Art ~ Jaen, Olgar, George and Arthr. Jenni Pasanen, Rachel T Wood, Pronoia we all basked in that tranquil evening by the lake where swans and sculptures gave shade to the last cool shadows by the palace.

To hug and to see the shining face of my dear friend Tania Rivilis, to see her canvas depicting Val Kilmer. To stay with my dear friends Cemha and AL Crego as they worked late into the night on their immersive rooms and feel that presence of Xcollabz and Animus.

To see fellow performance artists Befe, Oona, Souline, Cyber Yuyu and Irin Angles.

Fidel’s brunch brought me closer to old friends and new, and to Leo Crane, Clare Maguire, Jean-Michel Pailhon, Blakeney Sanfrod, Ender Diril, Arthr, Nygilia, Yucai, Hannes Hummel, Trevor and Violet Jones, Ricardo Alves, Maria Fynsk Norup, Richard Masa, Medved, No Creative, Gabe Weiss, Rutger Van Der Tas, Wim, Lady Kristina, Rachel Suzanne Tien Wood, Ogar, OMGiDRAWEDit, toomuchlag, Gul Yildiz, Kika Nicolela, Roya, Jaen, Zhannet, Patrick Amadon, George Boya, Ender Diril, Arthr, Irina Koksharova, DVK, Hannes Hummel, Merve, Sanqueira.

PARADISE REIGNS

I descended the stairs of Paradise with all my brothers grasping roses by their side,
Stepping through the halls and drowned at last in light,
It was none-other than the transcendent glow of paradise,
Some fauns were lifted by the rapture,
We were all surrounded by this encounter,
I know I was one step closer to his chamber.

For those soldiers of beauty who danced down steps of gold like they were skating on heavens tiles,
Ivory chalk, they clap and clasp the reigns or tearing war elephants beneath the thunderous skies of Elysium’s stormy clouds,
The mud makes way their hoof and foot
As satyr’s claimed the sky,
and all the land was light,
Ancient and divine,
Freedom, pleasure, euphoria,
The constraint of goodness cast their chains, locks and cracked iron did not remain,
Left those burdens, like morality’s restraints. 

Sat all above the elements command,
Elysium Rex sat troubled by an addled countenance and sat upon a throne of roses.

A Babylon before him of endless gardens,
Vines wrapped around ornaments of worship,
Though the old King knew what once filled merchant’s coffers with plenty to harvest.

The vines began to dry,
And clay did crack with time,
Eroded the castle walls with rust that breached Paradise falls.

The mind can rot like broken pots,
And the scepter melts into a trough,
Filled with shells.
The body dried like sticks,
And the dance of life hardened broken promises and a picture frame of a lost queen beneath.

The King’s private songbird nipped at his grey beard and hair.

As he purveyed his crumbling kingdom like the tablets he once held so tight,
Beneath that hardened grip of might,
Fragments hanging from the gardens over the balconies.

He stares out of the window
At all the beauty now fallen to shadows
Falling irises collected by the pond he once plundered,
And lavender swayed in the breeze of war,
For they will not be seen,
Beauty captured, cataloged and owned,
Laid before the throne
Only the finest…
Only the best.

Making my way to the castle
I climb the walls and talk

“Do you feel it?
Brothers that is Paradise breathing in your bones,
The petals blooming like our hearts in arrest,

Can you feel it,
Burrowing in your soul,
It’s like all of life is dancing in the air,
The smallest sound feels like a melody in our ears,
The bugs and birds fly in synchronicity,
Higher and higher, the wind may never stop,
Rise so high they graze the clouds,
The green parade in the sky,
It was the first sign, the year had changed, forever,
And this was marked by a single falling feather,
It’s bronze reflection landed on a statue,
Dancing on marble;
Inscribed,
“Dance with me,
With your baddest electric energy,
Your arms those falling feathers,
The night moves upon your feet,
This life passes once before us,
And never again we shall meet.”

Beyond the gardens and all it sees,
Seeds from figs and fruit sprout new beginnings from every part of paradise’s soil,
My brothers bounding through its ruins, like giants of the soul.
Draped across the steps were Elysium’s daughters one and all.

I walked up to his chamber,
Each step it struck a chord,
Like climbing a harp to heaven.

He heard my footsteps on the floor
“So it was you after all”
I clutched his hair and with my blade removed his head from his shoulders,
His body fell to the floor, by my feet,
From the corner of my eye, there stood the seat,
Adorned in gold and bone,
Perishing petals in the heat fell by my feet,
As I ascend my rightful throne,
And there for the first time,
I set my hands upon the crown.

Just then the Queen appeared,
Shining like the Sun,
A new era had begun.

Graphite Method Live in NYC ~ Immersive Art & Poetry /  by Laurence Fuller

Location: Lume Studios ~ 393 Broadway, New York, NY 11211, USA

Time & Date: Tuesday, April 2 · 6 - 8pm EST

Vincent D’Onofrio and Laurence Fuller use the latest in technology combined with a good old fashion notepad and pen to create Poetic Cinematic Fine Art. An evolution in method acting and cinematic poetry in contemporary art. Currently exhibiting internationally.

Graphite Method was born out of a time where the film and entertainment industries are in flux. And technology is rapidly evolving both the arts and every aspect of our lives. 

With 60 years combined experience in the arts, Vincent and Laurence are at the forefront of nurturing the ghost in the machine. 

Traditional aesthetics and ancient forms of storytelling find new life in a very Contemporary context ~ in the heart of Manhattan, and Soho arts district. 

King's Faun /  by Laurence Fuller

Today “King’s Faun” 1/1 was acquired on Superrare by Comfy Devil

https://superrare.com/0x2f1d0f36900321b45dd28eb941841f5641143fb3/king's-faun-2

The second chapter of the Elysium Collection which tells the story of the King Of Paradise and the arcane myths that surround his kingdom. 

The first chapter Elysium Awaits In Bliss (acquired by @basileus_eth ~ https://superrare.com/0x2f1d0f36900321b45dd28eb941841f5641143fb3/elysium-awaits-in-bliss-1) tells the story of a mysterious moving painting that arrives at an antique dealers workshop. His nephew stares into the painting and it takes him to Elysium where a pleasure seeking King sleeps through the fall of his Kingdom. 

In ancient times, Myths were told by orators and in the theatre. The blind poet Homer wrote epic creation stories of the Gods and Titans that formed their societies understanding of the world that lasted for centuries and published to this day. These myths were painted in still images by the old masters. Stark sweeping realism capturing adventures of the Gods and man’s follies. 

Time remained a constant as audiences took in each detail in silence. 


The cinema captured the world as it is reflected like a mirror and filmmakers arranged the given circumstances to reflect their stories at 24 frames a second. 

Now myth, classical aesthetics in image making, performance and cinematic sequences can tell new myths ~ born and reimagined from old ones. 

The King’s Faun takes place in a forest on the outskirts of Elysium ~ where a shy yet mischievous faun gets misguided by nymphs to a glade, where he becomes enraptured by a force of nature. Strange visions appear reflecting his desires in an overwhelming symphony.

The conductor behind this fervent Bacchanalia is the King Of Paradise himself, who appears as an apparition ~ having undergone a chilling transformation and speaking in retrospect, the King wishes to tell the faun of the “labyrinth of dreams” which led him there.

Fauns have always been fascinating Gods to me. Their pursuit of pleasure for pleasure’s sake, something we’re taught is somehow wrong or taboo in our society. That each right action must have a purpose beyond pleasure. And yet the Romantics understood the value of following one's instincts to pursue those things which make us feel euphoria and that lead us somewhere beyond despair at their absence the day after. But to a path less traveled by, and onto spiritual experience.


These stories call into question the notion that art should only function as parables of morality. The right course of action may actually stem from our animal nature that intellect seeks to repress and confine.

How many other kinds of experience do we shut ourselves away from by listening to the dictation of theory? How much secret knowledge do fauns possess in their Dionysian nature?

KING’S FAUN

We remember in fragments,

Like a glass frame, 

Shattered to the last vein, at the end of a long life.

And that’s where I remember mine,

Glinting at the bottom of a well, which we call ourselves.

The forest was all I had known.

Chasing through its shadows,

That day I came upon a bronze mask, 

Unlike anything I had seen before;

A relic on the forest floor,

Glowing in the moonlight.

A rose burst into flames before its gaze,

And the crows carolled in the wind, 

For me to follow the river’s maze and drench my sins.

And for days I was lost in the forest, 

Until I came upon a nymph, 

She kissed my face to my chin, 

And I found again the taboos of sin, 

And then I heard, the voice of a king;

“To covert of our Kingdom,

The stones of our courtyard, 

Where the lavender grew,

By the gates of Paradise and all that lies waiting for you.”

I can never recede, what I saw in the forest that eve,

The King Of Paradise called me to his side.

And this is where his secrets had led him,

His back had hunched and spiralled down his spine. 

The bones made of rocks and moss and his hide as course as mine.

“There’s a life I must admit to you,

If you will hear the story of how this came to be,

It will lead you through a labyrinth of dreams.” 

by Laurence Fuller, 2024