The air in the back of the Old Poinsett Glass Gallery was thick with perfume and dust. New, freshly cut pine mingled with the scent of ozone that clung to the framing of contemporary pieces, and the old world scent of Charleston’s historic cobblestones seemed to wheel around from a forgotten antique shop across the street. Evening light filtered through the tall, narrow windows that let the gallery open like a dry eye to the old city; a faint echo of distant waves from the harbor was a reminder that the Bogue was only a stone‐throw away.
Amritella “Rita” Amritelli was pulling down the latest plaster sculptural installation of a tide, a glass colander submerged in blue light, to replace the old mural of Charles Towne’s founding. She was thirty‑one, a tolerant loose‑fisted curator whose love for handcrafted art was matched only by the delicate, ever careful way she held a password. She had spent her last dorm year in Prague, and she was still struck by the memory of the glass sealed in the bowls of wet weeping willow, and how the light could be both a mirror and a fire. She regarded it as the biggest secret of all her profession; every painting, sculpture, or text required that in possession of such knowledge—of their coloration, of their smell, of their textural memory—there, eventually, were newfound delight.
She leaned into her trusted space in the back of the gallery, her enjoying each evening of the rainy Charleston. With her svelte, wispy fingers, she was both a part of something, and alone in a lot–like. Her hands—the most exact and important to her craft—touched silently the edges of practically each piece. A delicate bracken caught in each glass seam; tiny droplets, like prime art unto them. She was so, she wanted to stay at the brim between warm patriotism, art and the notion that she lived inside a different internal world from that of a film actor watching a camera for an hour–she steered away from anti‑its much. She was certain… vibrant, and—conscience that said that fans like other mobile etc. -.
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