By Hailey Stangebye

Photos by Marshall Shorts

When Lori Lindsey enters a room her presence is distinct. From her posture to the way she shifts her weight, it’s clear that she possesses a wealth of kinesthetic awareness. That cognizant attention to movement is rooted in years of devotion to dance training.

Lori took her first ballet lesson when she was only 3 or 4 years old. Not long thereafter, she expanded her repertoire to styles such as jazz and tap. Then, after seeing the The Whiz with Michael Jackson and Diana Ross, Lori fell in love with the idea of life on Broadway.

Those aspirations came to a halt, though, before Lori reached high school.

“I overheard someone talking about me in a not-so-positive light. They said, basically, that I would never be dancer, that I don’t look like a dancer and that nobody wanted to see me on stage,” Lori says. “I took on their opinion of me and allowed it to define me. You’ve heard that phrase before: ‘Don’t let somebody’s opinion about you define you or  or your dreams.’ But I was young. And I did.”

“I took on their opinion of me and allowed it to define me. You’ve heard that phrase before: ‘Don’t let somebody’s opinion about you define you or  or your dreams.’ But I was young. And I did.”

Fortunately, Lori was reintroduced to dance as an adult. Today, she  performs professionally, and she was recently selected to participate in the Lincoln Theatre’s ‘Backstage at the Lincoln’ local artist showcase. Moreover, she was among five, local artists selected as part of the Harlem Renaissance campaign to go on a trip to Harlem.

“When I dance is when I feel most beautiful,” Lori says. “Dance is freedom. It allows me to do and be whatever I want to without apologies, without caring about anything else  or anyone else. When I dance, it’s just a release. Truly.”

“When I dance is when I feel most beautiful.”

Lori also has the ability to use her personal reflection through dance to move those that watch her perform. It’s a personally valuable experience for her, but it’s also a form of expression that she intentionally shares with her audience.

“Whenever I am honored to dance in front of other people, my goal — my intent — is to move them,” Lori say. “Whether it’s to think a different thought, to take action on something, maybe it’s just to brighten their day or to  give them hope. It’s more than steps to a song.”

“Whether it’s to think a different thought, to take action on something, maybe it’s just to brighten their day or to  give them hope. It’s more than steps to a song.”

That intention informs each of Lori’s movements, and she knows that she’s on the right path when she hears feedback from her audience.

“What really really gets me is when people want to hug me, or they’ll say, ‘This reminded me of my grandmother,’ or ‘You brought me to tears because I’ve been feeling this,’” Lori says. “That, to me, is so much more than, ‘Hey, you did a great job.’ And because I get that response on a consistent basis, I know that I am supposed to dance. I’m supposed to be dancing to change people. To move people.”

“I’m supposed to be dancing to change people. To move people.”

Lori’s recent journey to Harlem as a part of the Harlem Renaissance celebration also encourages her to push boundaries and move forward with dance. In fact, while walking the streets of Harlem, someone stopped her to ask if she was a dancer.

“I’m thinking, ‘There are thousands of dancers walking around New York all the time.’ I don’t know why this person decided to stop and ask me if I was a dancer,” Lori says. “But, looking at me, they thought I was a dancer.”

Not that someone else’s opinion would impact Lori’s work. Despite the obstacles she faced at a young age , or, perhaps, because of them, Lori encourages everyone around her to pursue their passions without fear.

“I just have this hunger to do more with my art,” Lori says. “If you dream bigger, you welcome those things into your life. And I’m starting to see that. I’m dreaming bigger. I’m working hard. I am going after more opportunities than I did in the past.”

By Hailey Stangebye

Photos courtesy of Tripp Fontane

A bus ride changed Tripp Fontane’s life.

He was leaving Dayton and heading to a poetry workshop in Cincinnati. As he settled into his seat, the older man next to him struck up a conversation.

“He looked like he was maybe in his 70s. You know, the elevator didn’t necessarily go all the way to the top floor anymore. So he was drifting in and out of the conversation,” Tripp says.

The chatter started simply enough: Where are you from? Where are you going? What do you do? Tripp said that he was a poet, and, in a twist of fate, the older man said that he, too, was a poet. The man began to list names of artists he’d studied under and his friends in the industry.

“And then he just stops and looks off into space,” Tripp says. “And he said, ‘I want you to know something. We’re doing this wrong. We’re doing it wrong.’”

Tripp, a bit caught off guard, asked what he meant.

“As that man starts to pull it together, he said something that has stuck with me and it really changed my life. He said, ‘Art. We’re doing it wrong. Art is not a right. It is a necessity by virtue of the people. Art should not be seen as a luxury, but as, instead, one of the last spiritual languages that we have left.’ And that really shook me to my core,” Tripp says. “And I believe that. I believe that art is the translation of the cosmos.”

“He said, ‘Art. We’re doing it wrong. Art is not a right. It is a necessity by virtue of the people. Art should not be seen as a luxury, but as, instead, one of the last spiritual languages that we have left.’ And that really shook me to my core. And I believe that. I believe that art is the translation of the cosmos.”

Tripp’s artistic medium of choice is spoken-word poetry. But that wasn’t always the case. While he wrote his first poem in the fifth grade, he didn’t embrace it as his vocation until college. Originally, he focused primarily on rap.

“The music I was making wasn’t necessarily appealing because it wasn’t, sonically, what people wanted to hear,” Tripp says. “I don’t consider myself a conscious artists, per se, but my music has been pretty reflective of my life and the lives of those around me. That’s just not the music that was poppin’ at the time.”

His luck changed when he decided to go to an open mic. He watched a young lady perform a spoken-word poem and, while he was familiar with the medium, it wasn’t at the forefront of his mind at the time.

“When I saw her, it kind of all came crashing back, like, ‘Ah man, if I just do one of my songs without the beat, then they don’t really have a choice but to listen.’ So I did it, and people started calling me a poet, and I still haven’t corrected them.”

“When I saw her, it kind of all came crashing back, like, ‘Ah man, if I just do one of my songs without the beat, then they don’t really have a choice but to listen.’ So I did it, and people started calling me a poet, and I still haven’t corrected them.”

Today, Tripp is a big fish with international acclaim in the spoken-word community. In fact, he was recently commissioned to write a piece that he’ll perform next year in Cuba. He’s also one of only five Columbus artists who traveled to Harlem, New York as a part of the city-wide Harlem Renaissance campaign.

That reputation didn’t bloom overnight, though. It took years of practice and persistence to overcome each obstacle he encountered.

“I think one of the huge problems I had early on was just the lack of opportunity,” Tripp says. “Spoken word is still very much underground, as popular as it has been, as popular as its getting now, it’s still a very underground thing. Which I love.

“But, in Dayton, before I became the big fish, I couldn’t get anything. The few shows that there were, no one was trying to book me. And I was performing for free, so I use the term ‘book’ loosely. I was going to Cincinnati for free. I was driving up to Columbus for free. I was driving to Indy for free.”

The limited amount of opportunities in Dayton proved all the more challenging given Tripp’s personal circumstances.

“You get used to the odds being stacked against you. I think any impoverished person, often, is reduced to survival. You don’t necessarily have the luxury of looking down the road and planning long-term,” Tripp says. “You’re really worried about whether you’re going to get this next meal, whether the lights are gonna be on tomorrow, whether you’re going to be able to keep the fridge running and put food in it, you know what I mean? So, a lot of times, I would defeat myself before I ever tried because of my circumstances.”

“You’re really worried about whether you’re going to get this next meal, whether the lights are gonna be on tomorrow, whether you’re going to be able to keep the fridge running and put food in it, you know what I mean? So, a lot of times, I would defeat myself before I ever tried because of my circumstances.”

Despite the obstacles — or, perhaps, because of them — Tripp continued (and continues) to write poetry. That’s because he sees poetry, and art in general, as essential. His craft is not a luxury. It’s a force that reflects and changes the world.

Though he doesn’t tend to dwell on the past, Tripp says that he witnesses the similarities between the Harlem Renaissance 100 years ago and the cultural climate today. He posits that we’re currently in a Renaissance of our own.

“There’s this influx of art. Everybody is picking up a camera now. Everybody is a blogger, everybody is a vlogger, everybody is a writer, everybody is a poet. There is this push against what we are told we are supposed to be, and what we’re told we’re supposed to be doing and the path that we’re supposed to take,” Tripp says. “Every revolution, every cultural shift, every societal shift starts with art. Whether that’s an orator, whether that’s a painter, whether it’s a poet, whether it’s an engineer. Everything starts with art.”

Tripp channels this momentum of revolutionary change in his poems. Not just because the words are beautifully true, and not just because he’s talented, but because art is a necessity by virtue of the people.

Tripp’s poetry is one of the many signs that we’re in a Renaissance. He says that if we’re plugged into this reality and this moment, then we can take a movement and change the course of history.

Tripp Fontane’s Work

By Hailey Stangebye

Photos courtesy of Paul Freeth

A few years ago, an American woman waltzed between the aisles of a train as it trailed across the landscape of India. She stopped at each cluster of people and asked simply, “Tea?”

The train passengers couldn’t help but grin at the sight: She didn’t know any of the languages, she didn’t know the terrain, but she stepped confidently into the unknown and sold tea because she was on a mission.

A mission for a recipe.

Michelle Allen had been traveling with her husband, Paul Freeth, through India, when they stumbled upon a tea vendor. He sold the most aromatic, heart-warming blend of chai. Michelle asked the man over and over again: “Show me how you do it.” To which, she received a defiant: “No.”

Finally, her persistence paid off, and the vendor gave her a chance to earn the knowledge she sought: “If you serve tea for me on the train for a few days, then I’ll show you how to blend chai.”

“If you serve tea for me on the train for a few days, then I’ll show you how to blend chai.”

So that’s exactly what she did. After a week, she emerged triumphant with a recipe for chai that hails directly from the source.  

Michelle brings this level of exploration and flavor to everything she creates at her Short North confectionary boutique, MMELO. Inspired by European culture, MMELO is a cafe where people enjoy coffees and sweet treats across every olfactory and sensory spectrum.

“Typically, the recipes that I try are based on some kind of experience that I had,” Michelle says. “Like our lemon and thyme marshmallow is because we spent so much time in Greece. They do pears and lemons, and thyme and lemons, and lemons and thyme, with just about everything. I got that combination of flavors in my head, and thought I’d try it in a marshmallow.”

“Typically, the recipes that I try are based on some kind of experience that I had.”

To this day, her experience in India is the basis for her delectable chai marshmallow.

Each confection she creates holds the rich textures of a memory. A stop into MMELO is like stepping into a different culture and experience.

Columbus: A Latte Love

Michelle travelled all over the world, but Columbus is her hometown.

“I grew up off of Livingston Avenue. I went to Father Bishop Wehrle Memorial High School and Corpus Christi Elementary and Ohio State University,” Michelle says. “But I was dying to get out of Columbus. Dying.

“I grew up with this ethos from my mom that you are so lucky to be born on this planet. Go and look at it. Go and look at as much of it as you can. Go talk to people who don’t look anything like you,” Michelle says. “Go eat food that has nothing to do with the food that you eat.”

“I grew up with this ethos from my mom that you are so lucky to be born on this planet. Go and look at it. Go and look at as much of it as you can. Go talk to people who don’t look anything like you.”

After a stint at Ohio State, Michelle moved to New York to create a film production company in Tribeca — “before Tribeca was Tribeca.” Through that work, she met her husband, Paul.

“Then 9/11 happened and we were like, ‘We’ve got to get out of New York. Life is too short,’” Michelle says.

After some brief deliberation, Michelle and Paul decided to live in Spain.

“I went to my partners and said, ‘I’m going to Spain.’ And they said, ‘What do you mean you’re going to Spain?’ And I said, ‘I’m going to Spain. Life’s too short. I’m done,” Michelle says.

“And they said, ‘What do you mean you’re going to Spain?’ And I said, ‘I’m going to Spain. Life’s too short. I’m done.”

For more than a decade, Michelle and Paul thrived in Spain and spent their days “living and traveling and ultimately starting their family.” This is where Michelle fell in love with confections.

“Spain, Italy, France, they really are on the forefront of confectionary craft,” Michelle says. “At culinary school here, you might do four weeks of chocolate training. Whereas there, you choose chocolate training and you might spend four years studying chocolate work or sugar work. They also have robust apprenticeships where knowledge gets passed down.”

The more she practiced and the more confections she created, the more Michelle realized that she wanted to start a confectionary cafe of her own: MMELO.  

“I started saying to my husband, ‘Maybe we should go back to the States and start this?’ We would come back to Columbus a couple times a year over the past 20 years, and I really saw the food scape evolving and changing,” Michelle says. “Also, the culture of Columbus was changing with the influx of people from other places. It was becoming more cosmopolitan and I just thought, ‘Something like MMELO could work here.’”

“Also, the culture of Columbus was changing with the influx of people from other places. It was becoming more cosmopolitan and I just thought, ‘Something like MMELO could work here.’”

From Barcelona to Buckeye Country

In 2015, Michelle took the leap to bring her scrumptious dream to fruition. For eight weeks, she ran a pop-up confectionary at Easton. Fast forward to today, and she’s managing a bustling brick-and-mortar confectionary in the heart of the Short North thanks to help from The Food Fort – ECDI.

“The one thing I will say about the community here in Columbus: Unbelievably supportive. And I’ve done business all over the world. Columbus is unique in that regard,” Michelle says. “If you have a really good idea and you show people that you care about it and you’ve thought it out, then you can make it happen here. You really can. Whether the public accepts it or not is another thing.”

“The one thing I will say about the community here in Columbus: Unbelievably supportive. And I’ve done business all over the world. Columbus is unique in that regard.”

Public acceptance proved to be a sticky challenge for Michelle.

In Europe, she grew accustomed to a culture that readily accepted and understood the concept of a confectionary cafe.

“We found that there was a bit of a learning curve involved,” Michelle says. “When we opened, we had tons of people ask us, ‘What’s a confectionary? What are confections?’ That was one of the big year-one takeaways.”

Despite the inherent growing pains of starting a new business, Michelle wouldn’t change a thing.

“I absolutely love doing this. I mean, I love it. My son, who is my heart and my core, said, ‘I actually think you like this more than me,’” Michelle laughs. “The thing is, if you don’t love it, there’s no way this would work. It would be hell. I love doing it more than the herculean effort it takes to actually get it off the ground.”

“The thing is, if you don’t love it, there’s no way this would work. It would be hell. I love doing it more than the herculean effort it takes to actually get it off the ground.”

Michelle knows that this is just the beginning for MMELO. She has a vision for her company that stretches throughout Columbus and beyond. Even as her company grows, their mission will always be to create real, beautiful food.

“There’s no high fructose corn syrup, there’s no white refined sugar, there’s no artificial flavors or colors. That’s quite difficult and rare for confectionaries here in the States,” Michelle says. “We want to contribute something really beautiful and pleasing to the culture. I love to make food that is both beautiful and delicious. I love the naturally beautiful design that makes up our world — both natural and man made. It’s truly a blessing. For me, it was a natural extension to try and contribute something to that dynamic.”

MMELO is located opposite North Market at the corner of Vine Street and Wall Street. For more information, visit their website or stop in for a beautiful treat.

By Hailey Stangebye

Photos courtesy of Wriply Bennet

One hundred. That’s how many pictures Wriply Bennet drew each night growing up in Columbus.

She would stay up late and draw figure after figure after figure, dreaming of becoming an artist some day. From the time she could see, art was her most natural form of expression.

“Growing up, learning was always difficult for me because I have dyslexia,” Wriply says. “And being a black, queer, trans child also didn’t make it any easier. So there’s been a lot of bumps in the road. But, you know, what road isn’t bumpy?”

“Growing up, learning was always difficult for me because I have dyslexia. And being a black, queer, trans child also didn’t make it any easier. So there’s been a lot of bumps in the road. But, you know, what road isn’t bumpy?“

Unfortunately, pursuing art didn’t always feel like a tangible goal.

“To be honest, it just seemed like it was a dead end,” Wriply says. “I couldn’t actually do these things because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to go to college and pay for all of that because who has time for that?”

“To be honest, it just seemed like it was a dead end. I couldn’t actually do these things because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to go to college and pay for all of that because who has time for that?“

That all changed when Wriply became an advocate and community organizer. She decided to use her art as a vehicle for conversation about things like black and trans rights. And people noticed.

“People were just like, ‘Hey, your art is beautiful. Could you do this for me and I’ll pay you?’” Wriply says. “It just grew. Pretty soon my art was in documentaries and city-wide campaigns. I never imagined that I would get to this point.”

“People were just like, ‘Hey, your art is beautiful. Could you do this for me and I’ll pay you?’ It just grew. Pretty soon my art was in documentaries and city-wide campaigns. I never imagined that I would get to this point.“

Wriply’s art is in the MAJOR! documentary. It’s an award-winning documentary about Miss Major Griffin-Gracy, a Stonewall veteran, prison abolitionist and black, trans elder. Her art has also been featured in city campaigns from San Francisco to New York.

Despite her national recognition, Wriply still fights to be seen in her home state.

“It’s actually a little maddening,” Wriply says. “I’ve been doing this work for years. I’m a nationally recognized artist and advocate. My art has been in other people’s cities, it’s been on buses and subway station walls. But not in my hometown.”

“It’s actually a little maddening. I’ve been doing this work for years. I’m a nationally recognized artist and advocate. My art has been in other people’s cities, it’s been on buses and subway station walls. But not in my hometown.“

Wriply had to gain national recognition before her hometown started to take notice. Despite the adversity she’s faced in Columbus, she continues to work and advocate for change here.

“Columbus is always going to be a part of everything that I do because it’s home and it has been home for a large portion of my life,” Wriply says. “These are the streets that crafted me, so I have to be sure that I craft them just as much as they crafted me.”

“Columbus is always going to be a part of everything that I do because it’s home and it has been home for a large portion of my life. These are the streets that crafted me, so I have to be sure that I craft them just as much as they crafted me.“

In short, there’s work to be done here. Wriply has a vision for the Columbus of the future. It includes things like less black, innocent deaths at the hands of police brutality, more education outreach and protections for young, black, queer and trans folk.

Wriply’s work creates conversations on these issues across the states. She says that it’s time that Columbus realizes the dialogue on black, queer and trans rights doesn’t just happen in San Francisco and New York. It’s happening right here.

Wriply is a familiar voice for Columbus. So let’s talk.

Wriply’s Work