Doris Bayly Wiki – Bio
Doris Bailey was a poet, surfer, herbalist and editor, and former house reporter. She left yesterday after a traffic accident near her house in Máncora. She was a gift from one of her best friends from where the tragedy happened.
Bayly in the exhibition “Reflejos del Camino por Gam Kutlier” at the MAC Museum of Contemporary Art, Barranco, 2017. Throughout her life, culture was one of her greatest passions.
She was 60 years old.
Doris Bayly Died
Suspended, weightless, floated. Imperceptible in the ocher density of the tables, glasses and walls, he slips through the curved smoke of the cigar, thus appearing on the floor of the Tijeras de Barranco bar – or perhaps Sergeant Pimianta? It was the first half of the nineties, and until today —yesterday, February 16, 2022— she left this world; Doris Bailey is still intact. Dizzy. Light. Full of yesterday’s loneliness, timeless. As if in one dimension of the universe, everything could have passed through a sublime origin, we never understand how she could land in a place so prone to internal divisions and neuroses. But her ghostly air, endless absence and rootlessness made us all fall in love.
She tells the legend that she was an admirable cursed painter and the inspiring muse of a famous cult writer. She was a lonely nun from Okopa Abbey. And she is the owner of that fascinating pen that portrays the Peruvian plastic artists in the pages of the brief newspaper El Mundo. Everything about her is legendary, combined with the haunting beauty that makes her virtually invulnerable. She is separate from the world: reflected in her substance, fused into her skin, and in her clarity, her soul appears to be a spirit, tired of remaining flawless, eventually becoming visible.
One thing happened in 1996 when we saw her go through the door of this newspaper and sit in front of a computer in the editorial group of Somos. The team was commanded by Fernando Ampuero, who recruited Patricia and María Luisa Del Río, Alonso Rabi, Raúl Kachai, Barb Roy O’Brien, Jeremías Gamboa and the signatories. Doris’s appearance capped off one of the most fruitful moments of Saturday’s supplement. That’s a lovely bunch of creators, of course, because she’s from a calm, faraway, gravityless planet. She projects overwhelming pain and sweet, unearthly violence, which is bordering on vertigo. Autumn paint scratches the flowers of the road.
From a practical point of view, this can be found in a 32-page collection of short poems published during his lifetime: “Orphan Toilet/Survival Poems and Other Texts (Asaltoaltosky Publishers, Philadelphia, 1996). Two equally minor details. The festival —its handwritten edition and in 100 volumes— not only makes it one of those instant classics that cannot be found: the book embodies itself, the art of poetry as its object, not as the offering of poetry Who. Life is full of poetic moments, not black on a white background, turning life into poetry and making poetry with life.
Ten years ago, when she learned that cancer had chosen her, she decided to confront it with the weapons that her pure heart had given her: she arrived in Máncora, acquired a vast piece of land on its northern exit, and decided to use a weapon like It is as transparent as water. Spring to grow their food. She built a hangar for her husband, the painter Armando Williams, to let his rivers of colour flow, and huts for her sons Ricardo and Daniel to connect with art and nature Communication, which in her case takes the form of a liquid that bend the horizon Doris lives in the sea. Seeing her go out with blonde hair in Punta Ballerinas is another classic.
Classics are her Good Morning on her Facebook and her morning and evening northern prints on the Panamericana. She bikes twice a day from her house to Carpitas, a customs checkpoint 12 kilometres away. It is impossible not to meet her and her vulnerability on two wheels, her earthling her. How to design a silent speech so as not to disturb her impeccable presence? This presence triggers the urgent need to dive below the surface of clarity. Beneath that slight bluish swelling, until I found what might be the substrate, the core. Transparency frame pedestal. Or something like that. Because, although physiologically, she seems to be born for attachment, her realm does not belong to this world.