The Voyage

A glance toward a studio window at a certain moment in the afternoon reveals an antique vessel, which otherwise would have slipped past quite unseen.

The Coffee Bar (story by Vanna Vechian*)

O, how ever did I get stuck in the life I have...? Hush! Don't you whinge, woman!

I need a drug.

Coffee! Coffee!

I love to drink, but it is too early to do so, you know. It really is. I have to be careful.

I have not left the house today, nor seen anyone here. Again. None of my friends were interested or able to meet, sadly. That is: the few that don't have careers. I don't. My dear husband is away again. Should be back tomorrow, or the day after, I don't remember.

Of course I have a dynamite Italian coffeemaker at home, but I won't have the coffee alone. I need contact, if only to see warm living bodies. I dress for the occasion. A hat, a suit, earrings. A lady. Femme fatale. I want to be noticed.

I let the taxi drop me off just some place we happened to pass. 'Stop! Driver, stop!' It seems like a nice little establishment. Old shop front, two large windows, a door in the middle, a few scattered clients and a waiter. And a pianist, I notice as I enter, who plays French salon music – nostalgic, with the restrained energy of a tired dance master. The place is intimate. Nice. The smell of coffee is heavy, but just right for me.

But the waiter! He is ... He is a star. God! 'Yes, yes, a coffee please. Make it strong. Wait! Potent. And sweet.'

How can he refuse? I noticed he noticed me. It does take a minute or two before he comes back to me. Other clients present themselves at the till and he takes their pay. Only one other person remains, besides us and our friend the pianist - someone that has sat there scribbling all the while with intense concentration. A writer? He could be writing about me, for all I know. He has thrown me one single, but piercing and extended glance.

My waiter returns with the coffee. And a pastry. 'Courtesy of the business, madam!' And another coffee. 'I will join you, if you don't mind. I feel you won't.' The cheek! Yet I don't. Mind. Far from it. I keep my cool and smile. 'You are a cheek, young man. That is all I will say. Now then. Talk to me.' I will not repeat what he tells me. Only that he compares me to Anna Karenina, had she lived a little longer. Hardly a direct insult, as she died young. Should I mind that he finds me tragic? As long as he finds me attractive. He is amusing.

Is it he or the smell of coffee that seduces me? The writer remains in his corner and the pianist plays on as my waiter turns the 'Open' sign over to 'Closed.' To 'Open' on our side.

-----------------

I stretch out luxuriously and naked and truly satisfied and at ease on his bed in his room. His room is right above the café. The Venetian blinds filter the light. His smell remains, mixed with the masculine smell of coffee. So does the sound of his music, dance music of faded days.

I feel his seed drip down my loins.

He has treated me like the queen I am. Not as a servant, but as the young king he is. The homage is all the greater.

The queen dresses in front of the windows. Languidly, without haste, savouring the moment, deeply inhaling the scent of coffee.

She descends the stairs and renters the café. With a nod to the king, she strides through and leaves. Her yellow carriage is waiting.

copyright 2009 Vanna Vechian
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* I asked my old partner-in-crime, Vanna Vechian, to write a "micro-story" based on these two new coffee paintings. I think she came through splendidly, don't you?

You can read more of Vanna's tales at her very own website: Vanna Vechian's Erotic Fiction .

As for the paintings, they are done in coffee and acrylic on paper, silk and velvet, with fur, coffee beans and glass beads.

Between the Whip and the Shield

Another of the coffee paintings, used along with the new letterpress molds.

Some interesting details are an actual bill of sale for a "Negro Slave", next to the Declaration of Independence as it appeared in the Virginia Gazette in 1776. And a small piece of a real, very worn leather whip, which came off the end of one I happen to have in my possession. (Artists collect the oddest bits and pieces, but the rest of said whip still functions quite perfectly. I'm just saying...)

I'm too tired to think of a narrative for this painting, but if you can come up with one, I will publish it here.

Acrylic and coffee on paper and silk, with Cowrie shells and leather. 28 x 38 cm.

At Sea

Earlier in this blog I wrote that, "Ideas Arrive By Ship" (see, January 7, 2008). In this case, although I have purchased a set of very beautiful wooden letterpress type forms, I do not possess a complete set of letters, matched or unmatched. Therefore, I cannot spell out words all at once with my gel medium impressions. I must either piece them together by using several molds of the same letter, or else come up with a different way to spell them out. In this case, I did not have an extra "c", and I do not possess a "y" at all.

Some ideas are better, and grow stronger, if they are made to set out on a voyage. To trade and haggle, bicker and dissent. Come to agreements, handshakes, and terms. Some words need to set sail and go trading, if they are to become what they are destined to be.

Acrylic on paper and silk with 22k gold leaf. 16 x 24.5 cm.

See Shanties

Took a short drive to Harrison Township near L'Anse Creuse yesterday and spotted these ice fishing shanties on the now completely frozen lake. I haven't seen this in years. The lake hasn't been frozen enough to support the shanties and I think they have even been banned in some places as boating hazards when people don't remove them before the thaw. People apparently haven't forgotten the ancient art of ice fishing, and this is good to see.