No Photos Involved

People, please understand that my paintings are NOT photographs. There is never any photography involved in my paintings. These are all actual paintings on paper. I paint on silk and other materials and glue on gems and beads of various kinds, but the images you see are hand-painted paintings.

I hope we've cleared that up at last.

The Figurehead

She listed in the dock, fractured and peeling. Her ship was due to be broken up in this harbor. They had sailed the world together, trading in foreign lands. The Master’s hand was steady, firm, seasoned. She trusted his every move and every order, through storm and calm, past treacherous reefs and through the shallows. But now the wood was full of rot and anyway, those days were long past.

She had been carved as an Angel, in the traditional manner, and fastened snugly to the bowsprit. Her eyes, lips, hands and her full, naked breasts embodied the soul of her ship, went forth before all else, parted the seas before the ship and protected the crew. She was its spirit, but the ship was her body; its sails her true wings, caressed always by the strong and callused hands of the crew. Although she was beautifully painted, her Master took pride in her as if she were a wife and adorned her whenever possible. On occasion, in some new port, when the trading had been especially profitable and the Master was well pleased, he would purchase a special, commemorative embellishment for her. In Tahiti he had bought pearls for her neck and had the ship’s carpenter lay them in. After their first exploration of the coastline of Brazil he had had her wings painted in the image of colorful macaw feathers after the astonishing birds they had seen there. And always she was kept in perfect repair, her hands and lovely face always smooth. Never was the sea, or the salt-laden winds, allowed to be harsh to her. And always, the holds were filled with rich goods and the coins, jewels, and beautiful things of the world.

Now she waited, memories of those years flowing over her. She was separated from her ship, destined for a maritime museum. Even in her sorry state she was still of value. She was repaired again – though not as her Master would have done - and set up within sight of the harbor. But her ship - her very Heart, and her true wings, were nothing more than a faded, nearly undecipherable series of entries in a browned and curling Captain’s log, so fragile it could rarely be touched. As she gazed out over the harbor, surrounded by polite museum- goers, in her mind they still flew together over the waves, the Angel and her Ship, with the Master at the helm.

Acrylic on paper, silk and polyester with Moroccan gold-stamped leather, fishing net, carved Tahiti smoky pearl, colored pearls, Chinese hand-painted ceramic pieces, paua shell, glass bead, macaw feathers, garnet, amethyst quartz, peridot, and yellow topaz. 50 x 68 cm (with feather span.)

Side by Side

My latest sculpture and the Model.

The Woman Warrior

She started out as Persephone, gathering flowers by the sea, only to be swept up into the arms of Hades on his chariot pulled by four coal-black horses and dragged underground.

But have you ever really looked at coal? Its iridescence? The oily layers of rainbow color under the shiny black? It is never a dull, monochromatic rock, merely, and elementarily, sedimentary. Under certain light it rivals the flowers for color. Its combustibility matched her nature far more closely than the flowers. In truth, she longed to take the reins of the chariot herself and drive those coal-black horses through the mines and tunnels, tearing through Hell like an underground fire that can never be extinguished.

Her face was obliterated by the golden mask that she donned willingly, and she became a Warrior.

Acrylic on paper with glass beads, feather, and Kuba cloth. 38 x 72 cm.

Treasure Dreams

A woman sleeps and dreams of an underwater treasure. Small tropical fish dart in and out among the anemones she conjures up out of her own depths.

A long-dead Sailor also sleeps still grasping treasure of his own. Jewels and gold are scattered along the floor of the ocean, awaiting the Dreamer. How will they find each other?

Acrylic on paper with glass, pearls, lapis, garnets, amber, bone and 22K gold. 28 x 38 cm.

Honorable Bruce U. Morrow

This is the Judge who ruled in favor of my outdoor paintings. He is up for reelection today. Needless to say, he has my vote!

Flights of Fancy

An earthy angel with colorful wings gazes across the sea. In a parlor filled with globes and paintings, easels, and inventions, a hand is sketching out new ideas with a quill pen. A flying machine floats in a brilliant light bulb. Soon the two - artist and angel - will meet in a flight of imagination.

“There is a space between man's imagination and man's attainment that may only be traversed by his longing” - Kahlil Gibran

Acrylic on paper, silk and polyurethane, butterfly and moth wings, and macaw feathers. Approximately 32 x 60 cm.

The Shaman

"They wished to flower, and flowering is being beautiful: but we wish to ripen, and that means being dark and taking pains." - Rainer Maria Rilke

Acrylic paint on paper, cotton and silk, with glass, green jasper, paua shell and macaw feathers. About 35 x 35 cm. Private collection.

Terra Incognita

Acrylic on paper. 55 x 38 cm. Private collection

In vino veritas

"I cook with wine; sometimes I even add it to the food." --- W. C. Fields

(painted wine corks with coffee beans and one bone bead for "other features")

Feather Touch

My cousin gave me this huge bunch of stunning, multi-colored macaw feathers after he saw my strange collages which use every conceivable thing one can glue to paper.

I am accepting gifts of like nature, especially butterfly wings, which are hard to find. Don't destroy any living thing, but if you find them, I'll be interested! (One friend donated a big bag of wine corks, which she claims was hard work. I told her next time she should call for back-up.)

Snake Eyes

There he is now, cozying up to Miss Snake Eyes. Doesn't it just figure that these two would find each other? Two of a kind. She's as bad as he is. Tiny little black-hearted thing.

I guess we've all got to have somebody.

Acrylic on paper with ample amounts of tobacco, wine corks, cigarette paper, bone button, glass bead and tiger's eye. 33 x 49 cm.

Bad Habits

Well, well, look what just rolled off the Ship...

He's coarse and he's mean. A thoroughly unsavory character. He's got a lot of very bad habits. He drinks too much. He smokes. And...I think he cheats at cards.

(Sigh) What can one say but,"Alea iacta est."

At least I figured out what to do with all those old wine corks.


Acrylic on paper with a great deal of tobacco, cork, cotton and one glass bead. 25 x 32 cm.

Double, Double, Toil and Trouble...

I feel the need to fall in love again - with an idea, not with a person. But how to conjure it up? I'm casting about in the only way I know how - by touching and moving fabrics and papers - swirling gel mediums, semi-precious jewels and other elements. Something will emerge from the Cauldron.

I found part of the bottom of a shoe in the street the other day while walking my dog. Perhaps if I ink it and put it through my printing press?

Walk with me awhile.

Copycats? Let's hope so...

I'd very much like to think I've been an influence in this new project from the DIA (I think I have!):

Museum brings art outdoors in metro Detroit

Eyes of the Storm

She looms over the horizon, wild-haired, black as night with eyes of gold. Try as you might to predict her next move, she has her own wheel and her own charts, etched into her smile. She knows no helmsman.

The ship finds a bright crack in the dawn and is safe - for now.

Acrylic on paper, silk and cotton, with glass beads and 22K gold leaf. 28 x 38 cm.

Runaway Horses

A horse snaps its reins and stampedes across a field of bank notes and Colonial coins. Benjamin Franklin is the unwilling and unwitting jockey on this wild ride. Semi-precious stones, mother-of-pearl, and glass beads - anything that can be traded or has been traded - are scattered across the path.

Acrylic on paper and printed cotton with glass, mother-of-pearl, tiger's eye, hematite and 22K gold leaf. 12 x 16 cm.

Weathervane

The creak of the weathervane can be heard as the wind blows. Old Colonial-era coins fly by in the breeze from a Southerly direction. An oily sky is black with storm.

The body of the weathervane is the scroll decoration of a turn-of-the-century cash register, on the haunches is the howling and appalled face of a denuded coconut. The arched back leg is a dead sea horse.

Acrylic on paper with silk threads and sand. 28 x 38 cm.

Royalty

A King and Queen, enemies, stare Janus-like in opposite directions. The only thing they have in common - the one thing that binds them - is their royal T.

Acrylic on paper with leather, wool, glass beads and cowrie shells. 19 x 28 cm.

Fun With Fossils

No matter what people say, I'm really not a demon. Those little horns on my head are actually cup coral fossils from the Devonian period, about 417 - 354 million years ago. The land which is now known as Michigan was once under an ancient ocean and is particularly rich in fossils of this period. This has led to vast limestone deposits which we quarry today. During the Devonian period, the Earth looked quite different and most of the continents were formed in a "pre-Pangea".

From this period, and with a bit of patience, one can find cup coral...

...delicate crinoids...

...hexageneric corals, like starburst fireworks...

...and brachiopods, gastropods and trilobites (not pictured here.)

Good hunting!

Call the Tune

A country couple dances in an idyllic setting to the music of two itinerant players. Butterfly wings keep the beat. A horned creature looks on. Is He the one who calls the tune?

Acrylic on paper with glass beads and butterfly wings. 14 x 19 cm.

School of Mermaids

A school of Mermaids swims by in a cobalt blue and purple sea. A three-masted ship rocks on the horizon, partly hidden by a golden fog bank.

Acrylic on paper with silk, polyester and glass beads. 28 x 38 cm.

Crossroads

A Knight stands in bright sunshine, gloved hands resting on the pommel of his sword. A dark Lady passes by and gazes at him from under her veils. Although they are strangers they admire one another.

When we come to certain crossroads we find we are changed. New blood can literally come into our lives, as it did over the centuries in Europe, and all over the world. Movement across the globe is natural for humans. We have always wandered and we always shall wander. Borders, walls, language and strange customs will not stop us.

Acrylic on paper and polyester, with labradorite from Canada and glass beads from India and China. About 24 x 33 cm.

The Unfathomable Fashionable Mermaid

The truly fashionable mermaid this year will be wearing her delicate blue-green fish scales all the way up to her throat and let found detritus give full impact to her look. She will don a pair of treasure coin sunglasses, edged in paua shell and grace her ears with various forms of dead sea life which have been mounted with baroque and freshwater pearls. Topping off her outfit will be a hat also made of found objects, in this case a lovely grey and well-weathered length of rope with two simple pieces of matching paua shell, a perfect balance for the glasses.

Acrylic on paper and silk with pearls and paua shell. 14 x 19 cm.

Spill

A Mermaid has unlocked a treasure box and has taken the only thing she wants - a mirror formed from the letter "O". A ship appears out on the horizon in the lens of a telescope, itself shaped as an "O".

The now discarded treasure box spills its contents into the "O"cean behind her.

Acrylic on paper and silk with cotton, polyester, velveteen, glass beads, rhinestones, lapis lazuli, garnets, peridots, quartz and freshwater pearls. 19 x 28 cm.

Chambermusic

Honey bees busy themselves in their chambered hive. Lotus bloom in stunning profusion from the chambered pods that bob and float in a quiet back bay on Lake Erie. This is the music of the height of summer. Take your canoe and paddle gently through the flowers - and listen.

All music emerges from rooms and chambers, both large and small, domestic and wild.

Acrylic paint on silk and paper with 22K gold leaf. 19 x 28 cm.

The Perfect Crime...

...book to take to the beach. I just ordered Robert K. Wittman's memoir, "Priceless: How I Went Undercover To Rescue The World's Stolen Treasures" from Amazon. Hopefully it will arrive in time for my vacation because it promises to be very entertaining and absorbing.

The book tells of Wittman's years as the founder of the FBI's Art Crime Team. I heard an interview with the author on NPR. You can read the article or listen here: NPR Priceless Article

Opening (excerpt from a new story by Vanna Vechian*)

I am an artist, 49 years of age. My medium was sculpture. I have excelled, become well known and well off. A few months ago, however, I decided I was tired of making sculpture. Partly, I had said whatever I could say. Partly, the medium is bankrupt. We have seen it all before, from classical sculpture to sculpture made of trash and exhibiting one's unmade bed after a night of sex, drink and smoke. Sculpture is over for me.

My medium will hence be myself. I will go down to the very essence and will not hide behind a thing anymore. Before you accuse me, I am not saying this is new per se. Perhaps performance art is bankrupt as well. It is new to me, however, and I have something I want to say. On the human condition. Yes, you might say … Narcissism, mid-life crisis… Maybe. I hope to find out.

The present will bring my first event as a performance artist. I could have done this anywhere I wanted on the back of my reputation. Yet I wanted a modest venue. Ironically that was harder. Evidently their reputations are more fragile. I had to exhaust my extensive network of contacts to be given the opportunity to conduct the performance, when a small gallery in Hoboken, NJ, stuck out their neck and allowed it. They, as I, will run a risk, but they decided the publicity will be worth it, regardless.

The exhibition space is a single big and square room of approximately 10 x 10 sq. m. The ceiling is some 6 m high. A great space. It has been divided in half, one side for me, the other for the audience. What separates the two sides is a glass wall. It can be made into a great one-sided mirror using a second panel, such that the mirror side faces me, who on the other hand can be seen at all times by the audience. The control is on the other side, needless to say. Every 10th visitor will get a code to enable her or him to raise or lower it depending on its current position.

I will be in this space for one month. A long time, as I will not leave my 50 sq. m and there are no windows to the outside world. I have no TV or radio. There will be no books or papers, nothing to read. There will be all manner of writing and drawing materials and paper. Whatever I write or draw during a day will be collected and placed in a folder on the other side, for the audience to see. I cannot live without music, so will have a CD player, with an allowance of two hours per day. The idea - mine! - is to be isolated with my self and thoughts, albeit with an audience. The public can visit me 24 hours a day. For safety, a guard is present at the entrance, outside the exhibition space, and all visitors will leave any luggage there and pass through a metal detector. Both facilities are at my expense.

This is the day of the opening. I am in my apartment preparing. I say preparing - there is little to do. I have to choose what to wear at the opening and what CDs to take. Here I am - the famous artist, with more money than I'd ever need - and I am frightful and nervous. I knew I would be when I planned this event and that the nervosity in fact would be the whole point: I wanted to meet my naked core, be thrown back to myself and show the result to the public. The audience is necessary to place me on my toes. Still, to know why does not fully ease my nerves. I think of my actor friends who will suffer this all the time, no matter what their experience.

The CDs are easy. My wardrobe now is more difficult. Should I select one of my power suits? Or rather my most seductive wear? Or things I wear when I lounge around at home? Or those I wear when visiting a friend? Or the rags I wear when sculpting? I narrow down the selection to the power suit - for pleading with the audience to give me this life - or the work clothes - I, the ex-sculptor to be. I will settle for a combination. Work clothes, my dusty rags, over the refined chemise, glittery pantyhose and my best set of underwear. The combination makes sense to me. I dress slowly, as if choreographed, and am ready.

My first opening... I remember it well. I had been out of Art College for four years. I had graduated quite well, but had gone underground soon after. I felt I needed the time to reinvent myself and determine what I needed to create and why. Some of my peers, many less talented, had already made a mark of sorts and were being talked about. It was the faith of that gallery owner who had admired my graduation work, had said that he was ready for me when I was ready myself, that gave me my start. I will not say this first exhibition contained my best work ever, but on the whole it was good and some pieces are still counted among my best, over two decades later. The question I now ponder - was I more nervous then than I am now? The answer is no. Then I was not nervous at all. Not cocky, but simply confident. My work was good. I knew that.

This time, however, there is no work. Just me. Arguably past my prime. I draw confidence from being fit and on weight. Indeed, it is not my nudity per se that makes me nervous. It is not my body alone that is on display; there is my person and reputation. True, but it is the artistic side that worries me the most.

My nerves leave me when I enter the gallery. It is my turf. It is three hours before the opening. I am at ease when I speak to the proprietor and an assistant. They are clearly in awe of me and my fame, in spite of what I have decided to involve them with. They know full well what I will do. I cannot help a smile when this phrase crosses my mind: I will exhibit the empress' new clothes.

After going through the organizational details once more, I go and check upon the spaces again. All the finishing touches will have been made. It is an awesome creation, if I say so myself. The half for the audience consists of three arrangements of settee, two easy chairs and a coffee table. At the far end there is a little coffee bar, to be open day and night. The rest is open space, good for, I guess, a crowd of some 50 people. Its walls and ceiling are matte black. The large glass partition leaves no door to my half. I look at that half from the that of the audience. I will live there. I WILL LIVE THERE! It is so bare! The walls on my side are made entirely of mirrors, all the 6 m up to the ceiling, all 10 m, respectively 5 m along. And so is the ceiling itself, and the floor. When there, I get the feeling of floating in mid-air and also to be super-exposed. There is little furniture. A desk with a chair, a table with a chair for my meals, an armchair and a side-table with the CD player. The tables and desk are made of Plexiglas. Pens, pencils, crayons, paper, a pair of scissors are on a shelf below the sidetable’s top surface. There is a kitchenette in one corner. The refrigerator can be stocked from the outside - the gallery's office. There is a shower enclosed in a glass partition. I have a single bed, again enclosed by a glass partition complete with door. This I thought necessary, as I did not allow myself bed covers, therefore needed a somewhat higher temperature here. Also because I realized I am sensitive to draughts. The toilet finally is made of glass and again needed its own partition, of glass of course, because of the inevitable smells. Should I have omitted this partition? I might have, but here we are. I can be well seen, whatever I do. Finally, I have found it necessary to include a sculpture of mine (quite appropriately my tribute to Marcel Duchamp, La Mariée mise à nu par ses célibataires. I am célibataire here, made nude by herself!) I am not renouncing what I created. I am proud of what I made and it provides good decoration. It defines my past and I merely discontinued making more. There are three fixed video cameras that register my performance - one from the back of the audience's side, near the ceiling pointing down, one from the same position at my side, pointing down sharply, and one from one of the side of the room at chest level. All have a semi-wide angle. Then there is a fourth camera in a corner near the partition that follows me, directed by the heat of my body. To register is mandatory in performance art, I have considered, so I have called for these cameras. Whether I will produce a film of my performance and issue the inevitable DVD remains to be seen.

The invited guests enter. Many I know. There are many friends or familiar figures of the art world, fellow-artists, critics, collectors... They do not know what is in store. They only know - Vanna Vechian - The opening, from --- to --- (1 month.) By implication, 'the Opening' is the title of the exhibition. I do not let on. 'You'll find out soon,' I smile, 'It is new for me too.' We have a drink of champagne or two and chatter away nicely. I have a good time and forget myself. Finally, the owner taps his glass for attention. We all turn to him, myself included, still part of the crowd.

'How do you like the display you see on the other side of the glass screen? What you see, I think, is a beautiful, meaningful commentary on how easily the essence, the structure of how we live is overlooked if we are not careful. You see life's bare bones, transparent, almost absent, of course if we except Vanna's beautiful sculpture, the most real item there. Sadly, that Vanna is no more. The sculpture is a reminder of her past. Unrenounced, but passed. Vanna Vechian will no longer speak through her artifacts. She will now speak through herself. Time for the essence. The essence, not of the world that surrounds us, but of what a human being is, the human being called Vanna Vechian. No words will she speak but you will understand nonetheless. Do listen.'

He pauses. We all look at him. But with the seconds, a minute ticking by, people start turning my way. I merely smile.

Until he calls me forward. 'Vanna, it is time.' And, 'Friends, do make some space.' I go forward and stand next to him. He creates a circle of two arm lengths around us.

'Vanna, may I ask you...'

I look around and see all in the eyes. I do not speak. They are at rapt attention, with one or two skeptics among their number, of course, of course... I then leave gently push through the crowd – I know most, mind you – and leave this half of the space. In the office the assistant awaits me. He unlocks the door to my space and ushers me in. I am in. For one month.

I hear the door being locked behind me. I am in this insane space, with mirrors and mirrors and my multiple self. The window in front of me – they have dimmed the lights and it is so dark on the other side. I see vague figures - the ones that stand up front. I move to the centre of the space. There, slowly, I strike a number of poses and turn around full circle as I go along. I cannot help being a touch embarrassed. Not an actress.

Then I stand still for a minute or two, until with deliberate movements I start taking off my clothes. One shoe down, and another, and I step out of the baggy combat trousers I used to wear when I worked - the glittery pantyhose with embroidered calves is revealed. My sweatshirt goes over my head - a tight-fitting silk top is revealed, square cleavage, cap sleeves, bare arms. I neatly fold up both. The same choreography of poses whilst turning is executed. I am embarrassed still.

I sit down and take off the left leg of the hose – can this be done more elegantly? -, next the right and fold the set on top of the work clothes. The top follows. As do my bra and panties. Picking up the pile of clothes I proceed to the door. I knock and it opens. I pass the clothes over and the door closes again. I go to the centre of the room and assume what is known as the display position: legs apart, arms high and hands behind my neck. Embarrassed! What am I doing here? So narcissistic! Yes, get a grip, woman! You have to go on. I concentrate on controlling my breath.

Here is a 49-year-old woman, famous, wealthy and nude. She has a good body for her age, but she is clearly a day or two older than the average wench on display. She is being judged. Even if many of the audience are sympathetic, she will still be judged. There are two or three past lovers in the audience, going back 15, 20 years, who saw her unadorned then. They may be the more ruthless judges. Or even embarrassed themselves.

I now turn around in steps - by one quarter circle every minute or so until I have rotated twice. Then I stand still for five more minutes until the audience starts to appear restless. Time for the final action until the long, long month starts.

As agreed, the owner lowers the panel. The great mirror makes me truly alone. I stare at the nude form in front of me. I am obscenely nude. There. Nude. My essence? Who knows? Hogwash, perhaps! And why do I say ‘obscenely’? Why do play judge myself and what’s more with moral implication? Be breath, no more.

I sigh, then shrug my shoulders and walk up to the desk to fetch the scissors. Razor-sharp barber's scissors they are. I look at my head of hair. Go on, forthwith! The scissors go snap, snap as I cut and cut and cut strands of my hair away with decisive gestures. The back of my head is hard to do, but I manage. I have play-practiced. No prizes at stake. In mere minutes my shoulder length, well groomed hair looks like a tramp's, or, dare I say it, that of a victim of cancer. (The human condition, but not mine…) My pubic hair is trimmed already. I fetch an electric trimmer and complete the look of both my head and my pubic hair. Vanna Vechian, mark II - brand spanking new! - is finished.

To be continued...

(*Read more stories by Vanna Vechian)

His Daydream

I wouldn't mind turning into a vermillion goldfish.

- Henri Matisse

In my daydream he is a vermillion goldfish in a koi pond in my garden in my new home in Hawaii. With luxurious flowers surrounding us both.

Persistence

“If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise."

- William Blake

I'm still here. Just in between studios and not working from my own computer. I have no access to my photos or other programs, so cannot load any new work.

Not that there is much new work. I have been very distracted by the improvements I have been making in my home in order to be able to move my studio back there. In the long run it will be well worth it, but it does take time.

So bear with me, if you are a follower of this blog. Summer will find me in a bright new space.

A Good In-Vest-ment?

When I cleaned out my studio just prior to the holidays, I rediscovered a stash of leather and suede men's vests which I had purchased years ago intending to decorate them.

Rather than donate the vests to the Salvation Army, I decided to paint at least a few. I have done five of them in a Renaissance Faire theme, with Knights and Ladies and Dragons and Kings. I have twenty vests in all, and will slowly paint them in between other projects.

On this particular vest, a brave Knight leads a captured, but still fierce Dragon by a chain leash. The Dragon's collar declares him "Owned" and he holds a crystal ball with the Knight's castle seen through a mystical mist.

Men's size Medium, acrylic paint on deep teal green suede. $50.-

Oh, The Irony Of It All...!

"First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win".

(attributed to Mahatma Gandhi)