- Jul 1, 2016
- 6,072
- 12,780
this either goes here or in the 'fools wildin'" thread, but I'm feeling optimistic today.
so I had a fine oil painting of myself commissioned:
This timeline began to unfold months ago when I was having a lovely seaside constitutional along the boardwalk that connects downtown Vallarta to the Banderas Bay and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
The standard scenery was all accounted for...abundant sunshine, golden sands, the iridescent spray of the surf as it crashed onto the rocks outside the Los Arcos ampitheater...but what got me into this particular cartoon was a bold and colorful artistic work featuring Mr. Hendrix himself in his full presence.
His suede tinged voice practically rang out from the vibrant acrylic rendering, which was done in a fittingly bold kaleidoscope of oranges, pinks and purples. Having just recently moved into my apartment and in desperate need of decor, I had to have it.
The man behind the magic, the artist who I ended up meeting and befriending to my rich benefit, was not present on this day. Instead, one of his associates stood nearby, ready to respond to any interested customers.
After exhausting my then-limited Spanish on a greeting and pleasantries, the business of purchase was discussed with the only language in which I sound older than 5.
She named a price I was willing to pay, but I didn’t have the cash on my person at the moment so I vowed to return the next day to claim it.
In her defense, I imagine she’s heard that before.
Tomorrow became today and I went back with pesos in palm, ready to acquire the exquisite piece and...well, I don’t have to explain that it wasn’t there, right? That’s kind of just how these things work.
Luckily, the associate detected my clear disappointment (and clear willingness to pay) and gave me the name of the artist as well as naming some of his common exhibition areas.
It was about as detailed a data set as you’re likely to get in person-to-person dealings down here...ain’t like I could look the guy up on Angie’s List.
The next few months rolled by with finding that painting and its artist hovering around #6 on my list of daily priorities depending on what bills needed to be paid.
I scoured galleries, art fairs and the entire beach painting community looking for that explosively eye-catching image of the cultural legend, all in a fruitless and protracted pursuit.
However, it wasn’t until a fateful evening strut along the coast that my date with oil-based immortality was set.
There I was, just bopping along toward a sunset smoke on the beach when I saw a row of artists in action at their easels facing the sea, one of whom interrupted his work to cry out to me his designs on enjoying a similar activity in short order.
I internally forgave him for profiling me as a stoner with no information other than my head full of rainbow coils before being introduced to the artist, one Anastacio Tolentino Vargas.
After some plumes of discussion that spanned visual art, music and other stereotypically enjoyable topics, I got a bad news sandwich to enjoy with my developing munchies.
The top good news was that I found out that this man, indeed, was the visionary behind the work I had admired so long ago.
The earthy, veggie-pattyesque protein of it all was that the painting had long since been sold to a wealthy traveling collector because of course it ******* was.
However, the warm, soft Hawaiian roll that enveloped this bittersweet sandwich was completed by the fact that my guy was more than willing to paint me a custom Hendrix piece using a frenetic, experimental pop art style he was toying with.
As a person who strives to live life in a frenetic, experimental pop art style, I could thoroughly dig it. The deal was sealed, the materials were selected over the next few days, and my personal piece of psychedelic ‘60s soul was soon to be underway.
...and that would have been where it ended if not for Anastacio’s unique creative perspective and extraordinary salesmanship.
During yet another development session in my open-air coastal office, Anastacio looked in my direction and indicated his intent to say something a little crazy.
“Go for it,” seemed to be the next line in the script.
He smiled...”We should use that picture of you for another painting.”
“That picture,” as history will no doubt record, refers to a dashing image of yours truly wearing one of my finest freelance ensembles, complete with a merino wool sweater, aggressively pink collared shirt and bandana I managed to wrestle into the shape of a convincing ascot.
The cosmic palette that adorns my locks is especially apparent in the photo, complementing my attire as it spiraled haphazardly from crown to shoulder like my thoughts manifest.
Yes, I am a stylish ************, thanks much.
Anyway, it just so happened to be the picture in my professional email signature, which he saw when I sent him the packet of Jimi photos that would be used as a basis for the planned painting. It’s also my main social media profile pic for now...because I’m a serious freelancer.
He apparently saw a wealth of artistic potential in this image (and the most cynical part of my brain adds “the opportunity to get paid for another painting,” but you can decide how important that is, because far be it from me to definitively assume the motivations of another artist).
Time itself stopped as I considered the implications of this decision.
On one hand, it was a singular honor to be considered as part of an artist’s vision. The qualities and characteristics that make a given subject compelling are typically positive, and someone volunteering to spend long nights mixing the appropriate shades for your skin tone and accurately reproducing the angle of your nostrils is a compliment for which there may be no non-romantic equal.
On the other, the end result would be me displaying a sizable oil painting of my own visage in my home for decades to come.
Let’s be honest, artistic value aside, it takes a certain kind of individual to have a painting of himself commissioned, and that type of person is...unmistakably polarizing, to say the least.
Still, in the end, I decided that it would be kind of cool to see what he came up with...besides, when the hell else am I going to get a chance to have an oil painting of myself commissioned?
Short of a Dorian Gray situation, the positives outweighed the negatives...and so, I agreed to become a work of art as the painting--and an interesting friendship--began to take shape...
so I had a fine oil painting of myself commissioned:
This timeline began to unfold months ago when I was having a lovely seaside constitutional along the boardwalk that connects downtown Vallarta to the Banderas Bay and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
The standard scenery was all accounted for...abundant sunshine, golden sands, the iridescent spray of the surf as it crashed onto the rocks outside the Los Arcos ampitheater...but what got me into this particular cartoon was a bold and colorful artistic work featuring Mr. Hendrix himself in his full presence.
His suede tinged voice practically rang out from the vibrant acrylic rendering, which was done in a fittingly bold kaleidoscope of oranges, pinks and purples. Having just recently moved into my apartment and in desperate need of decor, I had to have it.
The man behind the magic, the artist who I ended up meeting and befriending to my rich benefit, was not present on this day. Instead, one of his associates stood nearby, ready to respond to any interested customers.
After exhausting my then-limited Spanish on a greeting and pleasantries, the business of purchase was discussed with the only language in which I sound older than 5.
She named a price I was willing to pay, but I didn’t have the cash on my person at the moment so I vowed to return the next day to claim it.
In her defense, I imagine she’s heard that before.
Tomorrow became today and I went back with pesos in palm, ready to acquire the exquisite piece and...well, I don’t have to explain that it wasn’t there, right? That’s kind of just how these things work.
Luckily, the associate detected my clear disappointment (and clear willingness to pay) and gave me the name of the artist as well as naming some of his common exhibition areas.
It was about as detailed a data set as you’re likely to get in person-to-person dealings down here...ain’t like I could look the guy up on Angie’s List.
The next few months rolled by with finding that painting and its artist hovering around #6 on my list of daily priorities depending on what bills needed to be paid.
I scoured galleries, art fairs and the entire beach painting community looking for that explosively eye-catching image of the cultural legend, all in a fruitless and protracted pursuit.
However, it wasn’t until a fateful evening strut along the coast that my date with oil-based immortality was set.
There I was, just bopping along toward a sunset smoke on the beach when I saw a row of artists in action at their easels facing the sea, one of whom interrupted his work to cry out to me his designs on enjoying a similar activity in short order.
I internally forgave him for profiling me as a stoner with no information other than my head full of rainbow coils before being introduced to the artist, one Anastacio Tolentino Vargas.
After some plumes of discussion that spanned visual art, music and other stereotypically enjoyable topics, I got a bad news sandwich to enjoy with my developing munchies.
The top good news was that I found out that this man, indeed, was the visionary behind the work I had admired so long ago.
The earthy, veggie-pattyesque protein of it all was that the painting had long since been sold to a wealthy traveling collector because of course it ******* was.
However, the warm, soft Hawaiian roll that enveloped this bittersweet sandwich was completed by the fact that my guy was more than willing to paint me a custom Hendrix piece using a frenetic, experimental pop art style he was toying with.
As a person who strives to live life in a frenetic, experimental pop art style, I could thoroughly dig it. The deal was sealed, the materials were selected over the next few days, and my personal piece of psychedelic ‘60s soul was soon to be underway.
...and that would have been where it ended if not for Anastacio’s unique creative perspective and extraordinary salesmanship.
During yet another development session in my open-air coastal office, Anastacio looked in my direction and indicated his intent to say something a little crazy.
“Go for it,” seemed to be the next line in the script.
He smiled...”We should use that picture of you for another painting.”
“That picture,” as history will no doubt record, refers to a dashing image of yours truly wearing one of my finest freelance ensembles, complete with a merino wool sweater, aggressively pink collared shirt and bandana I managed to wrestle into the shape of a convincing ascot.
The cosmic palette that adorns my locks is especially apparent in the photo, complementing my attire as it spiraled haphazardly from crown to shoulder like my thoughts manifest.
Yes, I am a stylish ************, thanks much.
Anyway, it just so happened to be the picture in my professional email signature, which he saw when I sent him the packet of Jimi photos that would be used as a basis for the planned painting. It’s also my main social media profile pic for now...because I’m a serious freelancer.
He apparently saw a wealth of artistic potential in this image (and the most cynical part of my brain adds “the opportunity to get paid for another painting,” but you can decide how important that is, because far be it from me to definitively assume the motivations of another artist).
Time itself stopped as I considered the implications of this decision.
On one hand, it was a singular honor to be considered as part of an artist’s vision. The qualities and characteristics that make a given subject compelling are typically positive, and someone volunteering to spend long nights mixing the appropriate shades for your skin tone and accurately reproducing the angle of your nostrils is a compliment for which there may be no non-romantic equal.
On the other, the end result would be me displaying a sizable oil painting of my own visage in my home for decades to come.
Let’s be honest, artistic value aside, it takes a certain kind of individual to have a painting of himself commissioned, and that type of person is...unmistakably polarizing, to say the least.
Still, in the end, I decided that it would be kind of cool to see what he came up with...besides, when the hell else am I going to get a chance to have an oil painting of myself commissioned?
Short of a Dorian Gray situation, the positives outweighed the negatives...and so, I agreed to become a work of art as the painting--and an interesting friendship--began to take shape...
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