Art gallery

I have always dreamed of having my paintings displayed in some art gallery. But my father said, wisely, that artists are always poor. "First you should make money to support your family," he suggested, "and then you can afford as many hobbies as you want. Besides, if you were an artist, you'd have to sell all your paintings to make ends meet. Don't you want to keep them?" As a result of his words, I became a lawyer instead. But the desire to display my art never went away.

At last, more then 25 years after my first painting, by the virtue of internet I am delighted to invite you to my new art gallery. Below you will find 30 of my paintings and a couple of unfinished sketches. The others were simply unsuitable for reasons of profanity and/or lack of technical proficiency. Last, but not least, I apologize for the poor quality of the reproductions. The originals are a lot brighter and prettier. Really.

John Lennon (1980). This is one of the first paintings I did in high school. It's black-and-white both because of Lennon's controversial statements as well as my partial color-blindness. Someone offered me $50 for it once, which was a fortune at the time, but I kept the portrait. Valerie (1984). A long time ago I dated an angelic-looking ballerina dancer named Valerie. She was as beautiful as she was ice-cold. Her watchful eye and the ear that's shaped like a question mark are meant to convey her attitude: "what can you do for me?"

Street-corner mime (1985). One summer I worked as a street-corner pantomime in an artsy part of St. Louis called the Central West End. One of the tricks was to tip my hat while pretending to lean on an invisible lamp-post. I guess the painting is a self-portrait in a way.

Saxophone player I, (1985). This is more of a caricature then a real painting. A pot-bellied sax player, standing on pencil-thin legs, blowing away, somehow seemed funny at the time. Predators (1985). One of the worst paintings I ever did, according to several honest friends. I tried giving it away to my mom, and she "loaned" it to one of her neighbors, but eventually the Preditors made its way back to me. Nobody wanted it, so I kept it. Still don't know why.

The prison doors (1986). The black paint on the door was layered in an effort to give the appearance of dried blood. It feels like candle wax. Otherwise, a relatively happy, optimistic painting: the prison door is open and there is nobody inside the cell.

Tulips in a vase (1986). This was a present to my mother and father. Nothing fancy, just a nice still life of two tulips in a vase. Pleasant dreams (1987). Another present to my parents: a happy, smiling face in a middle of a dream. It's currently hanging above my mom's bed.

Fashion (1987). You're in some club, and you see spiked hair, cool shades, gorgeous face, only the lips are twisted. That's fashion world.

Still fruit (1987). Every self-respecting artist must paint some fruit at one time in their career. If you're Dutch, you also have to draw those silver oysters and light-golden beer. This is my feeble attempt at doing simple still fruit.

Still cherries (1987). My grandmother liked the cherries portion of the still fruit (above), so I painted them especially for her. This canvas is currently displayed in her kitchen in St. Louis.

Isolation (1987). I was in a bad mood one day, and this idea came out: a person is sitting alone in a dark corner of an empty room, curled up in a fetal position. Then I added a source of positive light (lamp) and placed his feet within the light's reach. That's supposed to symbolize hope and optimism.

Chaplin (1988). While working as a mime in Central West End, I would dress up as Charlie Chaplin, complete with a black hat and a bow tie. Charlie's show on the corner was always lively: I did the tight-rope walker, the weight-lifter, the fisherman, the air balloon, the invisible wall. As a result, the tips were great.

Saxophone player II (1990). Five years later, I re-hashed that silly character, the sax player. Nothing new or particularly creative about this canvas.

Bicyclist (1990). This was an attempt to show neck-breaking speed with as few brush strokes as possible.
The spider's web (1990). There is a focal point on the canvas where the spider web blends in perfectly with the thunder cloud in the background, where a fly would have no chance of seeing the web. Knowing this, the spider awaits his prey at that particular spot.

Martini (1990). While working in one of the largest law firms in Washington, D.C., I was introduced to such yuppie pleasures as martinis and fine cigars. This canvas was proudly displayed in my apartment.

Bathroom humor (1990). This was painted specifically to let my inebriated yuppie guests know (a) where the toilet was; and (b) to raise their seats while using the facilities (if male). It hung next to the bathroom to avoid any confusion.

Shattered (1997). This is exactly how I felt after my father passed away from Hodgkins disease (cancer of the lymphatic nodes). He went through two chemotherapies and a bone marrow transplant, plus daily dialysis. In the end he conquered the cancer, but died on November 28, 1994, from a heart attack. That shattered feeling never quite left me.

 Music (1998). Just a fun look at a music score, something Walt Disney might do.

Business reels (1999). This is an enormous canvas that took me more then two days to stretch. There are three film reels, each containing several shots. Upon a closer look, you can see the individual business cards of rather important people in business world. Take a step back, and they are nothing but a blur. Yet to get their name on these business cards, many have sacrificed their lives in pursuit of company's goals, often completely missing out on their family life, failing to establish meaningful relationships with their children. Now, I'm not criticizing them, since I'm still very much a part of the corporate world. It's just a commentary on our sad reality, that's all.

Life in a fishbowl I (1999). One day, you're a pretty little fish. Life in a fishbowl II (1999). The next, just brittle fishbones.

Ant wars (two canvases, 2000). Two large canvasses: the blue ants against the red ants. Hence, the ant wars. Silly, no?
A Serb in Kosovo (2000). This is the last thing a Muslim person would see in a town called Kosovo in late 1900's. Lena's eyes (2001). This is a good-faith effort to perform a miracle: capture the beautiful eyes of my wife, Lena. The sheer size of the canvas (1.5 meters long) made this trick much more difficult.

Mother's portrait (2001). My mother really does look like this in life.

Father's eyes (2001). My father's eyes carried all the wisdom in the world, something I was unable to convey in this futile effort to capture his essence.

Grandmother's portrait (2001). It took me several attempts to get this one right, but in the end, my grandmother liked it. Or so she said.

 

Study of a nude (2003). As with the still fruit, every artist has to produce at least one study of a nude. That was my argument, anyway. And I was going to continue painting along this path, but my dear wife, Lena, strongly disagreed. So instead, I wrote a little novel about corruption, called The Steel Barons. Order your own copy today!