#tretchikoff

[paintingispoetry]

Vladimir Tretchikoff, "The Green Lady", 1952

[kitschykitschykoo]

Tretchikoff kitsch

[psikonauti]

Vladimir Tretchikoff (Russian,1913-2006)

Dying Swan II, 1951

Oil on canvas

[azuki-3000]

[ooctoopussi]

Chinese Girl

The Green Lady

1952

Vladimir Tretchikoff

1913-2006

[boschcurrie]

Vladimir Tretchikoff (Russian,1913-2006)

Dying Swan II, 1951

[visual-sandwich]

Vladimir Tretchikoff

[bitter69uk]

Our chivalrous and genteel friend Mal brought these pink roses when he came over to our place on Sunday - and they're still poppin' days later. The Blue Lady tiki mug is via Little Grass Shack.

[t-jfh]

Vladimir Tretchikoff (Russian, 1913-2006)

Lady of the Orient, 1955

Oil on canvas

•

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 111 years ago: ultra-kitsch Russian-born mass market artist Vladimir Tretchikoff (26 December 1913 – 26 August 2006), whose vibrant “exotic” paintings like “Chinese Girl” (aka “The Green Lady”, one of the top-selling prints of the twentieth century), “Miss Wong” and “Balinese Girl” (pictured) ensure his position in the same elite “low brow art” pantheon as Margaret Keane and J H Lynch. Is any home complete without a framed Tretchikoff print above the mantelpiece (or even better, above the bamboo cocktail bar)?

Balinese Girl by Vladimir Tretchikoff

[bebs-art-gallery]

Ballet Scene, Giselle Act II, Alicia Markova ❦ Interval at the Opera by Georges Jules Victor Clairin ❦ The Dying Swan by Vladimir Tretchikoff

[kitschykitschykoo]

Tricity Vogue, a British cabaret artist and ukulele player paying tribute to Vladimir Tretchikoff's "Green Lady"

[psikonauti]

Vladimir Tretchikoff (Russian,1913-2006)

African Drummer

Oil on canvas

[bitter69uk]

Born on this day 110 years ago: ultra-kitsch Russian-born mass market artist Vladimir Tretchikoff (26 December 1913 – 26 August 2006), whose vibrant “exotic” paintings like “Chinese Girl” (aka “The Green Lady”, one of the top-selling prints of the twentieth century), “Miss Wong” (pictured) and “Balinese Girl” ensure his position in the same elite “low brow art” pantheon as Margaret Keane and J H Lynch. Is any home complete without a framed Tretchikoff print above the mantelpiece (or better yet, bamboo cocktail bar)?

Miss Wong by Vladimir Tretchikoff 

trying to get a print of this for my living room. the bright brash colours would perfectly pop out on the dark wood walls

[choicesmc]

Let This Be My Punishment

MC: Fiona Lightwood Book: Laws of Attraction Word Count: 730 Summary: Fiona is forever haunted by what he is and cannot be. Banner: The Dying Swan by Tretchikoff Vladimir Prompt: Deity Inspiration List - [Erinyes] Taglist: @choicesmaychallenge24

trigger warnings: queerphobia and homophobia nothing is explicit but as the center of the fic, i wanna cover my bases.

Fiona knew how to ignore ghosts. He knew how to ignore the whispers of rebuke that gripped him as he patted down his skirt. He knew to move past the occasional queasiness when pressed chaste kisses against Gabe’s soft skin. He knew to stifle the nightmares that wrestled him awake in the middle of the night. 

Or, at least, he’d thought he’d known. 

He thought he was past the nightmare stage. It’d been so long since he startled himself awake, replaying that damned day over and over in his mind.

 He never made the same choices. Sometimes he kept his head down, eyes trained on the burning hands of his fiancee on his thigh. Sometimes, he played it off as a joke, becoming ever so slightly hysterical when no one –not his fiance, not his father, and especially not his mother– believed him. 

Sometimes, he left the table yelling and cursing the awful, awful truth. At times, he brought his fiance close, turning to his father and lying through gritted smiles that he’d never, not once, had ever even considered the improbable, unacceptable, impossible idea that he might like the feel of silk dress over the finest pants. Or confessed that men, men!, could be so beautiful as to compel Fiona to his knees in desperate worship. No. He’d bite his tongue like a coward than spit out disgrace. 

Not that the outcome ever really changed. 

This time, he’d gently taken his mother’s hands and placed them around his neck. 

It wasn’t hard. Fiona had always known the virtues of suffering. Always known that the life he now lived required his eternal repentance. It was the only option he’d be given. It was the life he chose. And Fiona was old enough to suffer its consequences.

Uwakwe sat at the table. The first seat to the left of his father. His bride-to-be, his fiancée, Chiamaka sat beside him. Her hand lingered on his thigh, sly and coy, burning against his every instinct. 

His mother, Kachu, pressed against Fiona’s pulse. It throbbed under her touch, vein hammering away with each lingering moment. It begged for her forgiveness. Begged to accept everything he was, even if only through his death. 

“Uwakwe,” his mother spat, placing her son as yet another obstacle to overcome, “This is not enough.”

No, Fiona prayed, It is not. 

 “Uwakwe,” his mother spoke. Her hand gave his pulse another squeeze. It was almost taunting. “This is a dream.” 

It is real, Fiona whispered, Had I given you my neck, you would have squeezed. Had I said nothing you would have done something. This is as real as it is a dream.

Her hands grew cold on his neck. When she spoke again, her voice warbled, swirling with the voice of his father, mingling with Chiamaka’s. She didn’t speak things Fiona knew to understand. 

There was a time I did understand, Fiona wondered, there had been a time when I knew those sounds better than anyone else, hadn’t there?

Instead, he kept perfectly still, allowing his mother to abuse him. Relishing the familiar way she cut at him, the crash of phonemes against his ear, grating and mocking him with each roll of their tongues. 

Fiona let that haunting lullaby move him from his bed. He pushed it behind his brain as he picked up his phone, eyes softly closing at the sound of Gabe’s instructing voice to leave a message at the tone. 

Fiona left a sweet message. A simple ‘Good morning, darling.’, the type that whispered honey and kisses and soft sheets and lingering mornings. The type that hid worried curses and silent tears. The type that Gabe, somehow, always heard anyway. 

Donning his most risqué shirt he could probably get away with, Fiona pretended not to notice as the fabric prickled his fingers, drawing his disgrace to light. Squirming into a tight, bedazzled pencil skirt, he let the criticisms stain him –even pausing to admire his open disobedience in the glimmer of eyeshadow and the gloss of his painted lips. 

Fiona didn’t know to ignore ghosts. He knew how to live with them. He knew how to integrate them so deeply into everything he was that to separate him from his ghosts was to give him a purity he didn’t deserve. Fiona would never be pure. 

The closest he’d ever get to purity was this endless suffering.

Author's Note: for a little more context you might wanna read [this] post. I associate a lot of Christian imagery with Fiona cuz it's how he was raised so, idk, I foolishly thought it would be kinda easy to find something analogous in greek mythos but, spoiler, it was not.

but the erinyes jumped at me because yeah! that's how fiona lives his life! Hoping y'all had fun/enjoyed reading my suffering (<- loving and affectionate) ♥

[ooctoopussi]

Miss Wong

1950

Vladimir Tretchikoff