Daniel Vancas (Danny V) and company working at THE VANGUARD GALLERY, located at the CLINT EASTWOOD BUILDING, a Gallery and Studio for 16 years in Carmel, Ca.
Professional Pinup artist and photographer. We look for and need models. Romantic artful tease, G to PG, pinup, flirt, or modest covered nude... but NEVER R or X rated.
NOTE: FIND SUPER LIST OF PIN-UP ART BELLOW
CLICK THE VANGUARD GALLERY or ETSY SITE TO SEE MORE IMAGES!
ETSY ART SALE & SHOW-> http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=5316841
BEST NEW INFO - >: http://www.theVANGUARDGALLERY.com/artists
HUGE OLD SITE (Old gallery location) : www.ELVGRENART.com
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Warning: There are too many pirate pinup knock offs on EBAY to sort through search and find one that's not. Please don't buy pirated or unauthorized pin-ups, look for the Elvgren TM as a sign of authentic quality!
Click DANNY V's MYSPACE = GOOFY FUN, PHOTOS + OH! SO MUCH MORE!
Fine art and illustrations.
First Elvgren fine art replica artist.
Painted over 230 Elvgren replica paintings, pinups, and illustrations in the last 16 years. Original paintings valued from $3500 to $100,000.
Owner of the Elvgren trademarks, Elvgren easel and I.P. (c) archive of over 100 images.
First Elvgren fine art replica artist.
First fine art publisher of Elvgren fine art pinups and limited editions, 1994/95
Created the Vanguard Galleries, many shows featuring pinup art around the country, 1992 to present.
Authorized publisher of the Vargas (Estate) The Blue Nude
Exclusive art director, Rep and art publisher of DeMartini (Friend of and mentored by Alberto Vargas) pinup artist now 80 years old.
Daniel Vancas has written several magazine and newspaper articles about, Vargas, Elvgren and pinup art.
We had an outdoor birthday party...
Sparks and red hot embers showered us
from a new bonfire.
She was 82, now 83.
In Her time,
and she'd laugh a maybe.
She still laughs with sparking eyes.
I heard her talking to herself.
My children are so wonderful...
How'd I deserve this?
She whispered her silent prayer,
and wished a little maybe,
as she did so many cakes before...
the bells rang and
she blew out the flame.
Love is showered
Too soon the party is ending.
Remaining sighs are only
from a fire that is
a warm amber glow.
Last compressed offerings
gasping from charred logs.
Still, the dying embers surprises
speaking with renewed flames
and spits it's sparks at us all.
the flames whispered
all her wishes did come true.
By Daniel Vancas
HAPPY 4TH OF JULY AND
REMEMBERING OUR BROTHERS OF DEMOCRACY
BY DANNY V.
Alas! As we near 4th of July, that All American celebration, we must remember the French for giving us so much before this country was even born...
So are you quiet on the western front?
Be thankful someone invented Democracy!
Did you read my musings about selling art and my trip to Las Vegas, on MM page? (Read my prior article below and this will make more sense!)
Yes my humor, can be silly and surreal... a little Coen O'Brother-Were-Art-Thou-ish, at times... but I think I am not that dark and really more absurdly geeky and silly. Others call me weird-o, the polite say, "Oh! He's very eccentric, an artist, you know!"... I see, they say trying to be compassionate. I don't know if they are right, am I a true artist... weird-o, or both? I was just born this way. Always getting into trouble day dreaming at school and looking out the window and drawing pictures of my fantasies. Life was better out that window I reasoned, or why would they keep us here in plain view of the playground?
So, What do the French have to do with the American Pop and my weird-o-ness? The answer could make us more palatable to the French, who can get the irony.
C'est la vie! or as others would exclaim at fast food restaurants all over America..."Damn!, I'm out of French fries again!"
Oops! More artie sounding French expressions, just keep popping out like tarts from my electric toaster-roaster!
What I am commenting about in my writings is the steady decline of quality in American pop culture... In fact culture in general. And just like cardboard tasting "Pop-Tarts", that are barely palatable, and only after "toasting and roasting". Yes indeed, our American culture is becoming a very poor "faux-simile" of a well known French pastry.
"Danny Vie" - yes, I am a quarter French, just don't ask how I know.
PS: Can you count how many French/American words that are in this letter? After all, the French invented Democracy! Happy Forth of July America!
(c) Daniel Vancas, all rights res. 6/09
REMEMBERING LAS VEGAS AND THE ART OF SELLING ART
Selling art is the required work, for artists. When I was an inspired talented and somewhat skilled 20 year old painter, I'd say, I will never sell commercial, my clients will find me and come to me! I am not a sell-out! In a different way, that was true... I sold one painting just this way... and then became a general building contractor for 18 years. I learned to sell my services to build your home.
After falling off ladders and scaffolds for the 3rd time, I was bedridden for 6 months, and loosing all I owned, I decided to break my anti-art-selling promises and return full time to my art. I have been doing this for 16 years with financial ups and downs. Selling art is not easy.
"Oh! I love your gallery with all the 40's stuff and pin-up girls... but we can't hang a pin-up in our home... Oh! no, No, NO! what would Aunt Martha say when she brings over her twin teenage boys?" Or they'd try and be funny... "When I win the lottery, or the big pot in Vegas, you'll be the first I'd buy a painting from!" I hear this all day long.
I would wonder to myself, while putting back the sticky fingered pulled rare edition art books and other art displays... and then vacuuming up the beach sand off my art deco rugs, just where are all these lotto and big shot Vegas winners? After 16 years, over one million people crossed the doors in my various gallery locations, and hearing the lotto promise every day, you'd think one in a million went to Vegas or bought a ticket and hit the jack-pot! Did they ever remember their promise to some over-worked artist? Did they think they were the first to ever say that to me?
When they do, I smile, like I never heard it before...and then tell them the odds and that they really should put the art they love on lay-a-way, if they really love it, it will be gone before they win.
After a long hard week of entertaining and educating clients and tourists at my gallery, I sold nothing. Disappointed and tired I think maybe I should sell apples, on the street, like in the great depression? Maybe I should go see a Hollywood movie or to Las Vegas ? To save my money, and cheap entertainment, I used my imagination to reflect on my observations of my last Vegas trip.
Please don't be so hard on Las Vegas or Hollywood and their movies... Vegas or Hollywood, it is a just a little piece, a very small part of American culture.
To me, Las Vegas is the escaping steam, all ethereal smoke and mirrors, a kind of a pressure relief value, connected to a still great engine of commerce, we call America.
Like a woman, Las Vegas is to be experienced, and not to be understood.
Las Vegas has always been given a well deserved bad rap, or poor reputation. Yet we all still go and will go to this consumer's Mecca. But where else can you combine cheapness and excess for a cultural excuse that counts? Where the thinnest ladies dresses, must be worn over fake silicon breasts? Where the thin veneer of window dressing is made with purpose to see through to the fake New York or a Eiffel Tower.
To see the absurd, is to look at our own preposterous self reflections in distorted mirrors... is made all the more better. It is "we" who invented silicon and Las Vegas. Vegas laughs at us, not the other way around.
We all need to be shucked and jived, and hustled from our money and hum-drum lives! We all need to leave Vegas broke and hungry for work, and then drive the great American engine on and on... Yes, Vegas lives on like neon covered syphon, or a spittoon were we regurgitate our hard earned cash and precious Colorado river into black-holes of fictional commerce. Were we waste water in the desert growing lawns and golf courses that are all too hot or we are too hung over to ever enjoy.
But that's all entertainment, and they'd bet you'd pay the price of admission just to see the tattooed fat lady sing, in an unknown language... and only if they'd only call it Cirque du Las Neon or Circus of Silicon, and only with posters of French words we don't understand.
...and maybe I should stop painting fantasy pin-up girls with dreamy smiles and start painting still life's of apples sitting on top of stacks of 100 dollar and Euros bills with the faces of Adam and Eve painted on them... I will sign them with a French sounding nom de plume, and give them meaningless titles of French words that translate to English something like.."La Petite Pomme Pour Vous Beaucoup D'Argent" or "Little Apple For Your Big Money".
Artistic license the Art Director tells me. A big lie I said... oh no she will say to me, it's just a tiny little mystery. A little mystery sells art, I am told, not sexy nudies! A big artistic fib is just what the customers from Beaverton Oragan, or Happy Falls, Minnesota, want and will never ever understand why! These French titles will ad mystery and value, the art directors assure me.
I watch the Art Buyers, they will have patronizing nods, and say OH! and Hmmm, a lot, and with index fingers pointing and touching their cheek they will thoughtfully ask, "Will this artist go up in value?" Or, "Is he old... well is his health bad?"
They will pretend to understand the artist true meaning of the "artistic mystery". Then they will say... I will buy that painting and get a "giclee" print for Aunt Martha too! The husband still dreaming of my pinups pauses.. what about that guy at the Vanguard Gallery with all the pin-up girls with rosy apple cheeks? She will say, and just where do you think you're gonna hang that, over my sofa? Not in my lifetime!
I hope I made you laugh and nothing was lost in the translation of this American prose...
Danny V - artist at the Vanguard Gallery
PS: "Giclee" now referred to in the art world as a fine art digital print, is just another French "artie word" turned descriptive meaning. What the original use and meaning for the French, was a word that became a slang that means "to spit" or spray! How very charmingly art apropos (oops I am going French again!)! And not the word I would use for French clients when selling high end professionally made fine art canvas prints!
TAKE A MOMENT TO REMEMBER OUR FATHERS,
AND NEIGHBORS WHO HAVE BEEN AND ARE IN SERVICE, EVEN TODAY...
THIS IS A UNWELCOME TIME TO BE AMERICAN IN SOME PARTS OF THE WORLD.
WE CAN CHANGE THAT!
THIS IS A TERRIBLE FINANCIAL TIME.
WE CAN CHANGE THAT TOO.
THIS TIME IS MUCH LIKE A TIME BEFORE.
WILL WE CHANGE IN TIME TO NOT TO REPEAT HISTORY?
BE THOUGHTFUL AND KIND TO THE LAST OF THE GREAT GENERATION
THEY GAVE TO MUCH WITH SO FEW WORDS....
*PLEASE TAKE THE TIME TO THINK...
WHO IN YOUR FAMILY PAST OR PRESENT IS IN SERVICE FOR OUR COUNTRY - AND THANK THEM...
EVEN IF IN THOUGHT.
THEN EXTEND YOUR KINDNESS TO ANOTHER.
THIS IS HOW THE WORLD CAN BE CHANGED.
ONE KIND ACT AT A TIME!
A TRIBUTE TO "THE LOST BOYS" OF WAR...
GROWING UP IN THE 1950'S & 60'S
This last weekend was Memorial day. There are many fallen and lost brothers to remember in this world.
I have had friends and family who went to off to WWII and later Vietnam. Some returned, some did not.
Some who returned in body, some never completely returned.
These too are our lost brothers.
I have one such brother.
This was his cultural path to adulthood and Vietnam, from the eyes of his kid brother.
Here is a link to American Pie, a song that rings to close to our personal experience. Please play it before or after you read this letter as a tribute to all the lost brothers and warriors of Vietnam.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMlzfpwJ … re=related
Please pass this on to as many friends you have... maybe a few lost brothers will call home.
A TRIBUTE TO MY BROTHER MICKEY - WHEN THE MUSIC DIED
When I was 10, I had older brother, Mickey, who was 17. Older brothers are often found of pounding little brothers for no better reason than that they will deserve it sooner or latter, so he would reason, why not now?
As a younger brother, there was a lot to be envious of Mickey about. He had 1957 Chevy Hot Rod, a pinup girl collection, Playboy magazines hidden under the bed mattress and a well developed rock n' roll garage band.
Mom would say, Mickey, spend some time with your little brother Danny, take him with you the next time you go to A&W. So, grudgingly he would. It was only 2 miles to A&W, driving there in a cool rod was mostly a reason to ride, not a destination. Foremost on my brothers mind was the girls, waiting there.
There were the car hops in short shorts or flared mini shirts, pony tails and roller skates, or there were the girls from school, with added after school make-up. Girls to look cool for, and cool was not a tag a long kid brother.
When we'd pull out the driveway I was in the front seat waving at my neighborhood friends with smiling anticipation of adventure. One block later I was ordered to the back seat. Before we got to the drive-in I was face down on the back floor boards and covered with a beach blanket. It was almost summer, hot, and as a 3rd class passenger in a first class ride, I was quickly turning from kid brother to baggage. The closer we got to the A&W the more Kooties I became infested with. Kooties, are that invisible anti-cool virus, with no known cure. Once you caught kooties, gone forever is your teenage reputation.
Mickey, true to big brother form said, "Look, kid, here is 3 rules, while I am picking up chicks, you stay under the blanket, don't move and kiss the floor boards, or I'll pound you. If you complain and want to go home, I'll pound you. When we go to the drag strip, you will not tell, or... I'll pound you." Pounding kid brothers who bug you, also is known to disinfect anti-cool kooties.
So in this way, peeking from under a blanket I got my first education about the dating and mating rituals of older teenagers. I had no idea that my brother was so popular with girls. He had 3 deuces, bored out cylinders and glass packs on his hot rod Chevy and made full use of them entering, parking and leaving the A&W, as did all the other boys with their rods. The car would shake, tires would spin, my ears, still pressed to the floorboard would ring. Now, before you think this was little brother abuse, I was happy to go along, and see, or in my case hear all the cool adult type stuff big teenagers could do!
After a curious pony tail girl discovered me under the blanket, I thought I was dead-meat. She saved me, by calling all the girls over, to my brother's car. They all made a big deal that how cute and sweet my brother was for taking me along and they started flirting with me and making me blush. Now, all of sudden I was a chick magnet, with it I was kooties free and I could proudly sit in the front seat... and my brother started adding new rules for pounding lessons, in case my head got too big.
Flirting followed by eating burgers stuffed with onions, Floats and shakes and we were ready to roar the floor boards again! This time I could see the looks and understood that there was some magic attraction beyond all understanding to my brother's car. Boys with flared nostrils made finger gestures of jealousy, cute girls with jealous boyfriends would wink and smile.
My brother was the love engineer of this roaring machine made of teenage desire. The boys would come, competing with their roaring engines built by Ford or GM and challenges made, girls would hop in and uncomplaining I would jump into the back seat and off to the mud flats we'd go.
These were old salt evaporation ponds surrounded by levees with vacant frontage roads, straight and flat, with no reason for traffic and perfect for a drag racing. While he was busy with racing, the girls, bored and waiting, sipped contraband beers, applied more make-up and red lips. They played and teased and flirted with me. I begin to think that it's not so bad to be a little brother.
My brother was talented and as you know he liked to pound on things. So naturally he became a drummer and pounded on his drums. No one could play "Wipe Out!" quite like him. He formed a band, it was a great little band for teenage neighborhood boys. They played around at local high schools and competed in "Battle of the Bands".
On sultry summer evenings, they practiced on our backyard patio. They would play songs about cars, surfing and girls. Most often songs about girls were of bad girls who broke hearts and ran with the wrong crowd.
These were the girls you couldn't take home to meet Mom. They sang songs like, "Dead-man's Curve", "Wipe Out", "Run around Sue", "Sherry Baby" and "Gloria". These were their standards.
Having a rock in roll band when your 17 is all about the girls you could get. The getting part was all teenage boys thought about, that is, when you weren't thinking about turning 18 and facing the cold draft to war. We all knew neighborhood kids that had come back in a body bag. This too was unspoken, for to speak about it too much meant you were scared, uncool, not tough. All the boys were scared of their unknown future as the war passed on though the lives of friends and the years of sorrows for no apparent reason. Getting girls was the chase in earnest and an escape to pleasure that said, "Today, boys I am still alive!"
Words like "wayward" and "bad" and "from the wrong side of the tracks", only loosely translated into the hormonally impaired teenage mind as... well, girls you could get. And when it comes to getting girls loose, that was considered a good thing, no matter the consequences! (Now, I am just stating the historic facts of my story, this is an observation, not a moral discussion. Life then was not overburdened with too many contradictory political corrections.)
Now where was I? Oh! Yes!, Our back yard, and it had a patio...where the boys would have band practice. Now if you are staying with me this far, this is where the story starts to get truly interesting.
Near the back patio was a fence. This was a plain 6 foot redwood fence, but beyond this ordinary fence, lay a great divide, a great mystery and a right of passage. It was a forbidden zone, in more ways than one. For here was the place the boys came to call paradise or ballyhanna. For if you could scale the fence you would find a small 3 foot separation, a weeded alley, separating our good neighbor fence with the real honest chain linked fence, with a top of inward protruding 3 strands of barbed wire. I wondered to myself, "What wild creatures were living there that required such a fence to keep them corralled in and the neighborhood safe?... and what would happen if they do get out?"
I did not have long to wonder, because very soon my all too clever brother dug a very convenient large scooping hole with soft sides and lined it with flattened cardboard, so these wild things could come through to the forbidden zone without so much as a scratch or snag. My brother and his friends called this breech of safety, "The Glory Hole".
Every boy has a found memory of the girl or girls next door. Usually it's a fantasy of sweet girls who are beautiful, darling and a little unassuming. Girls with the ever present watching eye of an overprotective father. She was a real pinup girl that we could introduce to Mom. They are wholesome as Mom's cherry pie or a Saturday Matinee and a stolen kiss in the balcony seats.
Our girls next door where not of this variety. They were a little more... well, wild and available, if one could avail with them beyond the chain linked fence with the barbed wire.
Simply put, the property next door just over our fence was an all girl high school run by Catholic Nuns. Not just any run of the mill Catholic all girl high school, mind you, but a reform school where all the students were, in kinder words, would be called "wayward girls".
Girls who for one rebellious reason or another had tasted some unripe apple of adult life and then a quick path to juvenile hall. These girls were given an option. A choice. Either a confined existence at the hall or a stint at what I would call Mother Mary's Finishing School for Lost Girls. The young ladies were here as kind of last ditch, a juvey of R&R, which was short for what Mother Mary called, Rehabilitation and Religion.
When we moved to this new home in 1963, I turned 10 and it was my big eye wonder years. At first I thought very little of the girls next door. My big brother, however, thought he had found heaven on earth, and it wasn't a religious experience. Though, I am quite sure he must have thanked God a lot for placing him in the middle of the sea of teenage temptation. For how many boys will ever have 300 wild teenage girls just a leap over their back fence?
My brother must have played his cards right, or maybe all his work as an alter boy at the local parish paid off. The Nuns came to allow some of the girls special privileges to dress up in their street clothes and come over to listen to the band play. There were odd rules. The rules were simple, they could sit on the redwood fence but not step into our yard... or back to Juvenile Hall they went. So here is my brother, a band leader with his four other 17 year old buddies, with up to 15 girls in shorts and skirts even high heels, sitting on the top of our redwood fence all lined up like human alley cats in-waiting.
I was a little too young to figure out just what these girls (and boys) were waiting for... or why they thought my brother, who pounded me on a regular basis, just for good measure, was so cool or special.
One of the girls, with the help of Dippity-do, could tease her hair a mile high in the sky, caught the attention of Mickey. She wore short skirts, nylons and garters, with the tops of the stockings that I could always see, and blouses I could always see through... White see through blouses, brazen black push up bras and perfumed hair and gartered shiny nylons. She almost scared me, yet I still looked. Why did my brother like her I wondered?
Somehow she won date privileges, and became my brothers first flame... her name, and I bet you might have guessed this, was.... SHERRY! Just like the popular song!
Yes! I had finally found my brothers Achilles heel and justice for my bruised body all in one place. The answer came in a simple song. I could sing Sherry Baby, in full falsetto, mocking my brother, covering him with kooties of embarrassment and then run like hell before he could jump on me for more well deserved pounding.
Yes! I teased him mercilessly! Justice had come in the form of rock n' roll song and a teenage finishing school dropout named Sherry. And for all my brothers undying devotion to her, I would made him pay, for once and all time!
I found out that when I sang "Sherry Baby" I was simply exposing that Mister Tough Guy, my brother, was not so tough. He had let love reduce him to a vulnerable puddin' of mush. Sherry baby predictably torched my brother's heart as he too graduated into an unstable young adulthood, rushing off to Vietnam, where the teenage Mickey would never fully return from.
Little did I understand that I too was destined to be mix-mastered into instant Jell-o pudding someday over an equally bad examples of feminine ferocity caught in my mindless desire. But that karmic kootie justice was still years away.
By the time I wised up and turned into a 14 year old girl crazy teenager, the reform school and all it's very friendly girls with gartered stockings, teased and perfumed hair, and naughty red lip stick had closed and moved away! It too was an end of an time and a style, and the beginning of free love. With this change came the end of pinup girls in lingerie and teasing maybe smiles. Real pinup girls after all only implied a "maybe" and never a yes! Pinups on calendars were now relegated to the dirty walls of gas stations. The English Mod invasion, Woodstock, Micro Mini and Hot Pants were fashion directives.
I was confused as hell, while my brother went to Vietnam, we lost band members, neighbors and my own high school friends who lied about their age and joined up to get into an all together different glory hole, that too many of their fathers knew in World War Two.
Vietnam was not WWII, Walter Cronkite and TV gave us pictures of real war, napalm bombs, babies and Monks dead in the far away Asian streets, of wild protests in our American streets. The bodies of fallen sons slipped into too many 4x6 holes, many found no glory, many forgotten as a nation's pride was covered with political embarrassment. We lost a Mr. King of peace, then a second dead Kennedy and we had moon walks and acid trips for fun. Life was surreal.
I grew my hair long, became and artist, burned my draft card and protested. My brother became equally confused and forever changed, and without fail came home to pound some of my rebellion out of me. But this time his pounding was more about the hurt, the needless loss, and his anger, and not about brotherly love. We were divided. He had changed, and though I didn't know it, I had, Vietnam had, lost my brother forever.
Still waiting, like wagging loving puppy, was the dusty yet faithful 57 Chevy in the garage. A car of mythic proportions, was reduced to a childhood relic of teenage hopes, hopes that I wanted so much to have.
I too wanted to go to the A&W and pick up girls in pony tails, who kissed, giggled and only said maybe. But the girls were gone, even the wild girls on our fence were gone, the forbidden zone, heaven, balleyhanna... all were gone in the short span of my brothers teenage years. My brother sold the Chevy while weeds had grown over "the glory hole" under the chain linked fence. There were no more rock n' roll or wild things in our backyard. For a time his rock n' roll music had died with the 57 Chevy.
I found out early that life and love can be a cruel unfair, affair. The only thing that remained unchanged, was that my brother continued to want pound on me. Maybe it was loss or the rage or just habit... or maybe it was his expression of love all bundled into one emotion. I think He did so, just in case in my arrogance I should ever forget how unfair and yet precious life can be. If anything was learned in Vietnam, my brother brought that lesson home.
Still, I would forget my bruises and brotherly lessons... Until, I married a young woman that would make Sherry Baby, look like the Flying Nun.
As I dropped out of social relations class 101, aka, worthless marriage counseling, I failed to notice what it was about pinup girls and our own mother, that everyone from puppies, neighbors to my friends thought was so cool.
Our Mom was women who was just as good at bandaging cut fingers as broken hearts, all without making you feeling stupid that you did it to yourself. Before she died, when I was only 25, she commissioned me to look after my older brother. Don't you know he loves you, she would remind me.
I admit as a young man, I let my pride fail my Mother's simple request, yet, I can't help but thinking... where is my older brother when I need a good pounding, just to knock some common sense into me? Every time, i again remember, he was in Vietnam, where we all lost friends, schoolmates and neighbors and even one beloved band member, a sweet boy named Frances, that was shy with the girls! The only one my sister had a crush on. He was a son of a WWII warrior, a real hero, and he wanted to be important too. We will never forget Frances.
So Maybe my brother and my life would have been different, if he had met a G-L-O-R-I-A, or a Betty, or the pin-up girl next door. Instead we looked for adventure, where wild things with teased overly perfumed hair lived in the forbidden zone.
Without the wild things in this world we wouldn't have anything to sing or write about! We wouldn't have so many broken hearts and rights of passage. And like nose art painted on bombers or Helen of Troy, maybe young men wouldn't have anything to run from. We wouldn't have broken hearts to make us leave home and go to war about. Still, without the wild things, there wouldn't be glory either.
Thank you for taking the time to read this, and remember our lost and fallen brothers every day.
(c) Daniel Vancas 2009, all rights res.