2025-05-27

A SHORT STORY; The Resin Veil: Legacy Sealed in Time

The Resin Veil: Legacy Sealed in Time 

It began with a pair of unassuming oval frames we found in a thrift shop—discarded, hurt, and damaged. Once decorative elements in an old Dutch bar, what we call ” a brown pub”, they lay abandoned behind a pile of boxes filled with second-hand items. Dark brown in their original state, with a flat middle ring studded with twelve small, brass-colored spheres reminiscent of the nails found on the window frames of ancient ships, these frames whispered of a storied past. They called out to me—I could already sense that I could do something special with them. 

In a collaborative project with my husband, we sanded them down and repainted them. The middle ring received a black silky finish, while the inner and outer ring were treated with matte black paint, intentionally leaving little traces of wear as a respectful nod to their history. 

I had already been collecting pictures of collages and wall pamphlets—colorful photos of damaged walls. During trips to Athens, I came across similar layered compositions of concert posters and graffiti. In England and Scotland, visits to grand country houses sparked another inspiration—the countless portraits of ancestors that lined their halls. 

From this fusion emerged the idea for The Four Dandys—a series of portraits that would become my personal manifesto of style, poised rebellion, and hidden messages. What beauty becomes of decay.

The Birth of the Dandys 

Each of the Four Dandys was crafted as a distinct character, painted in oil on canvas board: 

The First Dandy is portrayed in full length, “en profile.” Clad in a long, dark coat over a high-collared white shirt with ruffled details, his gloved hand rests confidently on a cane. Large sideburns and a high top hat complete his look, set against a background of vertical yellow-and-white stripes intertwined with torn pieces of pink, yellow, and grey paper, printed with enigmatic letters. 

The Second Dandy captures the viewer’s gaze, portrayed from the waist up. Dressed in a dark green double-breasted jacket with a slightly tilted top hat that accentuates his dark hair and piercing eyes, he combines a pink pleated shirt—with a double bow tie and a decorative pin—and red gloves that hold a riding crop. Behind him, softly lit shades of pink, dark blue, and green take the form of torn pamphlets with a white border, creating an almost photorealistic backdrop. 

The Third Dandy is almost a formal portrait—a handsome young man with neatly cropped, curly hair styled in a Napoleon-like manner. He stares directly at the viewer with greyish eyes and full lips. His overcoat, edged with a grey Astrakhan fur collar, and his high-collared, neatly tied white shirt exude refined sophistication. His expression—enigmatic, framed by long sideburns—rests against a vibrant mix of pamphlets in pinks, yellows, blues, and greens, punctuated by bold printed letters. 

The Fourth Dandy exudes playful charm. A young man with blond hair peeking out from beneath a high hat, his cheeky expression suggests mischief. Clad in a sleek black hat and jacket, paired with a subtly pink shirt and an artfully knotted scarf under his collar, his portrait is framed by a layered background of multi-colored torn papers, in which secret texts have been deftly hidden. 

Hidden Layers, Secret Balloting, and the Church Art Weekend

Because I had participated in an art weekend the year before and received overwhelmingly positive feedback, I was invited to exhibit again the following year. This opportunity placed me at a prime location alongside a group of seasoned, professional artists—a valuable experience for me as a newcomer. I wanted to showcase new work, and in the meantime, I had created several nudes and a piece titled The Tired Man. a resting figure, sensual and suggestively provocative, yet modestly clad in underwear.
The upcoming exhibition was set in a particularly significant venue—the main church in a neighboring village. More than just a place of worship, it stood as a cultural cornerstone of the community. 

The event was organized by three individuals, but two of them, the women, requested to preview my work beforehand—“to ensure its quality matched that of the other artists.” I knew exactly which painting they had come to see. I arranged all my paintings and prints in the studio, welcomed them with coffee, and finally invited them in to see my work. They Tired Man was strategicly put in between them.  

Anna, the younger of the two, had a broad interest in art and an open-minded approach. Magda, on the other hand, was retired and religious, and lived in the church village.

First compliments about my work. As their gazes moved across my paintings and prints they searched for the Tired Man. It ignited discussion with its bold sensuality. In that moment, I was forced to negotiate the delicate balance between artistic expression and communal preservation. 

Magda’s words carried more than disapproval—they bore the weight of concern. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to display that one in the church,” she said slowly, choosing each word with care. “It’s not just about the painting. If we cause too much controversy, we could lose the church next year.” And perhaps her dignity in the village.

I countered, reminding them that the venue choice for me had been their own decision—and that, technically, churches already displayed an iconic figure with even less clothing, hanging over the entrance on a cross. But my remark had little effect. 
Anna understood my point, but added, “You can’t deny that it’s meant to be sensual. Almost erotic”.  I replied, “He’s wearing underwear, for goodness’ sake.” 
Anna nodded but couldn’t relent. 

The church was more than a venue—it was the exhibition’s centerpiece, its prestige and scale reliant on its availability. Losing it could mean the downfall of the event itself. I could see in Magda’s posture and tone that she wasn’t simply passing judgment on my work; she was protecting something far larger than herself. 
Anna observed the tension unfolding and acknowledged gently, “It is an important location.” Yet she, too, understood that art must resonate with integrity—even if that meant sparking rebellion. 

I let silence linger before responding calmly, “Art is supposed to do something. It’s supposed to spark and excite people” 

In the quiet that followed, Magda inhaled deeply, weighing the consequences of defying convention. The decision was made the Four Dandys, with their quiet, controlled defiance, would grace the church’s walls instead. 

A Silent Act of Resistance  

I weighed my options carefully—the prestigious location and esteemed fellow artists made it an attractive opportunity to establish my name. “Fine,” I conceded, “but if you’re going to exclude my painting, you must be fair and also prohibit another artist’s female nudes at this location.” 

Anna and Magda exchanged stunned glances. After a pause, they finally admitted, “You’re right about that.” 

I smiled at them kindly. 

Though the Four Dandys were approved, they weren’t yet finished. Frustrated by the unjustified censorship, I decided on a subtle act of rebellion. In their final stages, I embedded queer texts and symbols into the layered backgrounds of the paintings—partially visible, partially obscured by the figures or concealed beneath overlying pamphlets, as though pasted over. This hidden protest gave me satisfaction—Magda would never know what truly hung in the church, but I would. And perhaps an observant viewer would, too. 

The secret words, embedded in torn paper and layered paint, transformed the Four Dandys into something more a silent but potent act of resistance and of victory. 

From Local Acclaim to International Reach 

Encouraged by the success of the exhibition and the warm reception from the public, my artistic voice began to travel further. I became active in online communities like Facebook, special groups like Queer Artist, Gay Theme Art, and Gaze: Male Art where my work found an audience that resonated with its themes. 

An unexpected mention in an article by Edward H. Sebasta, an until then unknown to me American gay rights advocate, amplified my reach. His piece on queer artists and their online platforms led to an unexpected connection with a discerning collector. 

The Connection with Chris 

That collector, Chris, first reached out through my website—he asked about my series Decay. He expressed admiration for my work but forgot to leave his contact details. 

After a brief silence, he reached out again, confessing that he was utterly captivated by the Four Dandys, a sentiment too strong to ignore. Intrigued yet cautious, we exchanged emails and WhatsApp messages, leading to a request for a video call to meet the artist behind the work. 

During our FaceTime call, I welcomed him into my world—the studio, my home, the spaces where creativity and quiet rebellion intertwined. Though the Four Dandys were currently displayed at a local shop, each snapshot and spoken detail brought him closer to their essence. 

Chris, with his appealing, friendly, and energetic demeanor, shared that he was an avid collector, having built his collection over many years. He had just moved back from Washington, D.C., to San Antonio. 

I was thrilled when he expressed interest in purchasing the entire series. Keeping all four together meant preserving their collective impact—their energy, their secrets, their defiance. 

After careful discussions and arrangements, I ensured the safe shipment of the paintings in a custom-made crate, securing their passage by air. They arrived in time for the holiday season, quietly celebrating their new home. 

A Bittersweet Turn and Lingering Mystery

Almost two years after the sale, I received an request for certificates of authenticity and an appraisal, by a close friend of Chris and official member of the International Society of Appraisers. 
It was then that the heartbreaking news reached me; Chris had passed away unexpectedly, leaving behind a legacy of art and quiet wonder. 
Searching online, I found little beyond a few shocked reactions to his death and an official obituary from his family. 

Ever since, the paintings lie in a state of limbo, sealed forever under two layers of glossy resin—a final touch born of both trepidation and triumph. That last resin coat, applied after carefully sanding the first, symbolized their endurance against time and circumstance. Measuring approximately 55 x 70 cm each, they carry within them not only their aesthetic beauty but the echoes of public acclaim, the crucial ballot, and the clandestine messages whispering of resistance and victory. 
And of Chris—who fell in love with four men at once, yet had far too little time to enjoy them. 

The Legacy in Waiting 

Selling the entire series as a united set was deeply satisfying, a relief that the Four Dandys would remain together, their collective narrative unbroken. But my restless, Aries spirit continues to stir, impatiently seeking closure and the next chapter. 

I long to know whether their new guardian will fully embrace their layered story—their hidden defiance, their quiet protest—and the profound legacy sealed beneath that resin veil. 

Time, as always, will decide their fate. 

Until then, the Four Dandys remain my testament to living boldly—a marriage of past and present, where decay is reborn into beauty. 
Preserved against the odds, waiting to see if they will truly survive.