We used to drive to Florida when our father would finally take vacation time. I could write about our spectacular burns or the delectable conch chowder and pompano dinners or the silky sand that we couldn’t stop smoothing. This,however, is supposed to be an art blog and I’m going to write about Elvis. Again.
Velvet Elvises. Or is that Velvet Elvii? They were at every roadside stop, all kinds. They were loud and proud, standing next to the other essentials for life: plastic pink flamingos, orange blossom perfume and jingle shell bracelets and earrings. My parents didn’t understand the lure of kitsch AT ALL. I thought the black velvet paintings were the prettiest. Oh, maybe not one of Elvis. He was the Handsome devil who had turned my beloved sister into a “teenager” (this said in an extremely annoying sing song voice). Maybe a tasteful one of palms and coconuts. Or a giant hibiscus. The one the size of Texas. Yeah, that would work.
We never bought any velvet paintings. Something about it not blending with Mom’s French Provincial furniture and silk brocades. I thought it was just what the old barn needed, but I was overruled.Years later, when I was married and had 2 children, my husband told me that what he had really wanted for a long time was a velvet Elvis. J’adore! We started looking for one everywhere. We had discussions about what kind of Elvis we wanted. Young? Old? We realized after a few months that we couldn’t find ANY. What force was at work here??????? Join us for our next installment, The Search for the Velvet Elvis.
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