On this, the eve of the 25th anniversary of The King's alleged death — how else to explain all those posthumous "sightings" in Laundromats and 7-Elevens? — I must make a confession.
I own three large paintings of Elvis on velvet.
"Velvises," I call them.
And I cherish each interpretation of His Presleyness: full-length, in a studded, white poly jumpsuit that glimmers like plastic and clings like sausage casing; in profile, with double-wide sideburns vanishing below a rakishly upturned collar; and — my favorite — head-on, a carpet of chest hair visible under a jean jacket open to the waist and trailing buckskin laces.
In the interest of accuracy, however, it must be noted that none is on genuine velvet but rather some indeterminate cheesy, low-pile fabric. Moreover, at least one image appears to be silk-screened, not hand-painted, presumably in the service of speed and uniformity.
Although clearly created by different artists, my three portraits have several things in common. None is signed. All cost under $25 at assorted flea markets. And all are framed in crudely carved wood of the sort found in Tijuana art marts that specialize in paintings of voluptuous naked babes and high-wattage cultural icons like JFK, Bob Marley and Princess Di.
While velvet (velveteen, velour, suede cloth) becomes each of these personages, it is an especially splendid medium for Presley portraiture, says Gary Vikan, director of Baltimore's Walters Art Museum and self-described scholar of Byzantine art and Elvis.
"Black velvet has a baroque pathos. The figure kind of disappears in the darkness behind it or comes out of shadow," says Vikan, likening luminous Elvii to Caravaggio's 16th- and 17th-century paintings of saints.
Vikan, in fact, once taught a course at Johns Hopkins University called "Holy Through the Ages: Early Christian Saints Through Elvis." And at term's end, students and prof repaired to Miss Bonnie's Elvis Shrine Bar and Literary Salon in Baltimore, which boasted two Velvises amid assorted Presleyana until it closed in 1993.
"There is no better way to create a powerful emotional message," says Vikan, because black velvet produces "a kind of immediate Vegas lighting quality for those who knew him from that theatrical aspect — the after-dark Elvis. He is a blue-collar guy, and this is a blue-collar art idiom. It's a match."
Although it may seem a stretch to compare obscure Mexican artists with a master such as Caravaggio, painting on velvet has a long artistic tradition.
The luxuriant fabric appeared as far back as ninth century France, although it might have been invented in Italy or Persia, says Doris Hendershot, a library assistant at the Textile Museum in Washington. Velvet came to China — possibly from Persia via Central Asia — during the Yuan Dynasty (1279-1368 A.D.) and, she says, the Chinese became adept at painting on it.
Marco Polo found examples of velvet painting in the 14th century during his travels to Kashmir, notes Cristina Ochoa, director of the Galeria Otra Vez in Los Angeles.
By the 1950s, velvet paintings — which also were being made in the Philippines — graced the walls of countless tiki-themed American rec rooms and restaurants, brought home by tourists and GIs.
"There were a lot of people who worked in that medium in the '60s, '70s and early '80s," says Cecelia Navarro Garcia, coordinator of plastic arts at the Instituto de la Cultura de Baja California in Tijuana.
"People came from the States and asked for paintings in that medium. Some wanted women with no clothes, which was a taboo. Others said, 'I like black people, or Marilyn Monroe or Elvis Presley.' The good thing was that there were about 300 painters and everybody had different things to paint," says Navarro, who recently organized a month-long exhibition of Mexican and American velvet artists.
One of them was self-taught painter Daniel P. Marquez, 47, who lives in Whitter, Calif., but who nearly three decades ago sat in a Ciudad Juarez tourist shop window creating up to 10 Velvises a day for $3 each.
Velvet painting fell out of vogue about 20 years ago, says Navarro. "The society changed, the decoration in houses changed." Neither she nor Ochoa could find a vintage Velvis for their shows, and each bought new ones in Tijuana. Today's demand for Velvises has inspired several U.S. entrepreneurs to mine the genre.
Presley fan Helmut Kerling, better known as San Diego deejay Gary Cocker, runs a thriving side business at www.velvetelvis.com, which began five years ago as a class project in Web site design.
Kerling offers fans several images. When he has enough orders, he slips over the border and picks them up in Tijuana. "I am looking for quality here," he says. "I didn't want any bum velvet Elvises. So I went for the silkscreen ones because they are more consistent."
He pays $35 to $40 for 18-by-24-inch unframed "pictures" — he is careful not to call them paintings — on wood-backed fabric and sells them for $150. In a good year, he can move 300.
But listen, he confesses: "I just think they are about as tacky as everybody else does."
Meanwhile, security guard Keith Claxon is hawking his own Velvii on eBay. (Under the category "velvet Elvis," his seller's name is "keithsartpainting.") He hopes to become prolific enough to undercut his Mexican rivals (some of whom can create 20 a day) and quit his job to paint full-time.
"I use just fingers and oil paint. And I use the highest-quality triple velvet," says the self-taught Claxon, who lives in San Diego and has yet to sell more than $1,400 worth in a year. His cyber price range is $17 to $500. "I like to do the ones with shadows. I try to look for the ones that have tear-jerking qualities, to make it seem like he's alive again."
— Arizona Daily Sun