Three After Vivian Brown, by Celine Krempp

Observing The Bathers

after The Bathers, by Vivian Browne (USA) 1971

Humans move around the gallery. 2, 5, 7, 11. Now it’s 2,4,7.

I try to think of The Bathers while my paranoia priorities proximity.

When are bathing women not a subject in art? Acteon’s transformation by the exposed and enraged Artemis. Melusine’s serpentine silhouette revealed to her husband. Picasso’s model on the teal tub. Bonnard’s colourful depictions of his wife in many bathtubs. Some painting in the permanent collection; I forget the name. (It’s The Small Bather by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres.)

Three women bathing under a waterfall of triangular waves. Two have become ghosts behind waters and against rocks. The final bather either stands on ground land or walks the waters like Jesus.

Why does her right Achilles’ heel twist into Cinderella’s shoe even though she only wears a belt? How do her triangular features fuse with her doll anatomy? Why are her friends’ hair straight while hers curls into braids? How does she stand out in the dark while their faces dissolve in white waters?

**

Seven Deadly Men 

after Seven Deadly Sins, by Vivian Browne (USA) 1968 

Seven deadly men are everywhere.

They run businesses, federal departments, and even the schools you send your children to every day.

Are they from Hell? Most likely. However, they don’t possess demonic powers or any magic at all. Which is what makes them scarier.

The seven deadly men all have names: Misters B.L. Phegor, Bob Beezel, Levi Athens, Azz M. Odious, Mammon, St. Ann, and Lou Cypher. 

Mr. B.L. Phegor and Mr. Bob Beezel were the grossest of men, always by each other’s side. Mr. B.L. Phegor’s sunken red eyes and cheeks contrasted his fingers coated in algae and his shirt was so tight, his stomach looked like a polished spherical sculpture. Mr. Bob Beezel’s blank face was void of personality, even after drinking a full bottle. As Mr. Bob Beezel drank, his sloth of a friend licked his toes.

Mr. Levi Athens was always yelling at his gluttonous colleague. Why was his face so bright? Why did their lazy colleague only put effort in waiting on him? Perhaps, because Mr. Levi Athens was the darkest in the room and had the roundest lips, Mr. Bob Beezel attacked him the most?

Mr. Azz M. Odious was the most detailed as the ugliest of the seven. Bruised wrinkles framed his reddish pink eyes. His shirt was always unkept and his pants’ zipper always dangled in the worst way. He always drank his wine at work with confidence the same way he slept with a woman once and then kicked her like a dog for the rest of her career.

Mr. Mammon was clearly a mamma’s boy, always sucking his thumb unless he got what he wanted and celebrated with a cigar later. He always dressed in mint-conditioned outfits. Nothing he wore was old.

Mr. St. Ann was the youngest, entitled and easy to provoke. Whenever he screamed, his lungs puffed out all their air, draining Mr. St. Ann’s complexion into that of an ice cube. His expression was always compared to Ghostface.

Finally, there was Mr. Lou Cypher. Clearly important because of his old top hat. He had a look of indifference and calm that none of his six colleagues could hold. He always sat firmly in the back, waiting for the others to terminate their tantrums,

Thus are the seven deadly men. If you see one of them in your workplace, change jobs as soon as possible! If you see them run your child’s school district, move out of town! Their presence poisonous people’s prosperity.

**

Her Self-Portrait

after Vivian (Self-portrait), by Vivian Browne (USA) 1965

Her paintbrush pressed against the canvas, giving her brown hair the swirls she carried. Her peony pink jacket had some raspberry folds but still looked like a perfect fit. She had made sure to capture her confident composure, the wall behind her capturing her finest works as of now.

Her paintbrush soaked in water, dissolving the oils away. Her work complete, the painter stepped away, admiring her work with a stranger’s eyes. No white audience would believe she could pull of such a splendid self-portrait. No male audience would believe her work would capture her better essence.

She knew that not many would embrace her achievement, the purest counterpart of Dorian Gray. She’d grow, mature, and change as a person. Her hair would trade its swirls for a bob, a perm, a wrap, an afro, and finally short waves. She knew she would change, but her self-portrait would immortalize the confident young woman she had started off as.

The next week, sturdy paper wrapped her canvas. She carried it out where her friend Emma waited for her. Once their works were secured, the van drove off. They made small talk during the ride.

“I should tell you. I saw the list.” Emma made a left turn. 

“What list?”

“The show in New York. I saw the list for all the artists. We’re the only girls on that show.”

“Women.”

“What?”

“We’re not girls. We are women. We will be the only women.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Emma frowned. “I mean, it could be fifty years from now, and no matter what we do, we’d be the only women in an art show! It’s like we’re automatically set up to be forgotten.”

As she reclined in her seat, our painter stared at the sunlight glowing over the interstate.

“They’ll remember us,” she told Emma, her confidence stronger than it was.

Celine Krempp
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Celine is a French-American artist and writer. Working part-time as an art museum security guard inspires Celine in her ekphrastic writing. Her writing has been featured once in the Ekphrastic Challenges. When she’s not brainstorming her next creative project, she walks her dog VanGogh, reads books, indulges in sweet cravings, and binge-watches adult animation on streaming services. She has art exhibited at the Phillips Collection and Fine Line Creative Arts Center.