Paschón

UPDATE: Since posting the original message, we have received a picture of the only known Paschón original. The authenticity has been verified by two individuals who attended the showing in Hawaii. We welcome your comments.

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Margaret - Corpus Christi, TX

Over the last year I have watched with keen interest the continuation and growth of the Paschόn story, my intrigue stemming from the fact I attended the showing in Hawaii. It was a fabulous event accentuated with coconuts, pineapples and mangos fresh from the trees and fields, Mai Tai’s, champagne and cheese, and pu-pu’s. The women, mostly “howlies,” were resplendent in their mumu’s and leis. There was subdued lighting and classical music, accompanied by a low-level buzz of excitement as some serious (and a few not so serious) minded art enthusiasts were fortunate to be “in on” the first American showing of an up and coming artist. Paschόn’s name alone engendered a romantic image of the gently swaying palm trees and turquoise Pacific waters of Hanama Bay. To say now that a cloud of mystery surrounds Paschόn and the paintings, and the subsequent disappearance of both is an understatement of Diamond Head proportions.

My purpose in writing is to offer information that was in circulation that evening and subsequent weeks about the origin of the paintings. The story was that some Marine Corps fighter pilots, inspired by the artist Salvador Dali, concocted an incredible ruse on a bet: that fueled by an unlimited supply of Primo Beer, a handful of pilots and their wives or girl friends could paint comparably to Salvador Dali, and then under the right combination of presentation and marketing, pass these “paintings” off as legitimate artwork.

At the time I was single and socializing with some of the pilots from the Marine Base at Kaneohe Bay on the windward side of Oahu. Although this dubious story had considerable cachet in certain circles I have serious misgivings about its authenticity and offer my thoughts as simply one more observation.

First and foremost, to suppose that Marine Corps fighter pilots of that era knew anything about art is farfetched. The only art they knew anything about had the letter “f” in front of it. Their idea of fine art was a hand drawn print of the fighter they happened to be flying at the time, the authenticity of which validated by their name and colorful call-sign prominently displayed on the side of the airplane.

Second, the idea that the pilots I knew were inspired by Salvador Dali is a real stretch; those fighter jocks didn’t know a palette from a pallet. It’s safe to conclude there weren’t two among the bunch who even remotely had a clue who Dali was, much less appreciate the creativity, some say Dali’s bizarre Renaissance inspired Surrealist talent that produced the melting clocks in the Persistence Of Memory. More than likely they would have thought Salvador Dali was a hot babe from South America.

Third, to think that some of these pilots could concoct such a scheme, inspired under the influence of a vast quantity of adult beverages, then produce a bevy of compelling and thought provoking paintings, create the illusory name Paschόn out of thin air, and then have the temerity to “sell” this to a group of somewhat erudite people, some of whom, like me, had an art background, is perhaps the biggest delusion of all.

There is little doubt that Marine Corps fighter pilots are cunning and bear considerable watching. Although it was generally accepted their collective IQ may have been slightly above average, there was not an intellectual amongst them. Think about it – to do what fighter pilots do you have to be a little nuts. The joke was that the only thing that would disqualify you from being a Marine Corps fighter pilot was if your parents were married!

Make no mistake, I love Marine Corps fighter pilots—one a little more than I should have, but that’s a wild story for another day! When the Jackals are at the front gate there is no one I want more to see booming out across Kaneohe Bay with afterburners blazing, shaking the earth with a roar like a thousand angry tigers on the prowl. But let’s leave it at that. Artists they are not. Period. End of story.

It would be wonderful if the true story of the quixotic Paschόn could ever be known with certainty. Absent the artist, or artists as this wild tale portends, something makes me think we will all be left wondering. What a great mystery!