Hoboken Days #20—Vladian Hogea
His first attempt to escape from Romanian conscription under the Nicolae Ceaușescu regime landed him in prison. That might have happened twice, can’t recall, but he finally made it out, bound for Italy where he stayed for a time. He eventually made his way to New Jersey. His current whereabouts are unknown—my bets are back in Italy—Bari, a southern city along the Adriatic that he loved. He’ll be the one at an outdoor café with a glass of red, smoking a cigarette and contemplating making something out of mud—that he could sell to a passer-by to pay for more wine & cigarettes (paraphrasing his words from a chat we had about making art).
In the 1990s he worked (and lived—shhh!) in the building adjacent to my studio at 720 Monroe Street. I can’t think of anything he couldn’t make with his hands. I photographed his paintings and sculpture—always in awe—and every so often I photographed him—once with his wife at their hide-away in Vermont.
Pictured first, Vladian menacingly guards a Steampunk’d boiler room while conductor Henry conjures up some steam for the building’s pipes. Next up (scroll on right arrow)—the artist in his studio—a portrait with grinder—and that hide-away in Vermont under construction.
Vermont. The house, its bare bones pictured above, he built pretty much by himself—he cleared the land—his wife convinced him hire a crew to lay the concrete foundation. And that was pretty much all the help he needed. Much of the lumber, notably the support columns and stairs, came from trees on the property. It was located n the middle of 25 acres—no electricity and no power tools except for a chain saw. Artist that he was, he could make perfect miter cuts with that chain saw.
You wouldn’t recognize the back lot of 720 Monroe today. The above pictures of Vladian grinding his marble horsehead into shape are a reminder of what it was like.
Vladian Hogea was rather aloof at times—never snobby—ever—but in a don’t bother me with small talk kind of way. It took a bit, but we finally connected one day on the fire-escape at the back of my building when I bummed a cigarette. Maybe tired of people bumming from him, or expecting the aforementioned small talk, he growled some words. I don’t recall what words exactly, but it had a distinct WTF vibe—he’d been in Jersey a while, after all. Same here, I countered with a comparable response. He laughed—I’d given it right back—connection established. Had a smoke. I miss this guy—I’d sure love to know more about his journey.
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