Who is Virginia Baich?

What happens when you’re pulled from the sandy beaches of California and dropped onto a derelict vineyard 20 miles outside Albuquerque, New Mexico? At first, for many—including myself—the answer is frustration. Welcomed by a nothing but a dry, dusty expanse, I didn’t plan to make New Mexico my home. That is, until I saw what happens when a desert sun sets.

Like a warrior making his last stand, the sky bled color. Stretched impossibly wide, burning deep reds and purples soaked wispy clouds. And with each passing minute, more stars emerged from obscurity. More stars than I’d ever seen.

This land — New Mexico — has always belonged to sky. Locals know it. Native Americans have known it for thousands of years. And now, through my paintings, I try to capture a piece of that magic.

For 35 years, I wrangled students at UNM and CNM, teaching design, painting, mixed media, and art history. I believed in my students—sometimes more than they believed in themselves. I pushed them, teased them, and occasionally called out their “creative” attempts at art history essays. But I also celebrated them—loudly. I flooded my social media with their work because the world deserved to see what a neglected single mom or a rehabilitated felon can do, if only we put a brush in their hands and a canvas to paint on.

These days, I create from my vineyard—“picturesque” if you ignore the scruffy vines and the endless battle to keep things alive. But out here, away from the noise, the universe feels closer. The night sky becomes a private conversation, a reminder that art and discovery are the same thing.

My work collides the vast with the minuscule, the mathematical with the mystical. I layer subatomic particles with planetary landscapes, drench canvases in gold foil that catches the light like a space probe, and let geometric forms whisper the hidden logic of the universe. Astronomy, quantum mechanics—it all dictates my creative process. Because to me, the thrill isn’t just in making something beautiful. It’s in chasing the invisible. It’s in asking the questions that keep us staring up at the stars.