Since the first of the year, I've had a strong need to organize
things.
I cleaned out two closets, and completely rearranged one room.
As I mentioned in an earlier entry which begins here,
I think that was prompted by displaced anger. Still, since
then I've been unable to stop the rearranging. I've found
places for all sorts of extraneous items sitting on top of
the books on the bookshelves in the back room, and moved more
furniture around in there to make it more comfortable and
usable. I've moved plants. I changed my whole kitchen counter
so the microwave is more accessible, and cleaned out and rearranged
some cabinets.
Best of all, I finally motivated us to actually put up most
of the art work and our family pictures. After two years of
looking at them sitting in boxes in my dining room, when I suggested
we put up the pictures, instead of groaning, Big Kitty agreed
pretty easily. That was rare, so I assume it must have been
the right time for both of us.
For the two years we have lived here we've only managed to
find the time to hang some very large paintings-- a job which
just couldn't wait because there was no room to store them
otherwise. Now, we've spent hours hanging things, and I've
also sorted through other artwork and old prints stored at
the studio and decided which ones to use over the fireplace,
found frames for them and measured them for mats. That will
be the last step.
I need to have some of the family pictures on the wall to catch
glimpses of as I walk past. Even a fleeting image of someone
brings little, special memories usually good, sometimes not.
They remind me of where I've been and where I am, of the intricacies
of family, of love, or not, prompting reflection about relationships.
Each art work, print, drawing or painting has some special meaning
to me. I look at the art work and remember the artists. Often,
I know them personally if it is something I bought or traded
at a gallery or an art fair. Many have been my friends over
the years.
Barbara's painting now hangs over my bed. Her handmade paper
piece had a place of importance in the jewelry gallery we
had for eight years. It was perfect because its quilt-like
image invoked thoughts of the handmade, and its sculptural
quality made it look like giant wall jewelry. I've known her
since my children were small so it also reminds me of the
years I spent with her and our other friends as young mothers
having coffee at each others houses or sitting on a bench
in the park by the sandbox talking while our kids played.
Johnnie's painting, is on another wall in that room. Johnnie
was one of my art teachers, who taught printmaking. She was
one of the best teachers I had and an excellent printmaker.
She also did fine pastel drawings and oil paintings. I find
the luminosity and depth in her abstract painting both comforting
and challenging as I look deeply into its layers.
Those paintings, other prints in that room, and one dresser
which has been with me since childhood, combine to remind
me of my entire life.
In another room, I have Skip's intricate drawing of stones.
Another amazingly detailed work with a strong quiet presence,
like Skip himself. Studying it induces a state of meditation.
I remember also, Linda, his wife, another jewelry designer whom
I admire. Of course, that triggers memories of all of the the
art fairs we've all done, and of all of my other artist and
craftspeople friends-- many brought to mind again as I look
at the decorative and funky ceramic pieces I've also collected
over the years.
We have two large paintings done by an artist, Didier N.,
who came here from Paris to make a name for himself as an
artist. I always found that to be amusing, but it worked for
him and he was quite successful. One is of of a lone blue
straight-backed chair in front of a closet full of wood in
an empty room. It's the first painting he painted in this
country. We bought it at an artists¨ organization benefit
auction. The other of these is a large painting of us, commissioned
in a narcissistic moment, no doubt. But it's interesting to
look at, and it reminds us of the time when our business was
successful and life was pretty good.
In the other room there are the two cheap fish prints, one being
the front half, and the other the back half of the same fish
from a center spread in a magazine. It couldn't be framed whole
because of the staple marks. I had the idea to split it and
frame it as a pair, and to give it as a funny present to my
now husband, who was new in my life then. It has no value whatsoever,
other than sentimental. Two of the other prints in that room
are a pair of fish, hand colored book plates, which he gave
to me. Together with the ì"half-fish"î, they complete
a story, and always remind me of our early times together.
Each and every art work, or family photograph sparks a memory,
a reflection, or a new thought. In fact each and every object
we own does that, whether we made it, or someone we know made
it. Even if we got it at a garage sale or a thrift store,
there's a memory-- as small as remembering the day we got
it or the place it came from, or what we were doing at the
time. Each memory prompts its own little mental trip which
can lead just about anywhere.
I didn't realize until everything was hung, how much we needed
to do this-- how much I had missed having familiar and comforting
artwork around me. I need visual stimulation, I thrive on it.
Now that I see how much it has lifted my spirits I wonder how
much not having it up for almost two years has contributed to
my depression, and unhappiness.
It's also had a similar effect on my husband. He mentioned,
completely independently, how glad he was to have the pictures
up and how much a difference it seems to make to him as well.
What I know for sure is that my apartment now feels much more
comfortable, much more like I belong, and much more like home.
I've surrounded myself with my things, I can accept that I live
here, and it's really OK, and I think I can start to move ahead.
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