Art for Nostalgia's Sake

My beloved junior high art teacher, Mrs. Eleanor Rowland, used to routinely ask, "WHAT IS ART?" 

I was doing online research for mushroom tumbler yesterday and came across this pair of prints. I admit, I squealed like a child in the midst of a sugar rush upon seeing them. I even did a happy dance, fist pumping and butt shimmying (while sitting on the couch in my rough and tumble bathrobe, not sure it was my finest moment). 

This exact set adorned the walls of my best chum's bedroom when we were kids and I was overjoyed when they appeared magically before me. It was like running across two old colonial friends! They are 1970s Sears and Roebuck primitive prints and I, at the time they hung on my friend's wall, thought they were the absolute highest pinnacle of home décor. 

Elated, I quickly sent my bosom buddy the link to the page on which they were being offered for sale along with a quip and my memory. She replied, "I vaguely remember something like this. Are you sure? Why would my mother put such weird art in our house?"

And then her mother chimed in by saying, "I think she is right, though they are creepy."

With my hand twitching aloft the mouse, wanting to click and remit my 35 dollars plus shipping because I was captivated, I felt awash with joy; these prim and proper faces transported me right back to 1978. So, I expressed this purchase plan to my friend, and she exclaimed, "DO NOT!" (along with an emoji which looked like it was in pain).

And therein lies the difference between me and others (read: normal people). 

I am one hundred percent lured, roped in, and suckered by nostalgia.

I really want those pictures. 

I still might buy those pictures...

despite the fact that my husband will freaking flip AND I have no place to put them. 

"But honey", (as I tear open the cardboard box and moths fly out) "it's ART!"

Is art, strictly for nostalgia's sake, art? What if just looking at it brings me throwback joy, Mrs. Rowland? 

As common as these prints are, as out of style as they may be, and as weird as I am for feeling entranced by and desiring them, I think my junior high teacher would back me up on this. 

As Mrs. Rowland used to preach, "ART reflects what is IMPORTANT to us!" 

Encouraging our ever-developing imaginations, she would peer over the top of her smoky lenses at what we were creating, murmuring "very goods" and "mmm hmmmms". With her mellow countenance, a classic ash blonde up-do held securely in place by a hipster tooled leather barrette, and an ever-present monstrously large copper bib style necklace, she neither grossly flattered nor harshly corrected anything we created. That's a recipe for conflict-free art with teenagers, for sure. 

She'd have us sit with our eyes closed at the start of class to imagine what we were about to put down on our blank canvases. I still routinely practice that visualization technique today. 

"Aaaaahhhhhrt." she stressed. "It's whatever is important." 

As I think of my family's domain, it occurs to me that my parents never changed what art had been initially arranged, once placed and straightened accordingly. Our interior décor was not fixed according to whim, modified seasonally or altered in keeping with what was popular. It just was.

I think again of Mrs. Rowland, who said ART reflects what is IMPORTANT to us. Therefore, is art which reflects what we love noticeable within today's homes? Is nostalgia, because it's not trendy, actually reflective of what we love but...going by the wayside in favor of HGTV style refurbishments?

Does what hangs on your walls, enhances your tables, and prettifies your nest say something about what is cherished in your life? I think it does. Whomever enters your dwelling undoubtedly sees objects which bring you joy. I just love a house full of stories and memories. 

With my eyes shut, in a room by room scan, I am now thoughtfully cataloging each wall of my childhood home. A host of artful images is coming to mind. I haven't thought about some of this stuff in over 30 years. Alternately joyful and sorrowful on this emotional tour, I'd like you to come along. 

Upon setting foot in our entryway, you'd see it decorated with several small pineapple prints and figurines; pineapples being the universal symbol for welcome. Our living room had a nautical theme, each piece of art handpicked by my mother in a very deliberate way. Paintings of boats sailing in rough waters, a ships wheel clock and a map of Cape Cod, Massachusetts stand out very clearly in my mind. Mom covets the Cape, so our living space reflected her desire to be surrounded by that which brought her delight. 

Our kitchen art consisted of glossily framed finger paint animals from my preschool years. My rooster was all red and angry next to our avocado colored refrigerator. The dining room walls held large canvases; mellow saffron sunflowers and bold white daisies in front of weathered old graying barns, juxtaposing both new and timeless beauty shoulder to shoulder. Our upstairs hall contained two antique pieces, a faded picture of the founding fathers signing the Declaration of Independence; and a black eagle spreading its colonial wings above its branch and arrow grasping talons, safely guarding our manor. 

My bedroom featured richly hued needlepoints lovingly crafted by my mother, along with a few Ziggy (the little bald white guy donning an orange sweater along with his dog, often pictured making the best of being rained upon for some reason) posters and, eventually, my favorite rock and rollers. I also had a primary colored rainbow that, when unfurled, measured 5 feet wide and took three tall teenagers to hang. My parent's bedroom boasted our family photos, my K through 6 school pictures, and a small reminder which spelled out house rules (if you drop it, pick it up...etc.). These were the things that were of value, collectively, to us. None of it, aside from my Ziggys and my rainbow, was trendy. None of it. 

We had a den which showcased vivid and beautiful wildlife photos from a local photographer who routinely sold prints at our town's annual summertime art festival. They flanked our satin black wood burning stove aside a gargantuan picture window facing our backyard. Our den was a room for contemplation, watching nature, and stillness. It was also a wonderful space for rainstorms, and snow days because the space had an out of doors feeling while offering cozy and restful protection. 

My home today is a reflection of all that I love. My "art" is eclectic, maybe a bit cluttered and I presume nothing I own would be featured in a spread about color scheme or proper ornamentation but I dig it. I hope your "art" brings you a waterfall of warmth, and fond remembrance for all that was and is good in your life. If not, maybe throw a little nostalgia here and there. 

P.S. After I finished writing this, I Googled Eleanor Rowland and found her obituary. She only died one year ago. May she forever rest in peace. 

Finally, please take a moment and shine a spotlight on local artist Eric D. Crisler who travels the outdoor Northeast on a daily basis capturing photographs of wildlife both in action and at peace. I have a print of his on my wall. It's only a few years old but because I have known Eric for 38 years it's certainly sentimental. I have included some of his photos, with permission, just in case you wish to contact him and buy something you love for your wall. (You can find his business on Facebook by searching his name.) 

#1970s #1980s #artclass #eleanorrowlandartist #ziggy #mushroomtumbler