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.)
