We do NOT have a home with lots of “interior designer” elements. I really don’t like knick-knacks. I don’t think I have a knack (har-dee-har-har) for choosing the right little details, nor do I choose to spend the money on them. Added to that, I find that it’s enough of a challenge to keep up with the toys, clutter, art supplies, and what-not of everyday life without trying to dust around jars and statues and candlesticks.
Still, my husband and I do both like and appreciate art. Back before we even had any babies, we invested in some beautiful numbered prints and had them professionally framed.
This one, on my living room wall, soothes me with its warm hues and dazzling sky. It’s by Del Signore and I like it a lot.
More art graces other walls. There’s our Kinkade lithograph of “Perseverance.” The two Blooms in our bedroom. I love these pieces. And I loved choosing them with my young husband, knowing they would follow us through our homes as a couple.
I have one favorite, though. One painting that I wouldn’t trade for anything. There is one piece hanging in our home that I fell in love with at the tender age of 21.
I first saw it hanging on the wall of his parents’ house back when he and I were just dating. I was captivated by all the open white space in it. I loved the paleness of the winter sky, how cold the rocks looked, and the scattered groves of trees.
I knelt on the sofa, peering at the corner when he asked me, “What are you looking for?”
“Who painted this?” I demanded. “I like it. A lot.”
He laughed, “I painted it. When I was, I don’t know, fourteen?”
I thought he was kidding. He was not. This quiet, handy man of mine had talents I hadn’t even known about.
Years later, after the birth of our first child, we sat around his parents’ kitchen table and they got onto the morbid conversation about what things we might like from the home when they both died. Honestly, it was awkward. Since I’m typically the “communicator” in our partnership, my husband looked to me. (Gee, thanks, honey.)
I stammered a bit, “Honestly, the only thing I hope to one day have is that winter painting you did…”
My guy gave me a crooked grin and shook his head. I don’t think he totally got just how much I adored that piece of art.
“Give it to her now, Patricia,” his dad insisted. “There’s no reason she shouldn’t have it.”
I’m not gonna lie to you– I don’t think his mom was thrilled to relinquish that painting right then. And, honestly, I hadn’t expected her to! Mainly, I just wanted to be sure that it didn’t get swept up into all the random estate jazz and wind up lost to me down the road.
But they gave it to me.
And I love it.
Who knew the guy out there changing my oil in a backwards ball cap could also put brush to canvas like that???