A couple months ago, a colleague at my house asked what the story was behind an old window frame in my hallway.  Two wines in, I simply replied, “Nothing. It’s just a frame.”  I’ve never been much of a small-talker, and at the time, I probably just wanted to be the wallflower instead of the hostess.  However, the “just a frame” comment is not completely true, or I probably would not care so much or make sure to tug it around from city to city when moving.

While this piece is not a Renoir or a Degas.  I do view it as a work of art, one collectively created.  To explain, memories are embedded within the wood, perhaps making it more beautiful to me than to any other passerby.

Wanting an old window (and having the idea that I would paint an image on the glass), I asked my mother to keep her eye out for one.  I tapped her as the searcher because I view her to be an avid shopper, a real guru when it comes to flea market finds.

With no time, she arrived on a visit with her proud treasure.  I am not sure where she found it, whether she bought it or was given it.  But the character, the age, the stories that we will never know live in that wood.  While it was not the art project I had hoped, I fell in love.  With it.  And with the gratification I saw in my mother’s eyes.  They shined with pleasure, recognizing that she had been able to give me something I had wanted.

But I still liked the idea of painting the panes, panes that were not there.  I wanted to add something, but I was not quite sure what that something was.

And after my first birthday in North Carolina, looking at the dried flowers from a dear friend who had surprised me with a delivered reminder that she was thinking about me despite our physical distance, I realized what might spruce up the frame in the hallway.  Taking some thumbtacks, cheap and chaotic in color, I pinned some of the flowers.  Eleven to be exact.

Aesthetically, odd numbers are more pleasing.  And I crafted the layout, not all that carefully, but not haphazardly either: eleven total, three sets of twos, and three sets of larger ones, wrapped with five sets of evens.  Plus, eleven was a consciously selected number due to numerologic (is that a word?) associations.

There is no grand symbolism behind the one needle holding up the far right flowers; I simply ran out of thumbtacks.  But the oddity of that is a quirky addition that I like.  Also, with time, a couple of the stems have become shorter, breaking and having to be re-pinned.  And I imagine that if any flower ever falls to the point of no return, I will just replace it, or perhaps begin anew, keeping the foundation that allowed this art to blossom.

So you have it.  My rustic decor is, in essence, a representation of framed loved, whispering connections between both family and friends, bonds that travel with me and fill my house, making their very presence a part of my home.

[Originally published on previous blog in July 2014.]