Return of the aesthetic

Bob began to celebrate the fact that Saturday’s work by the road crew seems to have brought the project to a point beyond our front door by beginning to rehang the various prints, paintings and photos that he had carefully taken down when the warnings of explosions was published. It’s rather like going downstairs to find that, overnight, friends have arrived and are happily sitting around: the kitchen has its periodic table of the desserts restored to its one huge blank wall, the hallway has its Boston, New York and New Mexico neighbourhoods.

I’ve been struck, in recent weeks, by how very much I disliked living with blank walls, especially in the hallway which is painted that house-for-sale-white. One of the odd little kindnesses I noticed when I arrived at my new job here was that, in addition to fully stocking my desk with such tidbits as paperclips in a variety of sizes, already taken from their plastic bubbles and within easy reach in a cup on the desk, someone had taken the time to hang a painting on the wall.

Like then, I am noticing now that the luxury of seeing how someone else saw something–or imagined a visual joke–is a necessary window for me.  Heck, my office doesn’t even have a window.  But I can se the MacDonald Bridge from it. And now I have Pismo Beach back by the kitchen and the Brooklyn Bridge at my front door.

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