In the 1980s, before children were provided with multiple screens they could zone out to, I spent a great deal of time zoning out to the art on the walls of my family home.
Growing up in a relatively blue-collar Australian suburb, there were some wall hangings that seemed ubiquitous. I encountered many copies of Tina, that mass-produced image of a woman leaning against a tree with her boobs out. The over-sized wooden fork and spoon set was also common, as were an assortment of brown- and beige-toned prints featuring pensive peasant children holding cornflowers.
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Yet there was one painting on my parents’ wall that I regarded as unique, and which particularly captured my imagination. I assumed that it depicted a street a few blocks away from us, which snaked around the local river. There was a bridge, and a house nestled on the hill above, overlooking it all. It was a dreamy, light-filled image, and on lazy Sunday afternoons, I would lie on my back for hours, staring up at it, absorbed by the fact that someone had taken brush in hand to depict a part of my world in such a vivid manner.
It wasn’t until I was a full-grown adult and visited the Musee d’Orsay in Paris that I realised it was in a fact a print of a work by Claude Monet. As I was fairly certain that Monet had never visited East Ryde, I was forced to conclude that the place depicted was probably not around the corner from mum and dad’s house after all.
Art is one of life’s great dividers. Because not all walls are equal. What we hang on them can be a sign of our good taste, but it’s also a signifier of affluence, cultural capital and privilege. Many of the working- and lower-middle-class staples I listed above have become targets of mockery and derision, as archetypes of kitsch. Yet there’s also laughter from the other side of the class divide, most particularly at the pretensions of the well-to-do.
A tradie friend told me about clients who insist on showing off their fabulous art collections to him; one woman in particular lured him inside with the offer of a cup of tea, then led him down her hallway like a tour guide, gesturing at the walls with grand, arcing hand signals, to draw his attention to her recently hung paintings.
Buying art for someone else is as perilous as buying them clothes. And a lot more expensive.
In my student days, the walls of my share-house bedrooms were always well decorated with political posters, photos of friends and ironic religious iconography. But since then, I’ve never really found a coherent domestic aesthetic. We own a sprinkling of art objects, including a simple print of an artichoke, because I love artichokes. But there’s no form or purpose to what’s on our walls. No theme or scheme.
My husband laments our under-decorated house, often commenting that we should put up more “proper” art. So, a few years ago, I decided I would rectify this and buy him some Proper Art for his birthday. A friend recommended a gallery near the city, and off I went. Yet once I got there, I found myself stumped. Because buying art for someone else is as perilous as buying them clothes. And a lot more expensive.
There’s no Monet on my wall, just traces of family magic – and that’s OK
Source: Philippines Alive
