My New Mexico move came in a fit: driving from Reno to Santa Fe, with only the things I could carry in the back of my car. To be fair, I had a little extra room at the top I could have filled the car with. But, have not, want not, it’s all just material possessions. It’s not like I was trying to move my 18-year-old cat. (She’s living happily with my dad in Carson City.)
All the art I collected from Reno’s fabulous thrift stores (I write truly and without a hint of irony or sarcasm) had to be put into local storage. I had no room to bring it with me, I had no space when I arrived. The collection stayed behind.
I’ve since moved from the first space, in Santa Fe, where I could not feasibly put my own collection up. (Most of my former roommates were artists themselves, their work adorning the walls.) The move was to a one-bedroom casita, with a kitchen that flows into a living room. Lots and lots of wall space.
On Sunday, I was out and about in Santa Fe. Specifically, I went to see a play called “Revelations,” an unfortunately unfunny comedy. The actors and actresses were primed to pause for our laughter. Alas, it never came.
After that, I went to go to a local box store to pick up a over-the-door shoe holder, an attempt to try to get some of the under-foot clutter out of my bedroom and hanging somewhere. It was a success and I was right next to the Goodwill in Santa Fe, so I popped over.
Lo and behold, one of the favorite paintings I’ve yet collected was there, ripe for the cheap buying, which was a surprise. Normally the Santa Fe Goodwill overprices everything: $150 for a torn and ripped couch, $1-$5 for glasses (which cost $1 new), etc.
A beautiful oil, with so much local flavor. It goes perfectly in the casita.
And then, a painting sans frame, this time much larger. Again, it was affordable. Again, I felt a desperate need to fill my walls back up, to make a house a cliched home. Plus, I just leave collecting used art.
I think he’s drunk and wearing a sombrero, which no one here wears. Cowboy hats are also few and far between. Regardless, yet another excellent painting, to place in the middle of a wall, to fill up the white space. I can hope that soon I will have to move the drunk crawling man, move him so he does not have exclusive billing. Until then, he brightens my day.
Another trip, I found the sun, above. The architecture feels very western. There’s sun. Love it.
While I was at the store, one of the employees came by and spotted the girl portrait I snagged, mentioning it had just been put out. I complimented him on the better pricing, mentioned some of the other artwork that’s overpriced and has been there for three+ weeks.
“We can mark that down,” he said.
By means of explanation, according to him, a man came in and bought a cheaply (I assume $15 to $30) painting and turned around and sold it within a matter of days for $12,000. After that, all the paintings, bad and good, valuable and keepsakes, went up up up.
Slowly, it looks like they’re coming down to be put back up again on my walls.
It feels so much better to be surrounded by art. Now I just need not drown in it. But, what is wrong with drowning in art? Is there something wrong with it? I do not know. When art is merely stored, and not displayed, is that when one drowns?
When it comes to flavor, I should be writing about my newly-purchased 30 lb. bag of “X-tra” hot (green) chile, that’s slowly ripening, reddening and drying.