Husband looked around our house the other day and made the same comment he’s been making almost since we got married ten years ago: there’s too much stuff in here. Of course, after a decade of living together a nice chunk of the stuff is also his, but never mind that, he happens to be correct. It also happens that I received a magazine in the mail that day with a whole section on how to decorate your house with taste and minimality, sort of a feng shui guide to shit removal. I glanced around at our open space living/dining/den/kitchen area and realized with chagrin that our decor broke about five rules on the first page alone.
Interestingly, Husband and I both have passions for collecting; his is Southwestern artifacts and mine is Depression Glass. Somewhere along the way, his stuff became a collection and mine became tchotchkes. I agree that collecting glassware that was once given away for free in boxes of laundry detergent might seem offbeat, but in my own defense, we do use many pieces of my collection in our everyday life. Others should not be touched under penalty of starched boxers. That said, the real issue is the photographs. I am a freak for artistically framed pictures of the people I love. These individuals include the group you might already suspect: those I gave birth to, those who gave life to me, those who gave life to them, and the lovely man I married who gets to look at all of them in multiple variations. When you add his loved ones pre-me, you have quite a museum tour. The magazine article advised to “display family photographs sparingly” in the living room, and reserve them for places like bedrooms, family rooms and hallways. Well, here I have to admit that EVERY SINGLE room in our house displays family photographs. Unsparingly.
What to do? The magazine suggested removing all photos and then display only the favorites in clever odd-numbered groupings in unexpected places. With a hollow pain in my chest, I swept away all the vintage framed images of my dearly departed elders, the kids’ graduation photos (high school, college, graduate school, 6th grade, you get the picture), and our wedding, cruise and vacation shots and laid them all side-by-side and end-to-end on Son’s old twin bed. Looking down at the vast array of candids and posed portraits made me feel like I was viewing my whole history in a panoramic slide show. I must have stood there for a half hour in Son’s silent bedroom conjuring up memories from each frame of frozen life.
Then I chose my favorites: winsome Daughter in front of our house on her way to junior prom; a birds-eye view of Son in his basketball warm-up suit and game face; Husband kissing me suddenly as the cruise photographer said Smile; Husband with his stepsons when they were (all) young; my parents; his parents; our wedding picture. An odd assortment in the recommended odd number. All perfect and now perfectly displayed on the bay window ledge, piano, and middle bookcase shelf. Seven photographs that hint at the boundless memories our house and our lives hold. Husband and the magazine were right. Less can be more just as much as more can never be enough.
Daughter’s Featured Fotos always show what Needs To Be Said
amen
pothole
sad
LOST!
