No bones about it: Taste in art is individual
Acouple of years ago, my husband and young daughter returned from a grocery trip and proudly offered me a gift — a smoke-colored glass cup shaped like a skull. A big plastic straw pierced through its Mason jar-like cap.
I thanked Todd and Evie, but their enthusiasm confused me. And my raised eyebrows must have said so.
“You love skeletons,” Evie told me.
“I do?”
“They’re all over the house,” Todd said.
He exaggerated, but one of my favorite artworks in our home is a Nicario Jimenez retablo featuring potatosculpture Day of the Dead skeletons celebrating in a bar. I bought the piece from the artist more than a decade ago at the Columbus Arts Festival.
And, OK: I do have a scrimshaw engraving of an exuberant dancing skeleton by Kim and Katherine McClelland of Tree of Life Art Works in Galena. The work is titled “Dry Bones Can Dance!”
Plus, a trio of ceramic sugar skulls grinned from a kitchen window sill.
And those don’t count the decorations that I haul out from storage for Halloween, my favorite holiday.
(I guess my husband didn’t exaggerate that much.)
Although the spooky skull cup wouldn’t have tempted me had I been shopping with my family that day, the joyful expressions and colors of my skeleton artworks make me smile. They remind me that at base, down to our bones, we all want to be happy and enjoy our time with the people we love.
They also remind me that I wouldn’t be here if not for the many family members who came before me, including many whose names I’ll never know.
Because my family didn’t see the difference between the cup and the art the way I did, though, I grew paranoid.
Maybe I’m the only one who interprets my skeleton art this way; maybe others just see creepy skeletons.
Maybe when we hosted guests for dinner, they left saying, “Well, they seemed like nice people, but did you see their weird art?”
The thought made me retire the colorful sugar skulls to my upstairs office/ book room. When Todd eventually noticed their absence, I explained my concerns.
“You worry too much,” he said.
True.
Once during college, I went on a home tour in Athens, Ohio. One of the homes had a floor-to-ceiling painting of a naked man shown only from shoulders to thighs with everything — — explicitly shown.
My friend and I left giggling, and I suspect the homeowner would have gotten a kick out of our reaction.
On one hand, I want to be more like that brave homeowner. On the other, I’m not sure I want my inner-predilections, sensitivities and dark humor hung on the walls for anyone who comes in to see and judge.
But back to the first hand: If you can’t express yourself at home, where can you?
I’ve yet to settle this internal debate — although, no matter what, I love the retablo and scrimshaw too much to put them away.
That leads me to one of the many reasons why I like Halloween: It makes my taste in art perfectly acceptable for a whole month.