I have only one real art work in my home and I love it. But the reason I so especially love it is because it was done by my friend Rose. I suppose that I would like it very much and may have paid lots of money for it even if I didn’t have a friendship with the artist, but something wouldn’t be the same. I don’t really care whether I have real art in my home or not. I don’t really care whether what adorns my walls is worth a lot of money, or whether it’s tasteful or whether it’s cutting edge or whatever. My two criteria are whether it makes me happy, and/or whether I have a connection to the work or the artist.
So I have ‘works’ by my daughter. I have fake flowers. I have framed calendar pictures. I have unframed bits of nonsense. I have photographs. I have plates. I have things that I have enjoyed making. I have presents from friends and family. I have mirrors in different frames. Anything goes!
This is the result of a creativity course I did – and it takes up a lot of my bathroom wall!
Is it art? Definitely not. Did I have fun in the process of making it? Yes. Might I take it down soon? It is already buckling and threatening to fall, so it won’t be there for very much longer.
A bit of wall that makes me happy
I think that if we were a little less precious about the standards we apply to what we believe constitutes the real, the acceptable, the permissible – we could have a lot more fun. It’s more important that we are real and creative and happy, than whether we have real art.