Art makes a home. For several months, I’ve had my art framed tucked away against one wall of my apartment, wrapped meticulously in brown paper. I made every excuse not to hang it: I need a hammer; I need a picture hanging kit; I don’t have time; I don’t know where I want the pieces to go. This is the same art that I had in my apartment building that caught fire. Thankfully the pieces I really cared about survived; the frames did not. I tried to hang up these re-framed pieces several times back in January. I would get out the ladder, climb up to the top, and tear up. I just couldn’t get myself to make this apartment a home.
And then today, something shifted. Last night I went out with friends of mine to Apotheke, a bar I used to love that I went to with a guy I used to date. It was a truly horrible experience. It’s become yet another stuck-on-itself nightspot in NYC with a jerk working the door, donning a too-big ego, a fake British accent, and a cheap Blackberry that he checks incessantly. I was so disgusted and upset about the evening that it made me reconsider New York altogether. Was this a sign that nothing is the same here anymore? That I just don’t belong anymore? Maybe I’ve outgrown NYC, or maybe its outgrown me. Maybe I just don’t fit here anymore. Maybe 3 years has been enough time, and now I better get on to the next place.
I woke up this morning, looked at that art in brown paper, and realized why I’ve felt a little out-of-place in my life for the past few weeks. I’ve got this great shell of a life and I fill it up and empty it out, fill it up and empty it out. What if rather than running, I just painted the walls? What if I finally got out the art, hung it up (all excuses aside), and just began to really only take into my life the people, activities, and experiences I truly want. No sense of “I must do”, and only a sense of “this is right for me, today”.
Maybe the path to real liberation begins by climbing the ladder, tear and fears and regrets, and just putting the hammer to the nail. The walls may not be perfect, and they may never be like they were before, but at least they can show us how far we’ve come.
The image above is my favorite piece of art that I own. It’s a hand-painted canvas that I bought from a street artist in Soweto, South Africa in 2007. I am glad it’s back on my walls.
Christa Avampato 