Hanging Pictures

Hanging Pictures—by Miriam Fabiancic

I finish hanging the paintings in my new home, and the whole place magically becomes mine. It’s that simple. They are old paintings we’ve collected in our many destinations, where we’ve lived and where we’ve traveled. Some used to be in the living room in New York, and after the move end up in the master bedroom. It doesn’t matter. The paintings go up—and all of a sudden, it’s home. We just hanged a whole bunch of them this weekend in our new apartment in Caracas.

The beautiful, colorful, eclectic pieces by the artist from Tucuman, which we got in the 90’s while visiting that most wonderfully scented province in Northern Argentina—nicknamed “El jardín de la República” (the Garden of the Republic). Nick and I were sightseeing; across from the main square which was infused with the scent of orange blossoms, when we found a magnificent old mansion, occupied by a bank, a classic example of Spanish Plateresco architecture.  We went in to admire the fountain, the back patio and the wrought iron windows. Beyond the back patio, there was a sign advertising the show of a graduating fine artist opening that same evening. We peeked through the glass at the interior of the gallery and saw some rather large-scale abstract mixed-media pieces, in the most varied palette—one was mostly white with some urban landscape sketching in pale reds, grays and blues. Another was mostly turquoise green with the same dream-like bridges hanging from nowhere to nowhere… yet another evoked city lights from the distance. And the most daring one, with reeds parting in what seemed like a big divide of sorts. We decided to go back that night to the show’s opening.

There were just a few people and one of them was the thin, wispy young woman whose work was being featured. She was shy. My husband took me aside, asked me which ones I liked the most, and cautioned me to say nothing—as if this was easy for me. He proceeded to negotiate the purchase of five paintings. We brought our booty back home rolled in neat cardboard cilinders.  We were living in Caracas back then. I had the pictures framed here, and the frames costed an arm and a leg… much more than we had paid for the art. The artists’ name was Cristina Aguilera. If she’s still out there, I should send her this story. Perhaps it would mean something to her… to know that her paintings have been witness to our lives. In Caracas, in Santo Domingo, in New York… and now they are providing the backdrop to this new chapter… again in Caracas.

I have since become a bit of an artist myself—if only an aspiring one.  I’ve only framed two or three oils-on-canvas. Two of them feature vases with flowers, which I find quite sensual and intriguing. The other one is a mysterious, darker oil I’ve christened “Amsterdam Café”. I’ve always been fascinated by the atmosphere in a café. Especially if it’s a beautiful café like this Grand Café in the Netherlands which I copied from a postcard. The scene is a classic “contraluz”, a dimly lit restaurant, with scattered tables, some of them occupied by some lonely souls, and random couples talking. It’s a quiet room. The window in the back is the sole source of light except for the art-decó lamps which are at center-stage.

Today I also hanged the two black-and-white photographs of Nick and I when we were little. Nick’s portrait is a small two-by-five. In the picture, he is about four years-old. There’s a car tire and the boy with the cutest smile in the world, who is playing with a couple of tools on the wheel. You can see the mischief in his smile and his eyes. I can imagine the scene, perhaps his father had a flat and was changing the tire with young Nick running around and “helping” him. I wonder if papa took the picture or if one of the aunts was nearby watching, perhaps looking after the boy. I wonder whose camera it was, and who might have been the object of that adorable smile.

Mine is a beach scene. The portrait is twice as large as Nick's. I was also three or four. I am sitting on the sand in a bikini, and quite fashionably, I have a neat white cardigan buttoned up at the neckline. My chubby belly is exposed. I have a scarf on my head tied back in perfect 60’s fashion. A bucket full of sand sits by my thighs. I know this picture was taken in Mar del Plata. I close my eyes and can still feel the cold sand beneath me, the texture of it in my fingers. I am holding a small shovel. What a joy it was to play in the sand… I must have been a handfull. I heard my mom tell how I got lost in the crowd one afternoon. I was collecting sticks for a sandcastle. I took a turn behind the reclining umbrella, and suddenly I was lost. An agonizing half-hour later, I appeared straddled on a stranger’s shoulders, while people clapped to attract attention.

We were both happy kids.

I know it’s silly, but the paintings, the photos, the knick-knacks, and the books that I’ve collected through the years sort of hold the keys to our story. Each painting, each photo, each memento has something to tell. I intend to be just a funnel for those stories here… before I forget them, or better yet, before more stories accumulate and the old ones fall to the bottom of the barrel and get lost forever.