The house was settled, even boring, on the outside. A ranch among ranches. Yet, the inside was wild with mirrored walls, gaudy decor, and dark textured brocade wallpapers. Perhaps the mom of the house had the freedom and the money to let her interior décor classes come into full expression . . . from the basement up to the second floor bedrooms. Each inch of wall space was decorated, nothing out of reach of her styling.
One picker, a bright and tattered man, came in with: “Oh, look at this place. I love it!” He then looked at me and asked: “Is this your house? You look like you should be living here.”
Like many of the pickers, I rejected the over-decorated mom. But, why had the tattered picker picked me as the owner of the house? Should I give the mom a second chance and find some appreciation of her décor? I would look more closely.
One wall in a small upstairs bedroom shouted an original painting, signed by a big motioned artist named Read. The bedroom was definitely for one of the kids of the family. Yet this painting was not chosen by child or preteen or late teen, boy or girl. This was picked out by mom at a fancy designer store. Mom was decorating for the kids of the house. I think she ran the household with an iron paintbrush.
The Read painting was bold swipes, no even bolder swaths of paint, built up thick and high like a modern impasto gone to wild thickness, half an inch or more. They had no shame at all, bright bloody red, metallic silver. Framed in silver metallic frames. The subject matter was abstract. The theme was motion, active movement.
“This painting has no subtlety, no restraint,” I talked softly to myself, rejecting mom quietly. “Yet, what about the tattered man? Yes, he saw my big motioned blue shirt, my big silver ring, my bold swipes of thought gestures. He saw mom in me even though I believed I was subtle.”
The tattered picker taught me the beauty of mom, the beauty of non-restraint.