Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

For most of the past week, it's been too rainy for my daily walks with my dog, Una. On Tuesday, trash day, we had a brief respite.

Strangely enough, I found yet another painting put out with the trash, at the very same house that had discarded a painting of Geneva Lake last week.

This one is larger, about four feet wide by three feet tall, and it was also sans frame. But oddly, it was draped over a wooden frame that, when I got it home, seemed to fit the Geneva painting perfectly.

This one is an oil painting of a rooftop garden, and although it is in poorer shape, the missing paint is hardly noticeable and most likely would be easily repaired.

Two paintings in two weeks. I sense a trend. Clearly, someone's idea of house cleaning is different from mine. I would at least have donated the paintings to Goodwill. But again, maybe there are personal reasons why this person is getting rid of these paintings in such an ignominious way. Perhaps it reminds the discarder of someone they'd rather not be reminded of, presumably the person who had enjoyed the paintings.

The painter, Luke Isan, is hopelessly obscure. A web search pulls up nothing, not even an address.

This reminds me of the sort of painting my mom is always buying at art fairs, original paintings at affordable prices by painters who seldom poke their heads out of obscurity. Pleasant scenes, like gardens and landscapes, that because they're originals, rate a cut above the cheap poster prints you can buy at any Wal-Mart. Colorful, carefully crafted, soon becoming familiar to the eye, becoming a part of the room.

I remember one such painting of a cobbled Italian street my mom had hung in the hallway of the house where I grew up. It was a bad place for it, since you could never view it from the sort of distance that a painting that large required. Still, I understand why she hung it there. In a house with strangely shaped rooms, it was really the only space for it. The family room, for example, had one wall lined with book shelves, one small wall with a fireplace, and two exterior walls, both with windows.

Last time I visited, Mom had leaned the painting up against the closet in my old bedroom, along with a lot of other paintings she took down while redecorating. I suppose if I asked her, some day she'd let me have it.

My mom, a painter herself, would never put a painting out in the trash. And I probably wouldn't, either, barring exceptional circumstances.

I must admit, though, that not all paintings are worth saving. I've passed by other paintings and wall hangings discarded by neighbors that struck me as odd if not garish. For example, there was a painting of a silhouetted African woman with sequins and beads and feathers -- I kid you not. It might sound kitschy, but trust me, it was just bad. The garbage men wouldn't touch it for two weeks, perhaps fearing they'd get sequins stuck to their manly hands.

I can't say I blame them.

Copyright 2005 by Alyce Wilson

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