i spend a lot of time thinking about beauty. i also spend a lot of time thinking about art. of course, art is only one of a million ways to bring more beauty into your life, but it happens to be one of my favorites.

i also spend a lot of time idly wondering why people do or don’t buy art. often, people don’t buy art because of money. sometimes that’s the real reason. sometimes, i think, it’s not.

when amy was here, i talked to her about it. her walls are full of art. every time i visit, i go home thinking that i really need more art on my walls (which are not exactly bare).

we were talking about how we are drawn to specific styles. examples: i like art that reminds me of sculpture; she likes seascapes. (as an aside, this is why i firmly believe that you can always buy what you love without worrying whether it goes with the things you already have. if you always buy what you love, your home will reflect you.)

the thing we decided is that we both know what we like. if i see something and it’s for me, i know. there is an internal pull, a drawing toward, a yes. i don’t always buy it, of course, but i absolutely know what i like. same with her.

i suspect this is not the case for everyone.

somehow, this reminded me of a story.

there was a year or two in little school where we had an art class. in one class, we chose three shapes and three colors and used them to make a piece of art. i chose red, black, and blue, and a triangle, music note, and square.

i loved the resulting piece. it was geometric and abstract and colorful. (you can tell how much i loved it by the fact that i still remember what i did a million years later. i can almost see it if i close my eyes and concentrate.)

my mother decided to frame something of ours and hang it on the wall. the only trouble was that she framed a watercolor i had done of a landscape. oh, how i hated that painting. i could not get watercolor paints to do what i wanted them to do. the sun dripped. i had to paint things that were supposed to look like actual things with a thin brush. it was everything i liked least about art, and i was embarrassed by the result.

the watercolor hung over my bed. every day, it was the first thing i saw when i woke up. every day, i would walk past it and into the next room, where amy’s piece was framed – an amazing scratch art piece of a loon. i spent years thinking that amy was an artist and i wasn’t, all because of that dripping watercolor. i thought artists could draw things that looked like the things – and i couldn’t.

of course, this is a story about many things.

it is a story about a girl who thought she had to be perfect. the watercolor wasn’t perfect, therefore it wasn’t acceptable. now, the watercolor hangs in my parents’ entryway. i find it sweet. the dripping sunset doesn’t bother me.

it is also a story about the stories we tell ourself. one of my stories was that because other people didn’t appreciate the piece i loved and was proud of as much as i did, i didn’t have good taste and it wasn’t worth anything and i wasn’t an artist. in hindsight, of course, none of that was true.

it is also a story about personal preference, which is why i thought of it. in my family, i think amy and i (and maybe helen) are the only ones who enjoy abstract art. the choice of painting didn’t mean anything about me; my mother loves landscapes and watercolors and she loved that watercolor.

it reminds me that when we are little, we know what we like. i wonder if sometimes it’s hard to hold onto that knowing as we grow older. i couldn’t hold onto it in many areas of my life, but i did manage to hold onto it when it comes to decorating my home, for which i am grateful.