You are what you art


I don’t keep a showroom-ready apartment. It’s relatively clean, though I really should vacuum more than every 2 weeks. I don’t really decorate, at least not on purpose, and certainly not with any discernible style. Or effort.

I only have two dining room chairs because the other chairs in the set need to be repaired. They’ve been stacked in the guest room for 4 years.

I painted my kitchen a hideous shade of yellow. Well, I didn’t think it was hideous until I got it on the wall. Yet, on the wall that yellow has stayed. For 6 years.

Pretty much any artwork I’ve got, I’ve been given. Except for the vintage ad signs I’ve collected, courtesy of my grad school flea market phase. Then, at our Christmas party last year, I had guests paint mini-canvases for me in exchange for feeding them amazing food. In return, I have 15 colorful mementos from good friends having a good time:

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Needless to say, I also have one memento from a very…special friend, whose unique talents were employed with so much creative enthusiasm, I’ve had to keep his painting in a plastic bag in my freezer for the last 10 months. But only until I get around to figuring out how to safely and hygienically preserve a painting made of standard acrylics, roast beef juice, chocolate, skin cells, and quite possibly, other bodily fluids:

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As I’ve mentioned, for the most part, I don’t “decorate”. But a couple of weeks ago, some sort of nesting bug hit me. I started cleaning up more, moving things around, and clearing out bits and pieces – giving away, recycling, throwing out.

Then I walked into a store near my job, ostensibly to find a present for someone. Instead, I walked out with three whimsical prints for myself that I was sure told a love story about me and my husband. Clearly, my previous musing that humans are pathologically vain is true. At least it is for me.

This is my dining room (with just the two chairs, of course).

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Husband: loyal companion, calm and reassuring, with his cup of tea.

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Wife: Scaly, fang-toothed beast with a not-so-subtle “Ta-da!” complex.


And there, in the middle, was our love story:

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Except I didn’t realize until I got home, upon closer inspection, that these were probably two male moose.


Eh. No love story is perfect.


This one might as well be mine.


P.S. Happy belated National Coming Out Day to all gay mooses out there!


(Art prints by Gianna Pergamo)