The Aesthetics of Picture Frames

When I was a kid, my mom would take me to the art supply store on occasion. In our town, it chain art supply store was called A.I. Friedmans. That was our place to go for holiday decorations, supplies for Halloween costumes or science fair cardboard display boards. And my mom is a huge fan of scrap booking and making photo albums. This artistic side of her was never formally developed in any educational setting. Nor did it rub off on me, much.

But I went to the local Target that opened up recently to go get a picture frame. This is exactly the kind of activity my mom would be into. I have two paintings chilling out in my room right now. One is a splendid water color of orchid-like flowers emanating from a creme background. The other is a landscape of a farm overlooking hills with wild yellow grass subsuming a few trees. Both paintings are exposed to the elements, and I felt it was time to protect them.

So, I went to the Target because there isn't an A.I. Friedman's in town, Michael's is too far away, and the Bed Bath and Beyond was asking for too much money for their manufactured, pressed wood frames.

The problem, is seemed to me, was that there was a much greater diversity of frames than I realized. For this trip, I wanted to get a frame for the orchid water colors. It was the smaller of the two painting I own, and therefore, the most cost effective frame to buy, from my underemployed point of view.

It seemed that that most appropriate purchase would be a walnut-colored brown picture frame. [EXHIBIT 1] I would enjoy the feeling of looking outside through a pleasant, New England Colonial window frame. The brown color has an organic feel to it, so it complements, and does not harshly contrast, with the floral patterns. A picture frame is what you'd imagine the frames of your glasses would be when you wear them. You think: "How do I want to see the world?"


In contrast, there were some other, out-of-this world, ugly, pedestrianly ostentatious picture frames. Take for example the "Artistan" Frame. [EXHIBIT 2] This is the kind of frame you'd expect to see surrounding an El Greco, a Van Gogh or a Caravaggio. Thus, the artist whose painting I posses would be equally flattered and insulted to have such a ridiculously pompous picture frame. This frame screams pretentious yuppie who finds aesthetics are statistically correlated to price tags. This frame gives a false sense of agedness, and therefore anything that is bound by it must have aged well and stood the test of time. Plus, the contrast between the newly minted water colors on canvas paper with the false burn marks of cigarette lighters wearing the gilded edges of this frame would bring a visual falsetto to the otherwise crisp and robust water colors.


Then there is the obligatory sterling silver frame, otherwise known as the photo frame. [EXHIBIT 3] Now, everyone has at least one of these in their bedroom or their living room, stuffed with a picture of grandma, the kids from summer camp, or your boyfriend/fiance/boyfriend. Conventional wisdom states that this is the "go-to" picture frame for any photo with sentimental value. Why? Doesn't it look like you're viewing the person through some futuristic prison window? Or, perhaps an oddly rectangular window on an airplane, submarine or the International Space Station.


Just imagine this silver border wrapping around my orchid painting, like mechanic tentacles. That would be straight out of the Matrix. Again, a picture frame should complement and add to the viewing pleasure of the art lover. And if you're trying to make a statement about the duality and conflict between man and machine, that's one thing. But trying to induce migraines in people who suffer from astigmatism is quite another thing.

And finally there is the plain, black frame. [EXHIBIT 4] I would dub this the "Daria" picture frame, since they give off a intelligent, witty, artistic, cynical, and sarcastic feel. This is the kind of picture frame I'd expect to see at some hipster's whitewashed, industrial stupid in the Meatpacking District, aiming to provide some environmental contrast without erroneously giving off the impression of something lively, optimistic or corporal. This is the frame for the artsty-fartsy crowd that wants an understated frame to not steal the show, so the speak, from the art itself. That is pretentious, in it's own way. Plus, something that is understated will automatically contrast and inevitably draw attention away from the art itself.

So, I've stuck with the brown, walnut-hued picture frame. What do you guys think?

What will it take?

I was hoping for an uplifting post today, but I have to ask: What will it take?

How much sacrifice do I need to endure?

How many opportunities do I need to spurn to demonstrate my unwaivering dedication to the vanguard?

How many years do I have to wait until I can be free of this pain and doubt?

How many people do I have to convince that I'm serious about doing this?

"Oh, it's not safe."

"There are so many other people you can help, right?"

"Why don't you just go to law school?"

NO
NO
NO!

It's Afghanistan! I have to go to Afghanistan! Not Iraq. Not Sudan. NOT PERU. AFGHANISTAN.

What will it take to get me to Afghanistan? What?!?! Just tell me and I'll do it.

Humanitiarian Intervention

I went to the gym today. It was the usual: cardio, free weights and some more cardio. I pushed myself just the the precipice of dizziness. That usually means I was working around 80 to 85% intensity. I left the gym a bit dazed, but feeling great.

I was going to stop by the CVS in order to buy a Gatorade or a bottle of water, but the 54 bus just pulled into the bus stop. So instead of turning right into the CVS I hopped left onto the bus.

Considering it was before 4pm, the bus was moving briskly along 14th Street. I noticed a plurality of the people on the bus were children. That made sense. Schools and after school programs were letting out students for the day.

We pulled into the U St. bus stop; always the busiest one on 14th St. I could already hear her, cursing in her poor grammar. SHUT UP. STOP DAT NOISE! WHAT I TOLD YOU?

Because of the higher proportion of bus customers at the U St. bus stop, there is also a higher probability that you'll run into one of the weirdos. The people who talk to themselves. The drunkards. The people who eat KFC or Popeye buckets of chicken on the bus despite the myriad of white and blue signs that say "No food allowed on the bus". Today, however, proved quite different.

I saw the little boy step onto the bus. Precious. I rarely say that about children. I used to babysit, but now I'm a Northeastern intellectual snob. Children are so...pedestrian. I made little notice until I saw that his body made an unnatural swoop against gravity. His "mother" was yanking him up by his coat. She probably grabbed and bruised some of his ebony skin beneath the little coat he was wearing.

The little boy didn't seem to notice. Perhaps her physical augmentation of his natural motion was something he was accustomed too. Seeing parents frustrated with children everyday, it's understandable that sometimes one's patience runs thin and you just push a kid a little bit. What made this different, however, was the utter paradoxical contempt and obliviousness the "mother" had for the winces erupting on the child's face.

The boy seems lost. Maybe he doesn't ride the bus that often. She yelled at him to sit down. Being that the seat eye level with the boy, he didn't gracefully sit down on the bus seat like an adult, but rather, catapulted himself, a belly flop, onto the seat. That, apparently, was too much for her to handle.

SIT THE FUCK UP. I SAID SIT DOWN. WHAT YOU LOOKIN' AT? SIT DOWN

The child looked perplexed. His ivory eyes, clear as day, shimmering at the anticipation that something was about to strike him. Those eyes struck me first.

WHACK!!!

The first blow. Her left hand haphazardly hit his shoulder as she grabbed him from his right shoulder and neck and forcibly posed him like a Barbie doll into the posture she seemed proper for a D.C. Metro bus. The manipulation was so quick and so forceful that the boy's neck bent in the oppose direction from where his body was. He was slammed into the chair, and those ivory eyes filled with tears.

OH YOU CRYIN' NOW? WHAT I TOLD YOU? SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOU DON'T GET WA SHUT THE FUCK UP MEANS?

The boy was only 24 to 36 months old. Too young for preschool. I would venture to guess that the "mother" didn't spoil her child with a perspicacious vocabulary. He seems scared and unable to find the words to express his emotional and physical pain. He slouched in his seat. Again, the "mother" exploded.

She pulled him up by the collar of his jacket and flipped him over like a human wad of pizza dough. Then she proceeded to flatted his ass with a firm, wooden right hand. WHACK WHACK WHACK His crying became so loud that others on the bus began the notice.

WHAT I TOLD YOU? GET YOUR FUCKING HAND OUTTA YA MONTH OR I'LL BUST UP YA MOUTH TILL YOU STOP FUCKING CRYING! She stared him down like a lion on its prey. Rubbing her nose against his tear-ridden cheeks, she breathed on him. Breathes of intimidation. The boy started to wail.

OH, THAT'S IT. WE GETTIN' OFF THIS HERE BUS. FUCK THAT. I SAID SHUT THE FUCK UP. YOU FUCKING IMPORTAN' OR SOMETHIN'? YOU AIN'T SHIT. SHUT THE FUCK UP. She did not pull the yellow string above her head to indicate she was getting off at the next stop.

I looked at the bus driver. He looked straight ahead through the windshield. He must have seen this scene many times, maybe even multiple times in one day. He knew that that kid was a martyr, no matter what he could have done. Should he have gotten involved? An ambulance would have been called to bring an injured child and bus driver to the nearest hospital, the bus driver must have thought.

I looked around the bus, hoping to see someone as enraged and frightened as I was. Downcast eyes outnumbered frightened eyes witness the most public display of child abuse I'd ever witnessed. Some adults even appear to approve of the caustic disciplinarian. "Oh, dat boy 'bout to get his ass whooped", muttered someone under their breath.

My conscience was crying: "Say something! Say 'Mama, that is ENOUGH! THAT IS ENOUGH!!'"

I looked at the child, wailing, tears streaming down his face like Niagara Falls. I put my finger to my mouth. Sssh, I was miming. But to no avail.

WHAT YOU GOT A HEART ATTACK OR SOMETHIN' WELL I GIVE YOU ONE CUZ IT SOUND LIKE YOU WANT ONE. OH, I'M GONNA FUCK YOU UP WHEN WE GETS OFF DA BUS.

Should I call the police? What would I tell them? "Umm...there is a young African-American women in a green shirt covered with panda bears shaking her child violently on the 54 bus. We're currently on 14th and Euclid, so please intercept her as soon as possible"

For some reason, that didn't seem very plausible to me. The police must deal with all sorts of domestic violence and child abuse cases every day. And at least they deal with criminals who stay in one place and beat their family members. This criminal was on the move, and who knows when or where she was going to get off.

By the time I realized where I was, the bus was about to reach the Columbia Rd. bus stop. I jumped off, avoiding the glare the "mother" was inflicting on her child. He was flopping now, like a fish on the deck of the boat. Most people think fish flop on a boat deck because they are out of the water and begin to panic. I've always thought a fish flops on a boat deck in order to avoid capture by hitting and possibly injuring one of his capturers. I felt like this boy was flopping left and right to avoid the calibrated strikes his "mother" was landing on his tender muscles and soft bones. I grabbed my cell phone and instantly called my mother.

"Hi mom. [Sniff]"
"What's wrong dear?"
"I was on the bus, and this women kept hitting her child, and swearing, and I wanted to call the police, and no one was doing anything, and I was so afraid that she'd hit me if I intervened, then I'd hit her back and things would spiral outta control and..."
"Luis, calm down! Are you safe?"
"Yes, but that child!"
"Was she Hispanic?"

I paused. What an odd question. But, sadly, a statistically valid one for my mother, who lives in Connecticut.

"No. That's no relevant. Bad people are bad people, mom."
"Well....you were right to leave, Luis. You didn't have to be a hero. Let's pray that the child grow up okay."

It was heartening to see at least my mom was concerned with the general welfare of the child and not his immediate safety. Yet, the rationalization that was occurring was wiping me clean of the responsibility to protect. I felt dizzy again.

All those political science classes were I fervently argued for humanitarian interventions around the world, from Rwanda to Afghanistan to Darfur and even Iraq, those soliloquies seemed like a moot point when I couldn't even stand up to a fucked-up mother on the 54 bus in the District of Columbia.

My god forgive me.