“You are the last person in the world I’d have ever imagined would become an art enthusiast,” one of them told me. “It’s sort of like Willie Nelson breaking out in opera.”
“You don’t have an artistic bone in your body,” another one declared.
And that is absolutely true. I’ve never had a flair for style. The girls used to tease me about being “Polyester Vic.”(Now that I’ve retired, I’ve switched to knit). I never even learned to tie a bow.
And when it comes to interior design, I place items in the most obvious places and match my colors. I look at beautiful rooms in Southern Living and Martha Stewart and think, “Wow, I’d would never have put that color combination together or put that piece of furniture in that location.”
Still, I’ve received so much pleasure poring over the pictures at Art.com and other sites to discover what gives me joy and I suppose that is what fiction and art and music is all about, giving joy. There is really no practical reason for any of it to exist otherwise.
My mother taught me to read when I was very young. I had my first library card when I was 3.
I’ve always been a voracious consumer of words. In the same way, having access to music has always been a critical necessity in my life whether in the form of records, cds, concerts, bars featuring live band or jukeboxes.
By contrast, art is new. I’ve bought six pictures (and that will be it for a while – I don’t want to be like Mom and her thousand dolls). I’ve deliberated over mats and frames. I’ve agonized over which walls would show them to their best advantage.
My choices might not please anyone else but whenever I go into a room where one of them is hanging, I simply stand for a while to admire them.
Fresh, new love can surprise you by entering your life no matter what age you are.
Vicki Williams is a columnist for the Pharos-Tribune. She can be reached through the newspaper at firstname.lastname@example.org.