Rescue and Recovery

There is a place for everything and everything has a place, or so the saying goes...the thing is that these everythings usually end up at my house. How could I pass them up, when I spot them at the local thrift shops, Goodwill, or yard sales? They sit there and call out to me, 'take me home, rescue me.' Who could refuse them? They are so forlorn and forgotten. Little pieces of not quite art. Small attempts at creativity. Remnants of ventures into a new medium that someone gave their best shot at and lovingly framed. Gifts perhaps, given by the pursuer in an extraordinary leap of faith to the recipient, a fellow risk taker or a supporter perhaps. I can imagine the exchange, some heard some felt. "Here I did this, I thought of you, I think I'm safe, I am anxious, a little fearful, don't mock me, I tried, don't worry if you don't like it, we never have to speak of it again, take it quick, do something with it, put it away, no don't show it, just put it over there behind the couch, unseen, no need to thank me, just move on, let's change the subject, well ok, glad you like, hang it up? no need, really, you want to, ok, just don't tell anyone I did it." It is hung for a while, an appropriate amount of time to express both support and appreciation. Then ever so quietly it is removed. Perhaps taste changed, perhaps time hasn't been good to the images scratched out by brush or charcoal, but for whatever reason it comes down. Stored in an attic somewhere, carefully at first, but as the years go by less so. It becomes 'in the way,' the emotion of the gift exchange, a long ago memory and the need to protect the artist's feelings not so intense. It is time, time to load up the precious piece of not quite art and donate it. This fate is better then the alternative, throwing it away. The caretaker of the gift rationalizes that someone will love it. And I step in. Yes, I see myself as an amateur art lifeguard of sorts. I swim into the competitive waters of the thrift store and rescue a drowning piece of art that is flailing its arms among other species in bins and on racks. I speak gently to it as I resuscitate it. Deep breaths, don't panic, you'll be home soon. Soon, it turns out, is just a car ride away and a simple nail head later. The piece of art is safely hanging in her new spot, along side her fellow misfits in a place they call home. I step back, knowing all too well the life of an amateur artist, thankful for the opportunity to display the wares of a fellow seeker. Although they will never know the fate of their artistic endeavors, I find peace in providing a service to my sisters in creativity. I think of all of those attempts I made and hope that somewhere they have found a home with a like minded women whose walls are filled with not quite art and who steps back, admiring her collection and says with a smile, everything has a place.