A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend posted on Facebook an image of a photo print she’d purchased from me years ago, along with a caption saying she still considered the image one of the things in her living space that gives her joy. I was flattered beyond words. And I thought of her post this past week as Nancy and I finally got around to putting art on our walls.
We’ve only done the living room and dining room (and our respective offices), but already the house feels more like a home. I am itching to put up more. This week, perhaps.
I am fortunate to have learned photography as a younger man and to have captured a good number of display-worthy photos over the years. And so we have framed images from many of our travels that are, or will be, on our walls — pictures from Australia and New Zealand, from Ireland and the American Southwest, from our former home in Tennessee and from a memorable trip to New Mexico a few years back. I’m currently deciding which photos from more recent journeys I should print and frame next.
I am even more fortunate to be the younger brother of James Coe, a remarkably talented wildlife and landscape painter. Jim’s art is all over our house; in the rooms we’ve decorated so far we’ve hung nine of his paintings and prints. I expect there will be more before long. [By the way, you can read more about Jim and see images of his art at his website.]
What else have I got? Several years back, while attending a World Fantasy Convention, I bought signed prints of Martin Springett’s marvelous cover art for Guy Gavriel Kay’s Fionavar Tapestry. Springett himself was selling the art and he was a charming and effective salesman! Some twenty years ago, while living in our little town in Tennessee, we became friends with Stephen Alvarez and his family. Stephen is an amazing freelance nature photographer, whose work has appeared in National Geographic, Time, the New York Times, and other high profile publications. He and his wife, April, also happen to be fantasy readers, so we arranged a trade: a complete signed, hardcover set of the Winds of the Forelands books in exchange for a print of a gorgeous night sky photo taken in Arizona. I think I got the better deal.
We have a few nice pieces of art that once belonged to my parents. We have photos we purchased just outside of Zion National Park — photos of the park taken by photographer David J. West, with whom we chatted for a time one memorable morning. I have in my office a tiny framed pressed bronze image of a Celtic owl, which I love. And I have yet another signed photo print, this one by renowned nature photographer Larry Ulrich. It was a gift from my siblings for my 50th birthday. And we have a signed print from a Native American artist in the Pacific Northwest that we bought while on our honeymoon in Victoria, British Columbia. This print has hung over the mantel in every home Nancy and I have shared. It was the first piece we put up in the new house.
Of course, we have tons of smaller photos all around the house, of our darling daughters, of our parents and siblings, of friends, of our wedding.
And I suppose the point of all of this is that every one of these pieces of art, every single thing that I have taken care to center on a wall and hang at the right height and fiddle with until it hangs straight (only to have Nancy come into the room and adjust it so that it really hangs straight) brings me joy. They remind me of places we’ve seen that stole our breath and seared themselves into our memories. They remind me of experiences we cherish and people we love.
Each time we put up something new, it invariably puts a smile on my face.
Take a look around your home, and let the memories stirred by the things you’ve put on your walls bring a smile. And if you care to, share a favorite or two on the Facebook feed for this post.
Have a great week.
We woke this morning to a snow squall, something that happened with ever-decreasing frequency during our years in Tennessee, as climate change made the warm South even warmer. Here in New York, during the winter months, snow is still the default when there’s precipitation, and I love that. I have missed snow and don’t mind paying the plow guy or dealing with snow on the walkways and driveway. The beauty of an early morning snowfall more than makes up for the inconveniences.
This [see the photo above] will soon be our new home. It is in New York’s Hudson Valley, near Albany, on six-plus acres of beautiful land, complete with gardens, fruit trees, and a small pond. More important, it is maybe twenty minutes from my brother and sister-in-law, is equally close to one of my dearest friends and his partner, and is within easy drives of many other friends and family.
More to the point, though, back in the day, I used to perform regularly. Along with my dear, dear friends Alan Goldberg and Amy Halliday, I was in a band called Free Samples. Three voices, two guitars. Acoustic rock — CSN, Beatles, Paul Simon/Simon and Garfunkel, James Taylor, Bonnie Raitt, Joni Mitchell, Pousette-Dart, etc. We performed several times a semester, usually at the campus coffee house, but also at special events during which we shared the evening with other acoustic bands.
As I made clear earlier, I am not the player or singer I used to be, mostly because I don’t work at it as I once did. And so I’m afraid I’ll sound bad. Alan and Dan have played together a lot over the past several years, including live performances and online concerts they gave during the pandemic. They sound great as a twosome and I don’t want to ruin that. They have terrific on-stage rapport, just as Alan and I did back when we were young. I don’t want to get in the way of that, either. And I have overwhelmingly positive memories of my performing days. I don’t want to sully those recollections with a performance now that is subpar. I don’t want to embarrass myself.
We had lived together for two years before our wedding, and we were both in our late twenties. We had known almost from the day we started dating that we would spend the rest of our lives together, and by the time that weekend rolled around, we felt ready for the responsibilities and challenges of marriage. And we were. And still, we had no idea.
The clichés are true. Of course marriage is about love, about passion, and — even more — about friendship. But it is also about compromise, about joining two lives and finding the balance necessary to make certain that each of those lives feels complete and fulfilling, even as together we build a third life that belongs to both of us. It is a complicated undertaking. And while love and passion are great, there are times when they feel elusive. The kids are sick and you both have work deadlines and the shopping needs to get done. Or one job is more demanding than usual and it’s all you both can do just to get one kid to soccer practice and the other to ballet while also taking care of dinner and arranging the babysitter for the Friday event in town. Work, balance, compromise, sacrifice — sometimes, it feels like that’s all there is. Those early days of the romance, when everything was laughter and love and sex and adventure, seem so very, very distant.
2. Have faith. I’m not talking about religious faith here (though if that’s your thing, great). I mean faith in each other and in what you share. That belief in the fundamental power of our bond has gotten us past some really hard times. The love might not always be palpable, but we KNOW it’s there, and that certainty gets us through.
As I say, if you know me, you probably don’t find this surprising. I have spoken and written about my love of the Grateful Dead, my experiences shivering outside on cold nights, in the dark of Providence, Rhode Island winters, waiting at the Providence Civic Center for Dead tickets to go on sale. People don’t do that unless they have already done damage to their prefrontal cortex. I could tell additional stories. It is possible that I (and select others) was (were) high during at least one musical performance that we gave while in college. I might remember playing Cat Stevens’s hit “Wild World” and literally watching my digital dexterity degrade over the course of the song.