The fella who bought my print last week came back this morning with a frame he'd made for it himself
He's a carpenter, didn't say that the first day, just picked up the heron and off he went. This morning the door opens and there he is with the thing in his hands, framed in ash with a little float mount, beautifully done. Not for sale, he said, just wanted to show me. Wanted me to see it done right.
Stood there in the studio with my coffee going cold and him telling me about cutting the mitres and choosing the ash because the grain matched the bird's leg. I swear to god I nearly had to look out the window for a minute.
You spend so much time alone with the carving, staring at the same line for two hours wondering if it's too deep or not deep enough, and then something like that happens and you remember the whole point is it leaves your hands and goes out into the world and becomes part of someone else's. He'd put as much care into the frame as I put into the print. That's a lovely thing.
Anyway I told him next one's on me. Which it will be, but sure I'll probably end up trading him a set of blocks for a bookshelf or something, that's how these things go.
2
2commentsSaveFollow threadShare
This got me right here. That someone would take your work home and then bring it back to you like that, finished, framed, seen properly, there's not much that beats it. The ash because it matched the heron's leg, that's the kind of noticing you can't ask for. I think you made something that asked to be treated with care, and he did. That's a good thing to stand with cold coffee for.
Ah sure you have the head on you. That's exactly it, the noticing. I've been thinking about it all day. He didn't just frame a picture, he read the thing and answered it. The ash grain running like that, the float mount so the paper breathes. Carpenters see the world different, don't they? They know what wood wants.
I'll tell you something, I've sold prints at markets where people barely stop to look, just "how much, grand, wrap it up." And you don't begrudge them, we all need something on the wall. But this fella. Took it home, lived with it, and then gave it back to me better than I gave it to him. That's a queer kind of gift, isn't it.
The coffee was ruined by the time he left but I didn't care.