RobArt Penguin

I’ve been to homes where the walls are blank. There is a certain order to a pristine wall. In my family tradition, the walls are full. I remember visiting my grandparents house where even the stairwells were full of paintings, even a stairwell into the basement hidden by a door. My grandmother’s room was also populated with photographs of the family, from her time as a young girl to pictures of her grandkids. My grandfather contributed to the wall proliferation because he was an avid painter in his retirement. When I started painting, gifts to my grandmother had to be small enough to fit in between my grandfather’s paintings. The place was an art museum. My house is no exception. We have pictures hanging everywhere, even in the garage. Between my share of my grandfather’s work, my sister’s art, my own, my daughter’s and one of her friends, we have our own packed art gallery. It seems so natural to me to have a house full of art. We have so much art that we rotate the paintings occasionally. I can’t imagine blank walls. Oh, and I do have a few of my pieces secured to the ceiling in my garage. So far, there’s no paintings on the ceilings in the house proper, but it is tempting.