Picture Frames

What we really see in the images we hold.

My beloved grandmother, Della, died last week after 91 successful revolutions around our sun. As human beings left behind when someone we knew who was of advanced age transcends conscious boundaries, we will often say “we knew it was coming soon” or wax on the longevity of the human body, which is okay, it’s expected, it’s normal. I venture to guess the more interesting aspect of our gaze at those gone away whom we have loved or cared for can come from the way we handle them when they aren’t here. I use handle in a way that is intended to lend itself to the ways we cope, remember, and walk onward in the days and weeks after flowers, funerals, and fondness fade.

If you’re like me, you have pictures, framed or otherwise somewhere in your abode, on display either for the sake of your own piece of mind, remembrance, homage, or as a conversation piece to strike the fancy of party guests — an artifact of appreciation perhaps. The pictures within these frames are usually framed because of an emotionally stirring quality, something resonating and compelling (or not — I have seen framed pictures of nondescript, blanched flowers in a doctor’s office more times than I care to) — but someone sees beauty and a reason to encase the print so it’s not held up by plastic thumbtacks.

Picture frames, objectively, can sometimes be a tricky thing. They run the gamut of being thin, thick, plastic, textured mahogany, composite metals, regal, chintzy, heavy, layered — you name it, there’s a frame for it. Sometimes I wonder, “why the hell bother?” it’s just a frame, and all anyone really looks at is the actual picture of Uncle Sid at the 1994 Fourth of July Pig-Roast in Altoona, thick barbecue sauce dripping from his lips with a grin larger than the snout of the pig of which he is so ferociously devouring. (I don’t know your Uncle Sid, but he sounds like a character.) That picture is framed on the nightstand of some human citizen because it harkens back to that hypothetical muggy summer day in ’94 when things were different. The mood was light, the smells and sounds were remarkable, and nothing else mattered. The people and the affections were flowing, and someone decided that’s all that was important. The Poloroid snapped, and the camera spit out an old-school photo that made the family chuckle, even though some can’t remember that day anymore.

Oftentimes, the types and qualities of frames in which we place our pictures is a reflection of how much we cherish that moment. My family photos somehow have managed to retain a nicely-finished wooden mantra, with matting that exemplifies the smiles, the energies, and happiness of the day. Other photos of inanimate objects may take a more technical, colder frame, likely matching the mode of the image. Why does all this matter? What reason do you have to be reading my observations of picture frames? Aren’t you hungry or tired?

To be honest, picture frames are another one of those things in life that I feel often get overlooked. Our world is so amazingly enormous (to us) that the volume of forgotten objects is so easy to ignore, though it is always important to remember that objects only hold power or meaning when we allow them to. That idea is why I think picture frames deserve an honorable mention. Think about it…If you’ve ever been the Louvre to see Mona Lisa, how many of us actually remember the frame in which it was presented? Did anyone note that the ornately carved wooden frame, at its uppermost mount, is bowing upwards ever so slightly from being hung in the same position for so long? Does the frame lend itself to any greater appreciation of the print, so we can be drawn in by her smile, or the landscape of various colors in the background? I think for some, yes, but for others, not so much.

When I held my only framed picture of my grandma and I together, likely from when I was about 18, there’s a connection that I felt when I grasped that wooden frame. The energies in my brain have told me for as long as I can remember that an emotional bond can be further explored when I pick up, hold, and gaze through the thin glass that protects the frozen moment in front of my eyes. The frame serves as a dignified display — a respectful embrace of the photo, and it gives me a sense of pride every time I walk by it, or lay on my bed and stare and smile.

When I removed her picture from the frame, I didn’t realize the small details that were covered by the matting inside. She was wearing a burgundy and white plaid shirt with the collar folded to her left side, the white turtleneck she had under it neatly nestled to her chest. It must have been taken during the cooler months of the year, my long-sleeve Old Navy shirt (loved that shirt!) clearly indicative of my specific fashion tastes of the early 2000’s. I also see the kitchen in the house where she so delicately and routinely cooked meals for my me, my mother, father, aunts, strangers — it didn’t matter. We would sometimes arrive after midnight to her little home on Bolton Lane in North Carolina in a town you’ve never heard of, and the kitchen light would be on, the smell of fried fish, chicken, creamed corn, and lima beans heavy in the air, a pitcher of sweet iced tea ready for consumption, and it always tasted *perfect* every, single, time.

We all seem to miss loved ones who are gone in different ways, something that I admire about the human condition. Some of choose not to frame pictures at all, perhaps we have none left to frame, or resent the circumstances surrounding that time, place or individual. Others of us may be encapsulated by memories of someone or something or some time and the pictures and those frames are all we have to hold onto, though no matter how tightly grasped, or how desperately wishful we become, what’s passed has passed — the picture and those frames will just have to do. Some may say that photo and frame doesn’t smell like Della’s house. I won’t hear her calming voice coming from that photograph. I wont feel the uneven floor creak under my feet as I walk through the house in that specific snapshot. I won’t feel her hands that had the smoothness of newspaper, and her nails that always looked “just right.” I won’t hold that frame and be able to taste her outstanding chicken legs that she’d cook and leave on a paper towel for us to eat when my family arrived after a three-hour journey. And I won’t be able to say any more words to her resembling the idea of love, adoration, and gladness that she was one of my favorite people in this universe. Some may say I can’t do any of those things, and that the frames and pictures are just representations to jog my memory.

I, for one, believe in the picture frames. Do you?

Related posts:

More people than ever are turning to YouTube for product reviews making the social media platform an important step in the customer journey. Plus, Easter is less than a month away and creators are…

Se estou falando disso quer dizer que ela morreu! Hoje o artista é maior que sua própria arte, como se ela dependesse dele para existir. À você que acredita nisso ou que vive e nem sabe: A arte é uma…

The waves lashed at your feet, as your feet touched upon pebbles, thousands of them, different shapes, sizes, some smooth and some not, you pick a pointed one up and throw it far into the waters, it…