It's Good For You

Although I have now been employed by both a university museum and a reputable private gallery, have framed more pieces of art than I can remember and hung a fair number of exhibitions, I never find myself growing tired of art. For years now, I've made my living framing and preserving other people's visual treasures. I have taken pieces apart for re-framing to see that the previous framer jerry-rigged the inside in a manner that is slowly destroying the artwork. I have also found myself faced with questions of a difficult moral sort with regards to solving problems on the job. I know that art is not always handled with respect, and so I do my best to keep in mind when I'm working that although whatever I'm framing is just another job for me, it's a one and only to someone else. I am very careful.

Not long ago, Brian and I had some downtime at Chicago's Midway airport, and we found ourselves killing time in front of an unusual display: a gigantic, dangling bird made up of tiny plastic airplanes on bits of transparent wire. Brian and I had a brief discussion about the wonders of scaffolding, and then we moved on. This is not the only piece of art I've noticed in an improbable place, and I always assume when something large is suspended like that, the people who hung it had access to superior methods of attaining high places than I've ever encountered.


Today, however, I realized I'm probably wrong about this. At one point this morning, Nick popped into the back room with an innocent, "Hey Robin, will you give me a hand?" I followed him to the main hallway, where he pointed at an absolutely enormous painting and then up to two nails so high up on the wall I could barely see them. "Do you want to stand at the bottom and hold, or climb up the ladder and hang?"

I am not a confident creature once placed on a ladder, so I opted to remain on the floor. The next several minutes included a lot of Nick scampering up and down the metal steps while I stood, nearly on my tiptoes, bracing the painting against the ceiling and occasionally enacting a pathetic shuffle in one direction or another when Nick said things like, "A little to the left." In the midst of this, I recalled all the other times I've been at the bottom of a ladder helping to hang large or ungainly art. I also reflected on the degree of pain one can withstand when one must, wondered how badly a fall from that height would hurt Nick, and imagined the type of sound the painting would make if it hit the floor.

When my ab muscles were burning and my forearms were beginning to shudder spasmodically, Nick, from far above, looked down and said, "You okay down there?" It took me a moment to gather the strength with which to answer, "I'm fine." Then he laughed, scampered down the ladder and said, "It's good for you." Then, "Okay. Let go and see what happens."

The painting stayed put. And although any number of our art-loving clientèle will probably notice and compliment the large, striking painting high up on the wall, I doubt any of them will wonder how it got up there. In a week or so, when my hands have regained the ability to open and close without discomfort, I'll probably enjoy looking at it too.