Thursday, June 18, 2009


When our family moved into the first house my parents owned I helped them strip the wallpaper off the walls. A wallpaper shredder was purchased and we wheeled its circular saw over the walls. The wallpaper curled and fettered off in long skinny strips. My parents were pleased with themselves to find the signature of the architect on the drywall underneath.

When we moved into our next house we left the wallpaper there. And the small chalkboard in the kitchen and the ring holder over the sink and the absurdly small spice rack next to the window, too. At first it seemed like we were living in someone elses house until gradually all of those foreign things turned into part of what makes our family home, home.

Wallpaper is hot on the contemporary art scene and it's no wonder why. Wallpaper reveals and conceals all sorts of stories. I've been thinking a lot about my own fascination with wallpaper, specifically in thinking about the personal and historical constructs of my grandmother in their Indianapolis home.

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