A few notes about my job working in an art gallery as a custom picture framer.

Now, once you get past the people who bring in their curtains so they can find some matching ‘art’... *shudders*

Anyhows, it has really been a blast these past twenty years. Stories like you would not believe, because for the most part, my job is to preserve memories for people; capturing moments of their lives as well as history.

The above was a favorite. A mother brought it in, belonged to her daughter, picked up on a trip to Egypt one time and then stored rolled up in a closet.

Along comes kitty and *munch, munch, munch*. Big holes throughout, papyrus is not that sturdy a material. However, with a lot of tweezer work, some gild paint and a couple hours with my own acrylic and paintbrush set, no one could find the damage. Felt pretty good about that.

Have seen a lot of things, had some wonderful laughs. Dealt with people, mind you, like the guy coming off the street with shit eatin' grin on his face because he is an ‘artist’.

“Look what I did in five minutes!”

(Yeah, no kidding, buddy. You can sort of tell it took that, uhm, long.)

"Sorry, we are not taking on any new artists just now. I recommend try to sell at some of the art and craft fairs going on."

"$400.00?"  "Well, we really leave pricing up to the artist. There are a lot of factors to consider. Materials, time, your...uhm, 'efforts'. Look around here, then go to some of the art weekend art festivals we mentioned. Get an idea of what others are selling their work for."

The lady who brought a fresh, still dripping bouquet of cut flowers and wanted them framed because she had just won an award with them at a country fair.

Me: “Uh, you realize they are not dried and are going to rot, right? Wilt? Fade?”

Nice, very proud lady: “Oh...”

Me: “Mm-hmm. How about we take a photo of them in their vase and frame that along with your ribbon?”

Nice, very proud lady: “Wonderful, thank you so much!” *Big smiles*

Christmas Eve Day, 2 in the afternoon (close at 3) and a phone call received (after several hard weeks of overtime crunching, during our Christmas party, booze flowing freely).

Customer on the phone: “Can you frame something for me for tomorrow?”

Me laughing my ass off, all but falling over.

Ursel, my boss grabbing the phone and shaking her head and frowning seriously, going: “Melissa, do not laugh at the customers.”

*Shrugs*

The butterfly from Brazil, a mummy in eight breath-fragile pieces which I Frankensteined with epoxy so it ‘flew’ suspended within a box an inch above a mirrored base; windows closed so nothing blew away during the operation.

The gallery where I work is located near Wesleyan University. Posh place, they are known for their art connections. Always holding auctions, and these hands of mine have touched pages from the Da Vinci Notebook, charcoals by Picasso, an original newspaper dealing with President Lincoln being shot at the theater and his struggle to hold onto life (a real one, not one of the later reprints).

I have held many faded letters penned by the founding fathers of this country, Hancock, Ben Franklin and others. Missives writ during the Revolution and Civil war, as well as military orders. Purple Hearts and Police badges; Fire fighter's honors.

I have helped framed antique family Bibles, setting them into veloured, glass topped boxes after surviving fires which have destroyed homes; old weapons used in wars to kill other human beings; Olympic medals; wedding announcements, more.

And then there are the other memories you touch, the ones which touch you back, like the small, slow walking woman who comes up to the counter with a simple shoe box in her hands, placed before you.

“These were my son’s sneakers. His photo. He was five years old and hit by a car. The funeral is tomorrow. We can not have an open coffin. Please, can you do something for us?”

“This was my daughter’s last drawing. She was just starting to stay within the lines of her coloring book. Could you please...”

“This was my mother.”

“My father.”

“My grandfather painted this and he just passed away; I was so lucky to inherit this. Please, can you...?”

“My brother’s...”

“My sister just...”

“The only photo we have of our baby and her footprints. She lived a day and a half...”

“My son was going to graduate next week. There was a car accident. Could you...?”

“This was...”

“They were only...”

“He was my...”

“She was...”

“Please?”

“Please?”

End of message.

Melissa