It’s a classic for a reason.
I often find myself admiring well-staged photos of tastefully arranged and resolutely simple living spaces; intellectually, I understand the appeal of several harmonious shades of beige. But my ideal scenario is much, much different: pure aesthetic chaos.
Over and over again, I’m drawn resolutely toward dizzying maximalism. Outdoors, I prefer a cottage garden to almost anything; inside, I like innumerable layers of colors and textures. Bold rugs with rich, dense patterns; gingham linens; kooky-shaped velvet sofas; centuries-old British farmhouses with wooden rafters so low they graze your head; tartan wool blankets; aggressive wallpaper patterns; pressed-tin ceilings; weird lamps and funny little items sourced from thrift stores. Picture a 17th-century painting full of paintings, or perhaps Sir John Soane’s house.
In reality, in such a space, I would find myself overstimulated to the point of vibrating clear out of my skin. The question is how to tap that feeling of abundance, without letting it take over. Enter the gallery wall, which presents an opportunity to play with the chaos that I enjoy—but firmly within guardrails.
Unfortunately, I always collapse a bit in the face of the steps involved. First you have to pick the wall, then you have to choose (or worse, acquire) the art, then you have to frame the art, then you have to figure out how to arrange all that art, then—God help me—you have to get out a hammer and a level. It’s not that I’m incapable of tackling a complex project with a lot of stages, it’s just that such things have to be crammed in around the complex project with a lot of stages that I’ve already committed myself to for 18 years, i.e., parenting.
And yet, I always find myself back on Pinterest, pinning photo after photo of cheerfully crowded walls, the opposite of my blank, boring walls (or worse, the half-assed ones). Clearly, it’s time.
Part of the problem is that I need a greater variety of stuff to put on the wall, but my time and budget are both limited. I’d like to solve this problem with some of the ephemera I’ve collected over the years. Recently, for instance, a piece of paper fluttered out of a secondhand cookbook—an orange piece of Doubleday stationery with the relevant publication details. I have so many similar things tucked into drawers: postcards, vintage prints, bookmarks from every bookstore I’ve ever visited, covers from old Harlequin paperbacks, family photos from back when we still developed film. All of it could be tucked into frames. (Though I’ll always regret the ephemera I didn’t snag while I could—why didn’t I think to grab a placemat from Astoria’s Neptune Diner while it was still in business?)
If I were to frame it all professionally, it would cost a small fortune. But I don’t have to. A close friend DIYed her own gallery wall by simply buying up every nice-looking frame containing hideous art she spotted at thrift stores and replacing the picture, then taping up the back, which nobody sees. Custom mats are widely available on Etsy for a nice polished look, too. I have all the pieces at hand—I just need to do it. And this year I will. What else are long January weekends for?
Related Reading:
If Your Walls Feel Too Boring, Don’t Just Repaint—Add Some Texture
