An apology letter to my unhung artwork

To my unhung artwork, 

I know you’re feeling deeply insecure. It’s only natural and I would too if I were you. But I am here to right a wrong. 

Sorry. 

Apparently it’s one of the hardest words to speak. In my experience though, it’s pretty easy to say. What comes next – the promise of rising to action – now, that’s the hard part. I don’t mean to sound like a Baci-confectionery wrapper but actions really do speak louder than words. Sadly, this is where I’ve failed you. 

I know this is not the time to plead for forgiveness. I’ve been really neglectful. I don’t even look you in the eye when we speak. Which, to be fair, isn’t intentional. It’s kind of hard to look at something when I’m standing upright and you’re wrapped in bubble wrap leaning against the wall on the floor. 

On the occasion when I have hunched over to ensure specks of dust haven’t corroded your surface, you should know I felt pretty terrible. I mean, the next day I even panic-bought some 3M hooks.

Unfortunately I bought the wrong ones, they were too lightweight for your Tasmanian oak frame. And so you sat idle on the floor a little longer, until a new companion joined you: this time a small vintage poster we bought at a flea market in Bologna. 

It was a shock to me too that I got this piece framed so quickly. Maybe I am changing? (Even if it is at an incremental pace.) Though don’t you agree, good things come to those who wait? Or in your instance: good blank walls come to unhung artworks with unlimited patience. 

Unfortunately, this brings me to my next problem. 

Why did I bring you home then? 

Well, you’re very good looking. But you already know that. And you were purchased for a milestone birthday with collective cash from my family and a top-up from myself.

Looking at you brought me instant joy, which is kind of a big deal in this post-modern world where distractions float in front of us every millisecond of everyday. 

To be blunt: I couldn’t live without you. Knowing someone else could have purchased you sends me into a spin. This sounds very possessive although you are a possession, and that’s not even me speaking, that’s a line item printed on my contents insurance policy. 

Love trumps all and I’m hoping by this stage of this letter you believe this too. Even if you haven’t risen to a lifetime in the spotlight on a wall, know I’m working on it.

And in the meantime, I hope you feel validated by the aquamarine microfibre cloth I strictly use to wipe your glass under the bubble wrap. My boyfriend tried to use it to wipe the hotplates the other day and I snatched it out of his hands in your defence. 

Just think about how many other artworks in the world have their own microfibre cloth? OK, well please don’t think of ones in internationally renowned art galleries because you’ll be bitterly disappointed. Think of the domestic artwork.  

Maybe this is all a pile of excuses and maybe the time taken to write this letter could have been spent hanging you on a wall. Point noted. But letters are rather sentimental, just like paintings you buy that end up leaning against your wall for six months or more. 

Yours sincerely, 

Lisa Marie Corso