Picture in a Frame

When my dad disappeared like a genie during a stroll, it was odd, a bit scary. Was it a seizure? Sudden Alzheimer’s onset? I fault doggie Schmutz for my own occasional erratic strolling habits, but this was different.

Dad’s uncommon behavior persisted. He appeared berserk, off the rails. Over time, I got used to Dad’s unprovoked rabbit trails, unanticipated pirouettes and time-out breaks. But it was still freaky.

During these impulses, Dad, a true artist, would place his hands directly in front of his face, then, with index fingers and thumbs extended and touching, he positioned them to create a little ad hoc “finger frame.” Eyes squinted and head cocked, the squared-off space between his fingers became his imaginary canvas. All distractions outside the frame simply fell away. Dad was framing beauty, creating his private miniature masterpiece.

Mona Lisa has displayed her inscrutable smile since 1503. We all admire Leonardo da Vinci’s extraordinary portrait. But no one mentions her frame, which has been replaced many times. One recent frame was discarded after insects were found living in it. Imagine vermin devouring Mona Lisa’s frame, her winsome smile transformed into a grimace.

Frames are often humble creations. They point toward something greater—the image itself. As they guide our attention toward the thing of value, frames seem to disappear.

We refer to the authors of the Declaration of Independence as its “framers.” They point to the “self-evident truths,” realities that preexisted the authors and endured beyond them. The authors were not the creators of the truths; they simply framed and enshrined them.

Editors work hard to frame an author’s work. They iron the text’s wrinkles and erase distracting rabbit trails. They tug at words and paragraphs until the work speaks, straight and clear.

In most homes, frames showcase pictures of beloved family and friends. Here, a cherished parent or grandparent. There, framed portraits of children and a dear companion. Faced with disaster, we would likely first grab these priceless mementoes.

Music also frames. It sails freely through time and dimensions. Music celebrates loved ones and consequential events. Like our lives, music has a beginning, a middle and an end, helping to frame significant episodes or emotions. One example is Rod Stewart’s rendition of “Picture in a Frame” (written by Kathleen Brennan and Tom Waits):

The sun come up, it was blue and gold
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

Now I come calling in my Sunday best
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

I’m gonna love you till the wheels come off
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

I love you, baby, and I always will
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

Like a picture and a frame, melody and lyrics reach deeply into our hearts.

A frame honors what we cherish.

It might be a refreshed appreciation of nature or a rare composition within the bead of an artist’s eye. What we frame might be an eternal truth, a story worth telling, or a rare and cherished love.

Imagine our lives as a series of pictures, still life tableaus of the people and events that have molded us into who we are becoming. One beside the other, they depict our life story, the joys, challenges, loves, and disappointments, scenes on display.

There, that portrait of our beloved companion—it needs a wide, generous frame.

Next—ah, that disappointment that we felt so deeply, and what we learned from it! For that, an elegant, but simple frame will do.

For the deep grooves left us by the loved ones gone astray, and the joy upon their return—give that frame deeply engraved contours, like the ones etched into our heart.

With the proper framing of a canvas, all else falls away.

The content of those tableaus does not always fall within our choosing. Still, we own the framing rights to them. What shall we choose?

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