Hanging pictures & prints? I HATE putting a nail into walls. It’s an outrage… a sacrilege… a crime. Please, don’t make me do it. You did. He eyed and I banged. I have a black & blue left thumb to prove it. Three solid days of pain. Oh, not the thumb. It was the violence done to the new stucco & paint of the walls in La Casa Grande & Apartment Azzurro. A double dose.
The two demons of My Anguish were drilling and round-headed nails. They both drove me to speak French, as in… God-damn mother-fucking son-of-a-bitch damn-it all to Hell!!! Strong language I rarely use. Yet, it was hard to control a whirling drill without resorting to it. Move the bit even a tiny 1/100,000,000th of millimeter and what happens? Chipped, flaked & gouged painted plaster. Horrible. I did not pay umpteen thousands of over-priced Euros to see these barbarisms committed. Ditto for the other bane of My Three-day Trauma, round-headed nails. If you do not plant a determined & well-aimed blow to drive the metal menace solidly into four month old plaster and the hammer slips instead, the result is worse than with the Black & Decker. Pot holes in Our Blue-blue-blue walls. Both have been given A Permanent Ban. I am & will be ever vigilant on this. And, from now on, anything, whether picture or print, which cannot be hung with a simple, light, iron flat-head nail gets propped up against the desired wall to gather dust as it might. Or, it will be summarily transported back to You’s Storage Locker in Genoa to rot in a silent, airless darkness. Yes, I can be cruel when disciplined.
Ahhh, but there are The Mighty Lessons to be Learned. I now know EXACTLY why few folk paint walls in strong, vibrant, earth-shatteringly bold colors. The slightest nick shows. And, not just a little but, a lot.
And then, we had acrobatics too. To plant this mounted Azerbaijani rug of My Maternal Grandfather’s… The General’s saddle blanket… above the Entrance Door to il Salotto of La Casa Grande, You had to climb 30 feet up one of those contortionist-like ladders. He had won the toss. I had graciously offered to do the circus act. My Opinion was, if someone had to fall, I’d rather it be me than him. Tut-tut said You as he scaled the heights to plant not one, but two nails… massive 3 + 1/2 inch iron anchors. Their design is akin to those used by mountain climbers on Mt. Everest.
Other acrobatics feats were the hanging of Our Horns. Fast & Furious, it was… I climbed up that ladder… placed the horn into an acceptable position… asked You what he thought until I got a Si!… made a pencil mark… ripped a hooked-nail & hammer out of my jean’s back-pocket… banged in a nail at the mark… hung the horn. Repeated 18 times.
So, we are hung now. I am an even Bigger Fan of Statuary. No muss, no fuss. No nails, unless you cannot resist hanging a flying putti over a mantel. No hammers to slip or crush your thumb. No drills to whine & whirl. No ruined walls, for cryin’ out loud!!! Put the darn thing in its window niche or on the floor, out of the way. And, call it A Done Deal. Gads.