About nine years ago (although he claims at least fifteen), my husband began learning and reading about the Lubavitcher Rebbe. By this I mean, he only read about the Lubavitcher Rebbe. I fondly joked about his single-minded interest and allowed the stories to inspire me through osmosis.
It’s been years of gifting, and I’d like to redact my previous description: my husband is the easiest person to buy gifts for. I’ve found old photos of the Rebbe, had them restored, aged again, restored, framed, gifted, and hung. For one particular milestone gift, I had a local artist paint his favorite photo of the Rebbe. I keep finding different art pieces that mean something to him. It’s possible I’m a one-trick pony, but to me it feels like I’ve found a win.
I see art as little oases of personality. Whimsical, meaningful, ironic, nostalgic; an heirloom piece or a fantastical piece, a luxury item or framed arts-and-crafts — art can be anything, and I think part of why it speaks to me is its inability to follow rules. Art feels like little snapshots of life; of a homeowner’s interests and personal style on a wall, family photos intermingled with crayon art: just how I like it.
Don’t tell my husband he’s getting pieces of art that pay homage to the Rebbe forevermore. Let’s let him find out himself… in a decade or two.
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