Stretched AND Framed

Brian spent a month in Morocco where he drove around in the sand, did not shower for three weeks, and returned gifting me a seashell and a beautiful painting on canvas. The painting wasn’t framed and I kept telling myself I would get to it but was continually putting it off in dread of the very idea of entering a craft framing store. Seven months later the Christmas festive atmosphere and the bare walls of our new condo instilled in me the courage to face the daunting world of a Roberts’ craft store.

I have always been unwilling to enter craft stores. Aside from slightly traumatizing memories of being fawned over, cooed at, and showered with stickers bearing images of barbies, flowers, and kittens in bows, I dislike craft stores on the whole for the overwhelming amount of seemingly useless materials that fill every reachable and unreachable corner of the shop and for the chattering, sweet attendants who always seemed to flit around in them. As I grew older, and thankfully grew out of the age where shop attendants felt it appropriate to give me stickers in hopes that I would smile, I grew ever more wary of crafts in general and craft stores in particular. However, having been unable to think of any other way to get the painting framed, I conceded at last to a friend’s suggestion to take it to a craft store where, she assured me, they would easily be able to take care of anything I needed.

With my rolled up canvas tucked securely under my arm I marched into the craft store at a firm brisk pace and brushed off one, two, yea even three sickeningly sweet shop attendants who swarmed to assist me with any holiday needs I may or may not have had. Relieved at having safely arrived at the framing desk at the back of the store I began feeling even more confident at the sight of men dressed in jeans and dirty t-shirts and untidy half pieces of various art frames scattered behind the desk. I approached the counter where I was delighted to be greeted with a short, simple, understandable “What do you need today?”

I rolled out my precious bit of canvas and explained that I wanted it made display-ready. The canvas needed to be affixed in some manner to a frame and covered with glass within a nice frame, preferably one of a dark brownish hue which I believed would accent the background blue nicely. The man stared at my canvas and said nothing. This, I thought, is a vast improvement over chattering with some loquacious but excessively nice person who will use seven hundred fifty words to tell me that nothing can be done. I waited patiently for a minute while I believed the man was giving my project some professional musings. Sometimes my trust is entirely too easily earned.

The man finally opened his mouth and said, “So, you want this stretched?”

“Yes.”

“Like one of these?” He pointed to one of the popular bits of canvas that are wrapped around a wooden frame so that the art bends around the frame itself but has no covering or exterior 
frame. 

“No.” I explained again that I just wanted the art framed but that part of the process would include attaching some sort of support to the canvas to keep it taut.

“So, wait. You want it framed?”

“Yes.”

“Not stretched?”

“Well it needs to be both.” My faith in this deceptively direct request was wavering.

“Both?” 

“Yes.”

He stood up straight and quickly launched into an explanation of the stretching process, how it was very popular to have a piece of canvas, like mine, wrapped around a wooden frame so that the piece of art was either centered or wrapped around the edges. He showed me how there was enough canvas available that I could easily fit it to wooden frame like the one he magicked out from under the counter.

I thought, hey! He’s kinda getting the idea. Now stick what you’ve just described to me behind a piece of glass and inside a nice dark frame and tell me how much to pay! 

“So is that what you want? You want it stretched?”

“I need it framed.”

“Framed.”

“And stretched.”

“So, stretched?”

“And framed.”

“Just framed?”

“And stretched.”

“Not framed? Just stretched?”

Both. Both. For the love of all humanity BOTH! 

We stood on either side of the counter staring at this impossible and destined-to-be-unstretched-and-unframed view of a camel in a Moroccan scene. I wished I was with the camel. I scooped up my canvas and left the store without another word. As I drove down the street on my way back to my bare-walled condo I saw a sign. Aspen Art and Frame. I braked so hard and turned so fast I left skid marks in the road. I marched into the tiny shop and without greeting laid down my bit of canvas and said, “Can you frame this?”

“Yes. We’ll need to stretch and frame it, though, to keep it nice. Ok?” I could have kissed the dear girl. “Would you like to pick out a frame? Maybe something dark to accent the color . . .”

Two weeks later I stood in my dining room admiring the beautiful painting. The simple dark brown frame makes the skyline a deep, rich, glorious blue, and the camel stands contently musing the idea of walking into my kitchen. The framing store even gave me a free hook with which to hang the completed masterpiece.

I have never since stepped foot in one of those craft stores with a framing department.