Yesterday I brought a roll of posters to my office at Framingham State: posters I hadn’t seen since I took them down from the walls of my old office at Keene State some three years ago. Some of these posters I’ve had for decades, like a series of Korean watercolor prints depicting the four seasons my ex-husband bought when we lived in Toledo more than 20 years ago. I also found (and promptly taped to my wall) a promotion poster for a stage adaptation of Willa Cather’s O Pioneers! I saw at Saint Anselm College when I taught there in the early 2000s, something that feels like a lifetime ago.
Unrolling these posters felt like opening a time capsule containing my own personal history. All of these items are things I chose to put on my office walls over the years, so they all have some sort of connection with my life history. Ironically, though, I didn’t remember many of them until I removed them from the cardboard shipping tube I’d stored them in, memories spilling out as I unrolled each one.
There is, for example, a print of Van Gogh’s sunflowers that I bought when I was a grad student at Boston College. It hung in my office in Carney Hall when I first started teaching, and I chose it largely because its earth tones complemented the dated ’70s decor of that office, which featured harvest-gold walls and an avocado-green desk and chair. I somehow managed to keep and carry this poster from one office to another, but I have no idea what became of the print of The Painter’s Honeymoon I used to take down from my office wall to tape to the blackboard in my classroom and ask students to write about. That lushly romantic image also complemented the gold and green decor of my first office, but I either jettisoned or lost it over the years.
Also on my wall is a double-fold magazine ad featuring a doleful-eyed dog in the process of eating someone’s homework. This artifact dates from roughly the same time as the Van Gogh print: I think I first displayed it in my grad-student office at Northeastern when I started my doctoral studies there. It’s a poster I’ve taped up and taken down countless times in my 20-year career as an oft-itinerant adjunct instructor, and it strikes me as remarkable that a simple magazine ad could have such staying power.
Among the posters I’d forgotten and then found was an enormous movie poster for A River Runs Through It, which I’d bought and hung on my office wall when I was a PhD student, one of my dissertation chapters focusing on Norman Maclean’s novella of the same name. The poster shows Paul Maclean–played to mischievous perfection by a young Brad Pitt–casting an impossibly long fly-line, its trajectory sun-lit and frozen in time. “Nothing perfect lasts forever except in our memories,” the tagline wistfully observes, and this remark would have served as an apt epigram for that dissertation chapter, which compared Maclean’s novella with Henry David Thoreau’s A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers: two books about rivers that commemorate dead brothers.
It’s been more than 10 years–more than a decade!–since I finished that dissertation, and I’ve forgotten much of what it was about, the work I do as a teacher of writing having little to do with my academic training as a literary scholar. It doesn’t really matter, though. The river of time rolls on whether you’re ready or not, with some things getting lost or jettisoned and others being preserved. Like that movie poster likes to remind me, nothing perfect lasts forever except in our memories, and our most precious memories don’t mind being tightly rolled and stored away.