The concept of “Habitus” within the scope of sociology had previously eluded me as an ambiguous sidebar, but Daniel Miller offers distinct insight on a psychological level and as societal mechanism worth mentioning. Small or large, homes can offer us great or little detail about the person and their background, but with a different scope, how they adapt and manipulate the environment, or conversely, how the environment changes them physically and emotionally.

As a child, I most admired my great grandmother. She lived in a tiny one bedroom apartment and was the only person I knew who kept art on her walls. Admittedly it was dated 40’s-70’s deco art (I mean this in the most affectionate sense possible), some curtains that undoubtedly matched her shirts, indicating she’d made them herself, and some hand drawn portraits of Jesus, John F. Kennedy, and Millard Fillmore. I understood the Fillmore, as he is a not so distant relative, and later the JFK (a Catholic staple in any Irish home) but the rest seemed puzzling, but enjoyable. I was determined to have her hang my precious works of art, which of course she did. Daniel Miller recognizes the differences in homes and the value of personalization, much like I had as a child. My stepmother’s ability to hang the most delicate porcelain masks, my mother’s metal butterflies and wooden spoons, and my grandmother’s bric a brac seemed so impersonal compared to my matriarch, Eleanor.
I am an art pusher, mainly because I can, let us call it a humanitarian effort. The idea of a bare wall translates to me as a vacant person, I’m rescuing visitors, if not the people themselves from boredom. My grandmother, Cheryl bought a painting from an unnamed angsty twelve year old and hung it at the top of her stairs for ten years. Just long enough for my embarrassment to become sentimental and spark some larger ambitions. She and I created together and found we had quite a bit in common. It changed the nature of our relationship. My mother, claiming her tiny brick wall would be sufficient decoration recently, received a 3′ x 4′ painting for her home warming from an anonymous source in the mail. Again, how could one throw away these precious gifts? Since, she’s invested in some “modern art” she found at a garage sale for her front room. This is not because I’m an artist and she feels that there’s a segway in the former hotel-esque art, or because either of us have great taste. “The room felt so cold and impersonal, and it matches the stucco outside, for flow…” says the former brick enthusiast. It gives the occasional visitor something to look at, another story to tell, a judgement to make about pleasures and interests, or as a color transition. As a story, perhaps about the person who inhabits a home, or a narrative of the home itself.
My walls will tell you loads of stories about how tasteless art can be, but it also reveals how daily habits and interests are integral for my well-being, and even remind me to be more conventional.
As an example, here’s a tiny (5″ square) shameless story from my bathroom about how I came to meet my current dentist and found I needed 1, 2, 3, wisdom teeth removed, which might as well serve someone else as a reminder to brush their teeth, or not use their mouths to open sealed pistachios:

Through this journey, I’ve mostly bound myself to learning the fine art of repainting and mastering the skill of spackling, with promises and deliveries for landlords so as to not lose my deposits (i.e. ask me about NY State rental laws). Fortunately, I’ve never lost a deposit or had a landlord who fixed anything him/herself. In homes without anything on the walls, I find myself disturbed, without distraction, and a detraction from my initial “belonging,” or welcome within the space. I have since forced several minimalists in my life to accept art as gifts from their favorite artist(s), knowing they would feel obligated to display it. Having been given a speculative gift in the arts, I have maintained this empowered tradition of hanging things on the wall. From Sid Vicious posters to show flyers, friend’s drawings, gifts of paintings, to what I now believe is my own private gallery of mostly my own unsold works, some paintings from very talented people that I’ve bought over the years, and Dalí reproductions. The nooks and spaces within my apartment of so constrained in comparison to other places I’ve lived that I find myself painting smaller pieces, more to the needs of certain spaces in case a commission falls through, or I find something small and affordable to put into a particular space. In this way I accommodate the peculiarity of the walls built around posts and the lack of forethought of the builder. Much like the space drives me to endeavors and work smaller than I used to, I enjoy the tasks as a challenge.

As Miller dances around the definitions of accommodations, I would agree that it is a compromise between resident and residence, that we place our Stuff. I would like to add another definition by Merriam-Webster (a much less wordy definition than my perception textbook), ” the automatic adjustment of the eye for seeing at different distances effected chiefly by changes in the convexity of the crystalline lens,” which I think frames any encounter with art quite nicely. To see the whole of a painting is to see the entire home, but if you stand close enough you can see the complexity of the color, stroke, and ultimately the artist, much like an object tells about an inhabitant.