Once upon a time I had a narrow strip of bare wall in the bedroom, an old calendar with twelve pictures of big wild cats on it (six of which were more beautiful than the other six), some cheap 4×6 picture frames and a boring afternoon ahead of me. This is like cut and paste for adults, but without the paste. The hardest part was hanging the damned things straight when I was finished because I always think measuring is for wimps and I like to eyeball things instead. And hammer about a dozen more holes in the wall than are actually necessary to complete the job.
I’m not sure why an empty wall makes me crazy, but I always feel better when I get things hung up on it. Normal people would hang up pictures of their family members I suppose. Or their own wildlife photographs. But I have a sort of calendar obsession; I buy them because I really really like the pictures, and then when the year is over I don’t want to throw them away. So often I save them just in case I might think of something this brilliant to do with them. Even MORE often, they finally end up in the recycle bag because such brilliance eludes me.