Paper War
On Saturday, I visited the city’s newest trendy shop with Mille—The Trend Factory, sometimes jokingly referred to as a knick-knack store. We spent some time browsing, examining the more curious items, and taking in the assortment of posters on display.
One in particular caught my attention: a photograph of four young women posed on an old sofa, dressed in minimal clothing and gazing directly into the camera. Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought any money with me at the time.
So, early Monday morning, I returned, paid €6.95, and brought the poster home. Anyone familiar with these kinds of prints knows how delicate they are—unpacking them without damage, unrolling them without creases, and mounting them cleanly can be surprisingly demanding.
My first attempt was less than ideal. The poster hung slightly crooked—neither parallel to the walls nor centered in the available space. Having already secured it firmly with multiple pins to prevent curling, I hesitated to adjust it further.
After some thought, I remembered an old wooden backing stored in the attic—the base of a large picture frame that had long since been broken. It seemed like a suitable solution. The question, however, was how to mount the poster onto it.
By coincidence, the poster had been packaged together with a larger one, and observing that, I concluded some sort of adhesive had been used. In the attic, I found a can labeled carpet and PVC glue—the only option available—and a spatula. Assuming it would suffice, I spread the glue across the wooden surface.
When I carefully placed the poster on top, it immediately resisted, lifting at both ends. In the process, parts of the image came into contact with the adhesive, while other sections warped as the unevenly applied glue failed to hold it flat. Attempts to correct the situation only made matters worse—the glue seeped out from underneath, and the paper began to deform.
Realizing the situation was beyond recovery, I removed the poster, which unfortunately tore in the process, leaving me with two unusable halves.
Resigned, I took another €6.95, returned to the shop, and purchased the same poster again—number 192, a detail I had by then committed to memory. The salesperson gave me a slightly puzzled look, but said nothing.
Back in my room, I unpacked the new poster, pinned it carefully to the wall, and stepped back to assess the result. It was still slightly crooked—not perfectly aligned or centered—but this time, I allowed myself a measure of satisfaction.