It's funny how you can find art in unexpected places. My husband and I grew up in old houses with magical, mysterious, slightly creepy basements (AKA cellars.) Each one was made up of several rooms, each with names related to their contents.
His had a coal room and a furnace room. Ours had a furnace room with shelves for out of season storage, and -- at least temporarily over one Christmas -- Dad's white mice from the lab. A freezer room - so dubbed when the "junior" freezer roughly the size of a small coffin - was delivered and installed. This was a tiny, narrow space only slightly larger than the freezer so you had to sidle in to open it...not for the claustrophobic. A third room held home-canned goods, Dad's homemade wine, some tools and a huge crock that might have held overflow rainwater from the outdoor cistern.
These were not the type of basements one would waste any money converting into livable space. Both sets of parents instead chose to renovate the main floor -- mine adding a study, bathroom, and extending the kitchen. The basements remained the same for the 30+ years both parents lived in their houses.
But here's where the two basements differed: the stairways. Ours was pretty ho hum, with the exception of a handy little ledge along the wall where you could stash just about any small item.
Their stairway was a place of art, becoming a visual family scrapbook. Visitors to the home were invited to sign the stairway walls. Every time a grandchild visited, he or she added a quote or signature or other artwork. This home gallery originated June 25, 1961, when my father-in-law made the first entry, "Fire in the furnace." I think this meant he started the furnace because of unusually cold temperatures. Eventually, the kids and friends added comments and signatures - a practice that was adopted by the grandchildren and other visitors. When the house was sold, the new owners told us that while they did considerable renovating, they planned to leave the wall intact.
When we moved into our current house, our oldest daughter picked up the tradition by signing her closet. Friends and family added their own comments and signatures. After she left home, I converted her bedroom into my sewing room/office. Hearing that I'd painted the room, she asked in a slightly panicked phone call: Did you paint the closet??? I assured her that as long as we live here, the closet will remain as she left it. Periodically, I add things to it. I wonder if she'll find those comments.
In the end, these old basements and the stories we treasure keep us all connected to our childhood homes, becoming a family history.