I once had a dial. Then buttons. I had my own booth that some would use to change from normal clothes into undergarments. Now, I just own everybody. What am I?

I was once a milky sap, collected from a tree. Heat changed me into something strong, that stretches willingly.

A mountain carved by chisel, yet a sphere shot by a thumb, I pave the floors of monarchs and I make the playground hum. I hide a colorful cat’s eye, or trim a kitchen door. And when a heavy hammer strikes, I shatter evermore. What am I?

I am a groove cut deep and low, I hold the string to bend the bow. A step in rank, a mark in wood, Without my shape, no arrow could.

I hang on the wall and never complain, I’m stuck in a frame, but I don’t feel pain. People stare at my colors and scenes every day What am I, that you paint, then display?