Twenty one years
ago, Mark and I bought our house, moved in, and then he flew back to Denmark to
finish a contract, leaving me alone, at first, and then with my friend Anne, an
artist, and a house that was, literally, blank white walls. It did not hurt
that it was the rainiest late fall I have ever known. We were trapped inside
and liked working together. We started
simply and painted the extra bed room orange with deep purple trim and a white
wash, as I had already painted my bedroom the color of daffodils in spring. Nice,
we thought, let’s keep painting!
We
moved onto the theory of the bathroom fairly quickly. We wanted it to look like
water. We chose the paints—teal and blue, with the extra green from the bedroom
and white we found downstairs, left by the previous owners. We primed a flat large board and began the
experiments—four variations of swirling colors. Anne painted; I washed brushes.
When we were satisfied, we went up for dinner and then checked the results one
more time. Yes. Teal base. White lines.
Blue and green dashes to follow, chasing the white around the room. On Friday
night, we began painting. The blue went on with a tricky little roller for
cutting in, so a bit of white still showed through. When that dried then next
night, Anne drew the lines and I followed with the light blue and then the
green. We climbed up and down the ladder, bumped into each other, called back
and forth about colors and the results. Before we fell into bed, the room was
done.
The
next week, during the biggest rainstorm, we painted the kitchen. The colors are
based on my favorite huge yellow sweater and my red plates, woven together. We
pulled red threads from the weave of the sweater, holding them up to paint
chips until we matched it perfectly. Then we went, once again, to the paint store,
where the clerks recognized us. On Friday night, we peeled off the contact
paper that had covered the higher parts of the walls, took the cabinet doors of
and brought them downstairs to where the picnic benches waited for them, and
roughly sanded the walls. We were ready.
On Saturday, we laid down the deep yellow together. Then, while I went to the
basement to paint the doors red, Anne took a sponge and wiped red over the
yellow, tempering the glow. We also stripped the layers of paint off of the
door hinges, revealing a beautiful Art Deco design. The hinges, like so much of
the house, were original. She painted
the door red and yellow with her steady hands. When we were done, we went out
for dinner.
We finished our work in late November. Anne
moved onto other friends who needed help, but she left behind so much beauty
that we live with every day. And today,
when I repainted the bathroom, I followed the same procedure, remembering those rainy nights of work and friendship. It’s not exactly
the same—my hand will never be hers—but it’s close.
