Repainting

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.