During the winter I start painting rooms in my house. Every year, at least one room gets the treatment. This year it was the entrance breezeway and the adjoining den, where I have my desk.
I just finished and I’m still not sure what color I painted. Two colors, actually: one called Greyhound (breezeway) and one called Iced Marble (den), plus a trim color, called Snowbound.
The wall colors are supposed to be variations on gray, but you could convince me that they are green, or blue, or gray-blue, or green-gray. A lot depends on the light, which is constantly changing, and my mood, which also varies.
One thing, though, I paint with colorful abandon. I live in a three-bedroom, two-bath house and I count thirteen different wall colors, plus four more in the finished part of the basement. Some rooms are two colors. Hallways get their own colors. Somehow it all works, or most of it.
Part of the success may have to do with my painting skills. I do the necessary prep work: filling holes, caulking cracks, sanding and priming as needed. I use good brushes and quality paint. I know how to set up and execute the job. I have a steady hand for cutting in, trim work, and windows. A deft touch with the roller. I don’t spill much paint.
Most of all, I enjoy the job, even the ones that seem overwhelming at first. Painting is repetitive with some variation, requiring just enough skill and artistry, and the results are immediate. There are no loud machines or tools running. I can listen to music or my own thoughts.
I’m not done yet. There are a hallway and doors next, then I might go after the living room and kitchen again. Those rooms still look good, but the color was never perfect. Who can tell from a little paint chip, or even a sample on your wall? You never know what the finished product will look like, but I’m usually willing to accept it for a while. I can always repaint, and most likely will.
