I Love the Smell of Paint Fumes in the Morning

I come from a long line of women painters, house painters, that is. My Grandma Betty could wield a brush like no other. She assumed it was her job to coat any and everything. My MawMaw Rose could tear out a wall, put it back, slap sheetrock mud up and then paint it. As generational things go, most of us inherit these kinds of paradigms. My Mama was always the one to pull out the paint cans and wallpaper, not my Daddy. He plowed up the garden, kept the yards, repaired everything...but the women in my life were the keepers of the paint.

I used to beg my Mama to let me help her. She wasn't having any of that, but I was watching. When Ken and I married, I itched for the chance to doll up my own place. One of our early rentals was my first. I pled the landlord to let me paint it. She bought the supplies and I went to work, transforming most of the woodwork and walls in that little domicile. I was hooked. Soon after, we bought our first house and I thought I'd died and gone to glory. Through the years, as we fixed up and sold homes, my first order of business was the Sherwin Williams store. Swatches, samples, paint supplies. Heaven on a stick. I love the smell of it, the way it soothes old, tired walls, how it gives a house new life. In my job as a Realtor, I now beseech my sellers to try the magic potion that works every time. If you paint it, they will come.

At my core, I am an artist. Paint is the elixir that expresses the universe. What is it that compels the artist to try to explain to the world what swirls inside their complex brains? It's often and usually done with some sort of paint. We can't help it. It just oozes right on out. Even when my life is overwrought with obligations, somehow I find a way to the counter at Benjamin Moore or the Dick Blick website. Michael's calls me when I see those multi-packs of canvases on the sidewalk. I keep amassing those things, in anticipation of a chunk of time and inspiration. Meanwhile, I'll just go ahead and repaint my kitchen. 

I've run into lots of people who looked at my Victorian home, back when it was for sale a few years ago. Many of them tell me they didn't buy it because they didn't know what to do with all the 80s colors splashed on the walls, each room its own dark, scary entity. That was the least of my worries, and my daughter and I proceeded to patch, caulk and paint before we got unpacked good. A rolling stone gathers no moss, and my walls gather no dust because I'm painting them over and over again. I'm ashamed to admit that there are several rooms that already have their second and third suits of colors, in less than six years. I guess when the smell wears off I have to start over. Call me crazy, but it might be therapy for me. So if you want to pull up a chair, I'd love to chat while I'm trimming out the ceiling. I won't let you have a brush but we'll have a good time anyway.