Jackie Wells-Fauth
I knew from the moment I picked up a paintbrush and color pad in kindergarten and watched those around me as they swirled and combined colors in beautiful ways…I knew right then. I knew I had no talent nor inclination for painting.
This has not changed over the years. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I have painted flowers and fruit, and I even went to one of those wine and paint parties—loved the wine, hated the painting. My initial feeling about my painting abilities was confirmed and examples of my art grace landfills everywhere.
That should have given me some hint that perhaps house painting wasn’t for me either. It didn’t help that I married the all-time greatest of house painters. His meticulous attention to detail has made him a wonderful accountant, and it means he puts meticulous attention into everything he does…including painting.
He took on the painting of the outside of the house a few years ago and I assured him that I could be a great help. The first day we were both out painting, I thought some pictures were appropriate, so I got the camera, came around the corner where he was painting and snapped a really cute photo.
He looked away from his work for a moment and said, “I thought you were supposed to be painting.”
I was chagrined, put away the camera and slopped on some paint. He came after a while to check on me and discovered that I had indeed gotten some paint on the house…and on the window…and on the flowers below…and a lot on myself. After observing the area, which did kind of resemble a paint war, he commented, “Perhaps it’s best if you just go back to taking pictures.”
He wasn’t wrong, but it was kind of offensive and it did make me want to prove myself with painting. So, while he was busy with work, for the next year or so, I proceeded to paint the inside of the house. I managed to cover the walls in every single room and, by making a rug constructed of newspaper, I was mostly able to keep it off the flooring. I had a real sense of accomplishment.
For the next several years, we lived in those rooms, and we pretended that when we looked at the ceiling, we did not see the streaks and missed spots. Of course, it was the worst in the bedroom. We carried on with our lives as if there weren’t three large yellow roller marks in the ceiling of the living room. We brushed our teeth and took our showers, without commenting on the green streaks down one side of the bathroom cupboards.
There is a strange dark spot on the ceiling in the guest bedroom where I didn’t quite cover the lavender paint I accidentally sprayed up there and there is just a hint of peach paint on the bedframe in our bedroom.
For as many years as he could stand it, Roy has overlooked these deficiencies, but this fall, he has decided that the time has come to take the painting in hand for himself. I was glad to leave that to him, and I really did try to help.
“Would you like me to tape along the woodwork, so the paint doesn’t get on that?” I asked.
“I think that it is already too late for that,” he said, inspecting all the old paint marks along the door frames. “Did you tape it the last time, or were you trying to paint the woodwork?”
“Well, I was kind of in a hurry to get it done,” I admitted.
“Obviously,” he replied, as he cut, chopped and strong-armed the electrical outlet covers off the wall. “You are supposed to wait until the paint dries to put these back on you know,” he said, as an entire strip of paint came off with a light switch cover that had been glued on to that paint for years. “And why can’t I get any of the ones off in the kitchen?”
“Because I left them on when I painted,” I replied defensively, “I was in a big hurry by then. I’d like to see you do so much better.”
So, of course, he did. He edges without any guide; he paints quickly and efficiently, and he can roll paint on the ceiling so that it looks like the whole ceiling has actually been painted. My kitchen, dining room and living room are looking great and so far, I can’t find any paint smears, drips or skipped spots. I can’t help feeling a little inadequate, but just as it was when I was in kindergarten and all those other kids were painting squares and circles and triangles, while I was getting paint on the floor and my fingers, I understand that everyone has their particular talents and the art of painting in any way is not one of mine. And if I’m a little patient, I can get the other rooms in my house painted by the guy who does have the talent.
dropsinthewell 