I was so blessed to see those beautiful, cute ,little Robin’s Eggs right in my flower basket. Note: The Times Union is not responsible for posts and comments written by non-staff members.
My husband and I awoke one morning to declare that we had grown sick and tired of every wall surface in the entire house.
I held off for weeks buying paint for my office, dreading the thought of repeating a color from the past, but nothing else was cutting it.
Coincidentally, Sherwin-Williams announced a quartet of color palettes as their forecast for 2013 and one of them, Vintage Moxie, includes a Bathe Blue that is pretty darn close to my blue. I loved this color so much, I felt the need to continue it on through the entire house — in varying shades, of course. It began 20 or so years ago when a roommate and I set out to choose colors for an apartment in Somerville, Mass.


Our apartment was a converted 1800s house with gorgeous details such as canted walls (slanted in toward the ceiling).
They have combined it with some lilac and minty green hues to form a mid-century modern palette that I would call “ugly pretty.” On their own, some of these colors are a 1960s bathroom-fixture showroom nightmare, but by adding a cocoa color that is grounding … the combo is ugly pretty. Having long relied on paint jobs to quickly change my surroundings, I have done the taupes, the blood reds, the terracottas and accent walls, the neutrals, the layered effects, the Martha palettes and the fashion trends. We had struck a bargain with the landlord where we offered to paint the entire apartment for free if we got to pick the colors. I painted the window recesses, wide floorboards and the entire door using a very expensive metallic emulsion paint that I can no longer find in stores.
Part of what makes our relationship work is that within 72 hours of my bringing a gallon of paint into our home he has it up on the walls. The resulting majesty of hues was not bound whatsoever by the adjoining colors of nearby rooms or by the nuisance of restraint.


It is a 1940s kitchen adorned in enamels and porcelains populated by a purposeful people in tailored clothing who braise their meat and raise their breads. Each room was its own creation: The office was cow funk, the kitchen retro-diner checkerboard, and the hallway gold “Van Gallery” where we hung endless prints of Vincent’s whirling wheat fields and swirling stars.
Well, perhaps more than a touch, but my address has always been at the intersection of Good Taste Ave. It is memories washed clean of malaise and purified in an ocean of nostalgia until all that remains is cool comfort and the lingering taste of a buttermint.



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