Orange is a fruit, not a wall color
“That’s it! Perfect!”
Shouts from the living room: My husband sitting on a red leather couch peering
intently at the TV. The set is off. The room is dark. Arm extended, index finger
arrowed at the vacant screen, he points to an image – the far wall of our newly
remodeled kitchen – reflected in its flat-paneled face.
An evangelist’s passion shines from bright blue eyes: “I know what color we can paint
the trim. The TV told me so.”
“What?” I stare at the TV. When it’s on, we call it Stupid Television. I’m wondering if
that name has more meaning now.
“Do you see, that color right there. That’s the perfect color.”
I look. I crane my neck to stare through the doorway, at our kitchen. We had chosen
deepest, darkest purple for the walls. The custom hickory cabinets are a sharp
contrast, each cupboard a sculpture of stippled wood. The floor is dove gray
Marmoleum, the countertops a warm green, tile backsplash a lighter shade of the
same hue. The colors conjure eggplant, a garden vegetable.
It is a dramatic room with dull doorframes. The wood is cobbled together, unpainted,
nail holes full of tan putty. I want the trim painted white. White to match the
appliances, the edges of the garden window, white to lighten the splendid heaviness of
purple.
He disagrees, says white will be too harsh. He advances no other opinion, so the trim
remains unpainted, striped and cross-hatched, for nearly six months.
Now he has chosen a color. The TV’s backward view of the kitchen has shown him the
way.
“That’s orange,” I say.
“Yes. Orange. It will look great.”
“Orange is a fruit, not a wall color.”
“No, no, I don’t mean that orange.” He points at the TV again. “Can’t you see – it’s
lighter than that, more like a Creamsicle.”
“I don’t want our kitchen to look like a Good Humor treat.”
In a few days the wood trim is papered with paint chips. Rows of yellow orange,
reddish orange and beige orange butt up against veins of the dreaded Creamsicle.
Another doorframe resembles a Farmers Market: paint chips the color of melons,
tangerines and casaba are taped in precise vertical rows.
Days go by as he studies each one, trying to find the color from the TV.
“Is this it?”
“No,” I say, an edge in my voice. I’m close to panic. Too many people have said the
color looked great inside the TV, why not paint the trim that way? The march towards
orange continues; inexorable.
The next day he applies white primer to one door frame. It is a skunk stripe that
steals the gold and honey tones right out of the hickory.
I hang my head; victory goes to the orange.
He sets a tiny tin of paint on the counter. “I found it. This is the color.” He smiles. “I’m
going to paint this door frame, see how we like it.”
I stand on the opposite end of the room.
“What do you think? “
I don’t answer. I’m holding my breath.
He steps away. “That’s awful.”
I nod.
“It won’t work. Orange isn’t the right color...”
Copyright © RichWriting - All Rights Reserved
“That’s it! Perfect!”
Shouts from the living room: My husband sitting on a red leather couch peering
intently at the TV. The set is off. The room is dark. Arm extended, index finger
arrowed at the vacant screen, he points to an image – the far wall of our newly
remodeled kitchen – reflected in its flat-paneled face.
An evangelist’s passion shines from bright blue eyes: “I know what color we can paint
the trim. The TV told me so.”
“What?” I stare at the TV. When it’s on, we call it Stupid Television. I’m wondering if
that name has more meaning now.
“Do you see, that color right there. That’s the perfect color.”
I look. I crane my neck to stare through the doorway, at our kitchen. We had chosen
deepest, darkest purple for the walls. The custom hickory cabinets are a sharp
contrast, each cupboard a sculpture of stippled wood. The floor is dove gray
Marmoleum, the countertops a warm green, tile backsplash a lighter shade of the
same hue. The colors conjure eggplant, a garden vegetable.
It is a dramatic room with dull doorframes. The wood is cobbled together, unpainted,
nail holes full of tan putty. I want the trim painted white. White to match the
appliances, the edges of the garden window, white to lighten the splendid heaviness of
purple.
He disagrees, says white will be too harsh. He advances no other opinion, so the trim
remains unpainted, striped and cross-hatched, for nearly six months.
Now he has chosen a color. The TV’s backward view of the kitchen has shown him the
way.
“That’s orange,” I say.
“Yes. Orange. It will look great.”
“Orange is a fruit, not a wall color.”
“No, no, I don’t mean that orange.” He points at the TV again. “Can’t you see – it’s
lighter than that, more like a Creamsicle.”
“I don’t want our kitchen to look like a Good Humor treat.”
In a few days the wood trim is papered with paint chips. Rows of yellow orange,
reddish orange and beige orange butt up against veins of the dreaded Creamsicle.
Another doorframe resembles a Farmers Market: paint chips the color of melons,
tangerines and casaba are taped in precise vertical rows.
Days go by as he studies each one, trying to find the color from the TV.
“Is this it?”
“No,” I say, an edge in my voice. I’m close to panic. Too many people have said the
color looked great inside the TV, why not paint the trim that way? The march towards
orange continues; inexorable.
The next day he applies white primer to one door frame. It is a skunk stripe that
steals the gold and honey tones right out of the hickory.
I hang my head; victory goes to the orange.
He sets a tiny tin of paint on the counter. “I found it. This is the color.” He smiles. “I’m
going to paint this door frame, see how we like it.”
I stand on the opposite end of the room.
“What do you think? “
I don’t answer. I’m holding my breath.
He steps away. “That’s awful.”
I nod.
“It won’t work. Orange isn’t the right color...”
Copyright © RichWriting - All Rights Reserved
| RichWriting Tell your story. Build your business. |