A few people posted and emailed to ask for a larger image of the screens, which, frankly is lovely.  But see what happens when I post “more?”  Sort of loses something, though it does look quite nice in person.  It’s the light, maybe, or as someone pointed out recently, the photographer.

With some wear.  Like its mistress.

There’s a plan for some reupholstery as well. While this charming image of Pauline de Rothschild turned up on pinterest yesterday did not inspire it, it certainly could have.

Thank you, to those who asked, for your interest.

I began at the paint store in the knowledgable hands of Vic, on whom I can always count for advice and a story or two.  He assured me that Benjamin Moore Regal was the way to go and he was right; it covered dense and dark in one coat.

 And I did.  The lines waver slightly – you can see that they were not taped.  I like it better.  No pretense.

In no hurry, with my focus on what was right in front of me, I took it a little at a time.  There was the bother of corners and plumbing, but even those, with patience, were managed.  Standing back now, with pictures and props in place, it looks as if it all worked out as it should.

Math and measuring are a hateful and horrible business.  I wonder at people who find comfort and security in numbers and order, while I am perpetually vexed.  There are fifteen squares in the powder room and I did not execute the meander correctly once.  Each time I had to reconnoiter the bit in the middle.  Each time.

Beyond that, there are tricky parts both behind and beside the toilet and under the sink.  In a perfect world, one would execute such a project free of such obstacles.  It is not a perfect world.  As I found myself lying on the floor wedged between the toilet and the wall maneuvering a yard stick with one hand and a pencil with another, I was reminded of an interlude in the lower berth of a bunk bed in Stillwater, Oklahoma my freshman year of college.  This latest feat, at least, yielded satisfying results and left no lingering notion that looks foretell neither intelligence nor prowess.

Beyond the physical discomfort was the anxiety of making a mistake.  Pencil, of course, can be erased, but inky, black paint on a flat, white wall is the sort of slip that is difficult to undo.  This is where one needs to exercise forethought and caution.  Regardless my focus and enthusiasm, slip I did.  Today I face sealer and more dreaded calculations as I finally hang the silhouettes.  At the moment, from a language perspective, it’s a bit of a PG-13 environment.

These silhouettes have rested against the wall of the overly-large powder room for the past two years.  I mentioned it to someone once and she said, “I didn’t realize that wasn’t where they were supposed to be.” Yes, this can sometimes happen.  They remained, happily at home, after I painted the top portion of the wall (and ceiling, which you cannot see here.)

I showed my eldest, who is both creative and good at math (which I do find admirable, if annoying), the picture of the Greek key and asked him, “Do you think it will be hard?  I mean, for me.  Do you think it will be hard for me?”

He studied the image briefly, never pausing the back-and-forth, back-and-forth of his lacrosse stick and said, “I think that if you think it will be hard, it will be hard, but if you think it will be fun, it will be fun.”  Which was an admirable perspective.  Still, slightly annoying.

So I started Sunday.  Because, hard or not, fun or not, it is nothing if I don’t begin.