Trippin’ Memory Lane On Paint Fumes

STORYTELLING | by SHERRY STRIPLING

WHEN I WAS SENTENCED TO BE MY FAMILY’S DESIGNATED HOUSE PAINTER years ago, it didn’t take long for me to discover that painting can be:

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1. A form of mediation 
2. More than a little trippy

Maybe it’s the fumes, the hours of isolation or my choice of music, but my mind goes all over the place when I paint.

Some of those thoughts settle in the room forever, like sanding dust. Every time I enter the room from then on, I’m taken back to whatever was going on in my life at the time I was painting.

At my late grandparents’ house, which we rent out, I get whiffs of these memories:

• High-ceiling living room, Los Angeles Olympic Games, which I watched from atop a ladder
• Blistered west exterior, the runaway border collie pup who picked me out mid-paint job and said, “You’ll do!”
• Upstairs turquoise bedroom, my mother sorting through her old school papers in a final cleanout

The sensation is even more intense when I’m painting over the same spot in back-to-back years (bad renters). I get total flashbacks ― sight, smell, emotion ― similar to how a surgeon releases vivid memories by cutting into an old scar.

I can steer these thoughts by making sure I’m listening to upbeat music or TV programs. It’s harder when people come in, see you’re captive and confess their life woes.

My most recent project was my basement walls and ceiling in anticipation of a replacing an old TV with a home theater. Painting into the early hours of morning, I listened to a documentary on a Norwegian explorer trapped on northern ice floes for 3½ years.

Big mistake! The room looks great, but popcorn tastes like whale blubber.