When buying paint, itâs all about that base.
My second-favorite kind of painting. |
Iâm in the western Berkshires painting the interior walls in my oldest kidâs new house. Sheâs 28 and itâs her first house, and sheâs very excited. So am I; like many artists, my idea of a good vacation is to paint walls. (Ceilings, not so much, but you must take the good with the bad.)
In artistsâ oils, I like RGH paints. This is a small company based in Albany, NY. The owner, Rolf Haerem, has been making paints since 1989, and is a painter himself. In acrylics, I prefer Golden. Today, Golden is a large national brand. However, it also started as a small New York business, the brainchild of retired paint-maker Sam Golden, in New Berlin, Chenango County. In oil painting mediums, I like Grumbacher, which was founded in New York City in 1902. Itâs now owned by Chartpak, based in Northhampton, MA. In brushes, I like Robert Simmons Signet.
None of these brands are sacred in themselves. Theyâre just my preferences, developed over decades of painting. They work with my technique. On Monday, I wrote that Iâd used a gel medium in an emergency, and it messed with my style. Still, other painters love it. It depends on what youâre striving for.
Nevertheless, thereâs a theme running through my choices. Theyâre professional grade materials. I, too, was once an impecunious student buying student-grade materials, so I understand economy. But at some point, artists need to buy the right stuff, or theyâll never get the right results.
The new homeowner, surrounded by her paint chips. |
In wall paints, I also have strong preferences. Iâve been painting with Benjamin Moore for decades. I know I can drop a bead of color alongside wooden moldings without taping or endless massaging, and I can generally get full coverage in a single coat. As with oil paints, wall paints are made with various combinations of pigments, binder and filler. Itâs important to find one you like.
Here in the wilds of the New York-Massachusetts border, itâs been a problem to find it. And my budget-masters kvetch at the sticker price. Yesterday I capitulated for expediencyâs sake, and used a brand sold by a large big-box retailer. I immediately regretted it. It clumped in the roller, and it didnât slide easily off my brush.
When I first arrived on Sunday, I drove up to see my son-in-law digging a trench, sweaty and hot in the September warmth. He and my daughter are the same age as my husband and I were when we built our own first house. It was also a modular, also on a wooded rural hillside, and we also did all the sitework and finishing ourselves.
I was happy to watch the lad dig. One of the consolations of getting old is that you never need to pound another copper ground rod into rocky soil if you donât want to. Some jobs are best enjoyed through the rose-colored glasses of nostalgia.