Aleksandra Crapanzano's ode to the glories of Paris's go-to indoor paint color was almost evocative enough to make me think I was channeling Marcel Proust.
But I awoke from my reverie only to find I was still staring at her wonderful Ma...
Aleksandra Crapanzano's ode to the glories of Paris's go-to indoor paint color was almost evocative enough to make me think I was channeling Marcel Proust.
But I awoke from my reverie only to find I was still staring at her wonderful May 17 Wall Street Journal essay on the subject, excerpts from which follow.
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If given the choice between a glass of skim milk and a spoonful of crème fraîche, any Parisian worth her fleur de sel would choose the latter. Parisians believe, after all, in partaking in the small indulgences that enrich life. That may be why the luxurious yellow-white of crème fraîche — not the bleak gray of skim milk — is their city's go-to paint color, the shade to which its rental apartments default just as surely as New York's rentals come standardized in cold, hard white and America's suburban McMansions are painted a deadening shade of putty.This characteristic cream may not be the first color that visitors associate with Paris. That would be the pink of the city's legendary afternoon light, perhaps, or the gold of the spotlights that bathe its monuments at night. But, in truth, Paris is a very rainy city — as often drab as it is pink or gold. That I rarely noticed this murkiness during the 16 years I spent living in and then visiting the apartment my parents rented on the Rue du Cherche-Midi is testament not only to the selective properties of memory but to the crème fraîche paint on the walls.
My parents' choice was simply the standard-issue paint from the hardware store up the street, the same hue I'd find in so many Paris apartments. But it was perfect. Neither too yellow nor too beige, it never tended toward green or gray, even on the gloomiest of days. It seemed always to reflect the sun, whether or not the sun was present. It was a cheerful color that managed to be both classic and contemporary, perhaps because it was, in its understated elegance, entirely unremarkable.Life took me away from France but, recently, after a long, miserable New York winter, I found myself missing not only Paris, but that lovely color of my childhood. I began scrutinizing the color chips at paint stores and scouring the Internet, looking for an "aha" moment. How could a color so common across the ocean be so onerous to find stateside? Eventually, my quest led me to Farrow & Ball, the venerable British purveyor of luxury paints that has stores throughout America.
And there I found it. The color of my memories. For some perverse reason, Farrow & Ball has named it Tallow, evoking animal fat and sputtering Dickensian candle stubs. (Given that the company has christened other shades Dead Salmon, Plummett and Arsenic, Tallow is actually rather upbeat.) Despite the name, when I opened the can, the paint instantly reminded me of the crème fraîche sold by the ladle at Barthélémy, the great cheese shop of the 7th Arrondissement. I swirled it around with a wooden stick, relishing its luxurious density.
When the time came to plot out my full color scheme, I called Sarah Cole, Farrow & Ball's marketing director, who suggested I paint the trim and ceilings of my rooms in F&B's Pointing, a milkier cream. The contrast would be gentle, she promised, the colors complementing each other in a subtle marriage of whites. For a smaller, darker room of mine, she suggested Dimity, which is a grade warmer than Tallow.
A month later, the house was painted Tallow, Pointing and Dimity, and I found myself staring at my walls with deep contentment. My curiosity had been piqued, however. What was it about these colors — Tallow, in particular — that had such a comforting effect on me? Was it simply nostalgia? I went to see Donald Kaufman of Donald Kaufman Color, the legendary colorist behind what's arguably the best American-made paint. He had this to say about whites that skew yellow versus those that lean blue: "Since our eye interprets yellow as more luminous than cooler greens and blues, [the crème fraîche color] compens
