All posts by Hilary Sterne

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About Hilary Sterne

I'm a writer, reader, wife and mother who likes to share small stories about life in the big city.

The Perfect Paint Color

If you haven’t seen the memes about how often men supposedly think of the Roman Empire, here is a compilation of a few of them

While this comes as a bit of surprise, despite the fact that Gladiator seems to be in constant rotation on AMC, the idea that everyone has their own random, ruminative thoughts of what they find just as interesting doesn’t. Says the Bloggess, “I think about the Titanic, sea monsters, serial killers and Chernobyl about once a week.” 

I admit, the Roman Empire never crosses my mind, either, unless I’m wandering the galleries at the Metropolitan Museum or the checking the AMC movie schedule, but I do find myself thinking a lot about paint lately. Watching paint dry may be an idiom for utter boredom but watching people enthuse about it on YouTube? That’s my jam. 

Listening to the Experts

It wasn’t always. But when I decided to update my college son’s bedroom, which over the years has morphed from a little boy’s messy toy graveyard into a shockingly gross man-sty, paint became something I couldn’t learn enough about. Greige, I learned, is out—too much like a chain hotel standard queen room these days. But is the new it color greenage, which sounds to me like a high-priced probiotic drink, or warmer, creamier neutrals? And what about Hog Plum or Mizzle or Sulking Room Pink?

Those last are a few of the offerings from Farrow and Ball, the cultish, upper crusty company out of the UK whose marketing strategy seems to be to remind crass Americans just how easily they can find posh sophistication in a can of paint. The cheerful little musical prelude to the videos followed, oddly, by the sound of paper crackling I find as soothing as the plummy voice of the narrator, which is plummy even when she is talking about cow urine

Finding the Right Brand 

I decided against Farrow & Ball, not because of the cow urine but because it costs $140 a can, and sought out another pro to help me. Dame F&B’s Canadian equivalent is the spokesman for the Paint People, a friendly, bearded bro who shills cheaper but still respectable brands like Benjamin Moore and Sherwin Williams 

Finding the Right Shade 

The darling son suggested green, so I browsed a bunch that inevitably looked either too gray or too minty. I wanted something that evoked water. Ozone. Sunlit tide pools and heaving wave breaks. But since there is virtually no natural light in my son’s room, colors like Sea Salt were out. What about Waterscape or Tidewater or even Aegean Teal? I ordered peel-and-stick samples of each. Which would go best with the Dash & Albert rug I had my eye on? Would either provide a complimentary backdrop to darling son’s beloved Jimi Hendrix poster?

I haven’t yet decided, which gives me more excuses to watch more YouTube videos in which paint influencers debate the merits of Soothing Aloe vs. Beach Glass and eggshell vs dead flat and to order more peel-and-stick samples. And then I’ll need to choose trim colors, of course. Really, who needs the Roman Empire when you have Sherwin Williams Roman Column 7562?

A Perfume of One’s Own

by Hilary Sterne

I once read that smell is the only sense that is fully developed before birth, and that it is the most highly evolved one in children until the age of 10, when sight takes over. Until then, kids are just grubby blind mole-rats, learning about the world by sniffing their way towards the Play-Doh and the Annie’s Mac and Cheese. I also learned from this same article that because of the way the brain and the olfactory nerve work, scent and emotion are stored together, as a kind of super memory.

A Sense of Smell

I have always had a freakishly keen sense of smell, for better or worse, and I sometimes think that if the Kuder assessment test I took when I was a teen had included anything about smelling aptitude, I might have wound up a nose for a major perfume house. Instead, I learned that I would most likely never be a surgeon, an astronaut or a clock repairer, all of which turned out to be true.

My husband teases me for this trait but he also respects me for it (he knows I’d be the one to sound the alarm if there were a gas leak), and so when he gave me an empty perfume bottle for Christmas, I was both delighted and intrigued. He explained that I was to take it to the nearby Olfactory NYC store, where I would be invited to create my own custom perfume with which to fill it. It was the perfect gift for a grown-up grubby blind mole-rat.

Exploring the Options

At the store, I was told I could choose from a dozen or so base fragrances and then add one of about 25 different accords, depending on my preference. I don’t like powdery scents or most white flowers (the exception being Frederic Malle Eau de Magnolia—if you are ever lucky enough to stay at the Four Seasons One Dalton in Boston as I once did, this is their house scent, which makes it almost worth the price of the room. And yes, I did take home the snowy white disc of bar soap from the shower.)

Among the choices that remained was a blend by Frank Voekl, the nose behind the wildly successful (and now insanely tiresome) Le Labo Santal 33 and Glossier You.

It was described as a blend of fig, sandalwood and violet leaves and it smelled fresh but also a little dusky. I wore a fig fragrance, L’Artisan Perfumeur Premier Figuier, at my wedding decades ago (is there anything sexier than a fig? Jamie Oliver says no), and violets were the first flowers my father showed me how to pick for my mother from the grassy banks of our suburban backyard. It somehow seemed apt as super memories go.

Customizing My Choice

I narrowed down the accords to a few with similar gourmand notes, settling for one that featured ambrette and oakmoss, which achieved something slightly sweeter on first sniff but more peppery in the drydown. And then I got to name it, and since I was allowed nine characters, I went with Gustavino, a reference to the tiles on the ceiling of the colonnaded pavilion where I got married while wearing the first fig perfume. (Rafael Gustavino left his mark on the undersides of arches throughout New York City and beyond, including the Grand Central Oyster Bar.)

My husband was appropriately enthusiastic about what I brought home, but scent isn’t really a thing for him like it is for me, nothing he really notices or appreciates just something that’s always there, signaling a run to the trash bin or that it’s rotisserie chicken hour at the local grocery. He’s happy that I love his gift and that’s good enough for me.

Hilary Sterne's wedding in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

Copyright Susan Baker Photography, 2001