I see a specific shade of blue and I think of a Charles Vess comic. I see another shade of blue combined with marigold and a Chanel lipstick red and I think of Wes Anderson. I don’t think of the artist maybe as much as I do the way their art made me feel at a certain time.
It’s almost like when you hear a turn of phrase and think “Oh, that’s so Wodehouse” or that feeling that Chesterton would have phrased it in a similar way. Or you see something quiet and startling in the spring and know you have wandered unknowing into a Neruda poem.
Color is different though. There’s something about color that lift your heart and dashes it all at once. The best writing speaks in color.
I am so much an infant still sometimes because I see something beautiful and I want to put it into my mouth. Not to eat it, just because I feel like if I could take it in I would understand it better. I am not sure if anyone else has that impulse, or if I’m just sort of regressed.
Patrick Rothfuss writes in green. Neil Gaiman and Madeleine L’Engle write in the colors of Moonlight.
Paint is so difficult to shape into colors that make sense. I am always in awe of painters.
This last weekend I was laid flat with a pressure headache and didn’t make it outside as I wished, nor could I draw or paint. But as I thought about color and saturation, hue and contrast, Robert Frost just ran through my head over and over… “I have been one acquainted with the night”. I don’t know what color the poem is, but I feel like I have been one acquainted with color. Perhaps some day we shall be friends.