Hello Gentle Reader,
Colour will always be one of the most prominent sensory stimulant and guiding force of perception. It is the constant. The continued. The consistent. The never ending. It enriches and surrounds the world. All the while evading definition. Colour is amorphous and indefinable, it exists in reflections and refractions of light on a spectrum of mutability and vibrancy. With every adjustment of the light; enrichment or redaction of pigmentation; a new character, persona, and personality comes into existence. Colour is the ultimate shimmering pool of genesis. An infinitesimal ocean of emotions, characters, and perspectives, shifting, shimmering, and changing in a whirling endlessness, waiting to be extracted and distilled. Meaning in all its vague and indefinable measures and metrics, is an inherently human application. Everything exists in a state of indifference; it is humanity that applies significance to anything beyond its immediate existence. We see this routinely in colour, as each shade and tint imbue moments and situations with their own flare, their own personality. This inevitably is influenced by multiple factors, including human perception, social structures, and overarching cultural applications. White in western cultures has become associative with purity, innocence, chastity, charity and grace. The blushing bride in white, is a common image of white personified. In other cultures, specifically Asian ones, white is a colour of death, mourning, and grief. Han Kang's "The White Book," becomes a treatise and meditation on both the shade white, but also a quasi-testament and pseudo-memoir of Kang's older sister who prematurely died two hours after childbirth. Throughout "The White Book," Han Kang inventories and categorizes different white objects: rice, sugar cubes, swaddling bands, snow, moon, and salt, among other white objects or phenomena. Poetically each white article becomes the catalyst for Kang to trace and narrate the brief life of her older sister, and how her death and the fallout of grief would be woven into her own upbringing and life. Life is fluttering and fleeting; a feathered thing both winged and wounded, wrapped in white through and through. White is that primordial shade who shimmers into variations but retains its essence, one of contrary and competing attributes. From unadulterated purity to bleached sterility; possibility and potential to loss and absence. For all its expansiveness there is redaction. White is the clinicians shade, disinfected for all examinations and autopsies, but always having that feeling for postmortem, the perpetual afterwards. If one is looking to inject life and character into anything, it must be with colour. What kind of character, what kind of perspective, and what notion of life, is completely dependent on colour.
"The Paris Review," had a marvelous column from a few years back called: "Hue's Hue," written by the informative and marvelous Katy Kelleher. Each column provided a detailed analysis, overview, and influence of a specific colour, capturing the cultural significance, literary impact, artistic history, and all the other whirling impressions all colours possess. The column is further enriched by the fact that Katy Kelleher takes absolute interest and fascination with each colour she examines, swathing through the stereotypical components of colour analysis. These are not columns discussing the rudimentary: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—Kelleher, has far too much originality to bother with the generic and general. Instead, Kelleher positions her analysis towards the specific, the beautiful, the mercurial, the peripheral. Her columns analyzed such specific colours and shades as in the case of Scheele's Green that colour of toxic imitation, which is rumoured to have killed Napoleon in his exile in Saint Helena, due to the colour having a foundation in arsenic, which bled from the walls in the humidity and was ultimately inhaled by the former French leader, poisoning him to death. Through each column, Katy Kelleher is provided a colour and sets sail, exploring and traversing each shades diverse place within the human experience and imagination. These columns are insightful, beautiful and intriguing. The colour russet is imbued with a whole new life and sense after reading Kelleher's column, which present russet as an austere puritanical shade of red. If there ever was a colour that embodied the no frills and not bothered perspective, russet does so whole heartedly. It’s the liveliest colour of a limited palette that is aptly described as depressing. Kelleher points out the life of a peasant was never glamorous. While those fortunate enough to have a spot at court and live in gentrified poverty were privileged enough to obtain fine fabrics and colours and peacock their splendors, the majority of the populace were expected to adorn themselves with more chaste and austere clothing. As Kelleher wrote embroidery was deemed unseemly—or unvirtuous—as was any colour or pigment that would betray or promote any lightness of mind to inspire anything other than physical, mental and spiritual suffering, as is the way in which one is expected to worship God, by reenacting the suffering of Christ. In other words, farewell to the brightness of yellow; the soothing properties of blue; the regality of violet; and the voluptuousness sensuality of reds. Peasants were expected to be cloaked in the drab and dreary threads of grey, brown, and black, the most suitable—and more likely, most available—pigment readily available for peasants to wrap themselves in, and commence the drudgery that was their life. Russet was the only exception, the only hint of colour beyond the gravely dour uniform that was expected of them. Russet has not been treated as a luxurious colour, rather it's filled with the connotations of being austere and severe, grim in the mouth, reminiscent of the end of October, when all of autumn's leaves have fallen and the last candles in the jack-o'-lanterns fadeout into the night with November waiting in the morning like a gravestone at the end of the funeral march.
If it were not for Katy Kelleher and her column "Hue's Hue," I would never have learned the name of a colour that has fascinated me and made me inarticulate with every attempt at describing it: Eau de Nil (water of the Nile). It is an elegant and elusive green, pale as a green phantoms whisper, but no were close to a saccharine pastel of an Easter frog. Eau de Nil is graceful and vaporous, abandoning the principles of green being a grounded and earthly stable colour, instead embracing the light and insinuative. Without Katy Kelleher I would never have had the proper name for such a subtle shade of green, which has been poorly defined by others as seafoam green (to mercurial, an aerated aqua product of violent rolling waves and raging skies that produced Aphrodite), mint green (though not as cloyingly sweet as a sugared pastel, it is clinical in application, being both sterile and discomforting), and verdigris (though another colour I've grown fond of, it remains in a category all its own of metropolitan grandeur, of aged cities in a perpetual state of impermanence and metamorphosis, never static in being, but perpetually becoming). Having read all of Katy Kelleher's columns over the series, the only disappointment is the fact that the series has ended, as Kelleher's thorough analysis and deep dive into every particular shade and colour she chose to write about was always informative as it was engaging. When (and I suppose if) I ever settle down into a house that I can comfortably and merrily declare is my own notion of home, I intend to incorporate and deploy the colour Eau de Nil, embracing the ethereal elegance and mystery the colour radiates. After reading Katy Kelleher column "Hue's Hue," one begins to contemplate the colour of the world with more insight and curiosity, approaching the vibrancy of the world with a sense of wonder and awe, not overlooking it as a component of the landscape.
The complexity of colour on environment is not a new concept to human society. Interior designers and architects have become conductors of colours, composing harmony and symphony within interior spaces, showcasing both utilitarian durability, but also curating a feast of aesthetics. In the short story "The Way You Might Break a Finger," Amanda Michalopoulou (translated by Peter Constantine) wrote:
"One has to be contemplating suicide to paint a room brown."
Brown truly is one of the most unappealing paint colours. I should think if an individual is seeking to incorporate brown into their home, it is far more advantageous to do so via millwork and wood accessories and accents. Beautiful hardwood floors; timeless wood furniture. Brown carpet, extensive wood paneling, and brown paint, creates a home not only deprived of colour, but occupants desperate for it. Having lived in homes painted in a variety of shades of taupe, beige, ochre, and unapologetic brown, there was always a longing and immediate desire to inject something dramatic, something bold. Living in a world drenched and encased in brown is a cavernous experience. Brown is this ultimate colour of despair. Its not grounding its burying. White as a monochromatic colour scheme is much the same way. Bleached sterile and lifeless. When looking for resale value and quick turnaround, realtors advise their clients to paint in neutrals. This is why homeowners are quick to whiteout themselves from the space. All that remains is a blank canvas for the future homeowner to envision the space as their own. Grey is the ultimate neutral. Often described as the accountants colour, an assured colour of accuracy and stability. This shade has neither allegiance or ideology. It lacks the sterility of white, the absorption of black, and the consuming cavernous of brown. Over the past decade, grey has enjoyed a renaissance of sorts. It’s a colour that has been both celebrated and incorporated into the interiors. It’s a shade that is compatible and welcoming to a variety of highlights and colours. Despite its successes, apparently grey is falling to the wayside. A shade that is described as the colour and mascot representing fiscal responsibility, financial prudence and austerity measures, is as exciting as a shade defined as clean, clinical, and unassuming. Grey maybe more accessible and versatile, like all the other neutrals and shades it lacks a sense of soul and spice.
In turn black was a favoured colour of two renowned historical and legendary widows: Catherine de Medici and Queen Victoria; both women were astute politicians and complete powerhouses in their roles. Catherine de Medici was a dynasty maker, who had to fill the role of stability as the men and kings around her proved to be incompetent and juvenile, they had no political acumen or steadiness in health, thought, or ability in order to accomplish greatness. Coldness and reptilian political talent aside, Catherine de Medici truly loved her husband King Henry II, even though he was infantile and incompetent, who routinely retreated to the skirts of Diane de Poitiers—who's official court colours were black and white, both to recognize mourning for her late husband, but also a play on the facets of the moon, harking to her name derived from the Roman goddess of the moon and hunt). As for Queen Victoria, she is often remembered and stylized as the toadish frumpy monarch who was lost in the throes of grief after the death of her beloved Prince Albert, and in turn consoled herself with food. Before Queen Victoria draped herself in black and presided over the Victorian Era with melancholy and wallow, she was known as quite the spitfire with emboldened stances and opinions, she was both honest and obstinate, but more importantly completely independent, despite her upbringing seeking to stifle and reduce her character to a state of dependency. The bridal tradition of the white wedding dress is rooted in Queen Victoria, who chose the unadulterated shade to represent her chastity, virginity and purity when entering the marriage with Prince Albert.
The literary world exists in an abundant world of colour in turn. Streaks of colour emerge from the monochromatic sepia landscapes and grisaille skies of Patrick Modiano's novels, taking shape and form in the most ubiquitous of places: a yellow coat; a blue ether bottle; a phosphorescent green light from the radio. The character Little Jewel brings to mind a pale nondescript green, a peridot who had been polished and marketed as a fraudulent emerald. The ambiguous and ever so implacable Jacqueline (in all incarnations) remains preserved in mist of etherized blue, impressionistic and perceptible while remaining distant and out of reach. Orhan Pamuk is a visual writer, his descriptions of Istanbul—both sweeping exteriors and personal interiors—are vivid and dynamic. Pamuk's appreciation of colour is clearly seen throughout his novels, but is obviously clear in "My Name is Red," where the pigment itself narrates a chapter, wistfully mediating on what it means to be a colour. Red is a divisive colour. Alfred Hitchcock once described it as jolly. Politically it's been applied as a brander, leaving behind a scandalous scarlet letter to designate someone as a communist, as red was the ideologies favourite colour, easy to market and immediately identifiable (as black is to fascism). Though as Herta Müller noted the entire colour palette was grey. Grey on grey. Red is also the characteristic uniform of the titular Handmaids of "The Handmaids Tale." Those cloaks of red paired with the white bonnets, are designed to be distinguishing and alienating.
The world is saturated in colour and all the endless pairings. It is the soundtrack and landscape to how people interact with the world. Colour has been used to categorize people, as Katy Kelleher noted regarding the mandated uniform colours peasants were expected to wear; or symbolic gestures of allegiance and ideological preferences; to an expectation being worn to symbolize one's own chastity for marriage or their bereavement in grief. Even to think on colour for too long will inevitably lead one moving in different directions of thought. A thought on pink, sweetly saturated and cavity inducing to insincerity and a sense of plasticity, will ease up on the criticism of the overly frivolous colour, to appreciate the gentleness of cherry blossoms, brief and transient, which harkens to the thoughts of P.L. Travers and her Chelsea neighborhood, London terraced house with its clean white brick exterior contrasted with the gentle pink door. Its hard to imagine the writer, amateur anthropologist, and folklorist being fond of such a whimsical and frilly colour. White is the blank canvas individuals are born. Colour is life. All the mess and chaos of life. Inevitably, black is the end, the absorption of all colour and the great equalizer. Still, I look forward to embracing the colours of the world. As summer rages on, its punishing yellows and reds, greens wilting to brown. I look forward to the reprieve of winter. The overcast moonstone white skies veined with grey. Evenings dusted in mauve. The coldness of blue stinging in the air.
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
For Further Reading:
Colour will always be one of the most prominent sensory stimulant and guiding force of perception. It is the constant. The continued. The consistent. The never ending. It enriches and surrounds the world. All the while evading definition. Colour is amorphous and indefinable, it exists in reflections and refractions of light on a spectrum of mutability and vibrancy. With every adjustment of the light; enrichment or redaction of pigmentation; a new character, persona, and personality comes into existence. Colour is the ultimate shimmering pool of genesis. An infinitesimal ocean of emotions, characters, and perspectives, shifting, shimmering, and changing in a whirling endlessness, waiting to be extracted and distilled. Meaning in all its vague and indefinable measures and metrics, is an inherently human application. Everything exists in a state of indifference; it is humanity that applies significance to anything beyond its immediate existence. We see this routinely in colour, as each shade and tint imbue moments and situations with their own flare, their own personality. This inevitably is influenced by multiple factors, including human perception, social structures, and overarching cultural applications. White in western cultures has become associative with purity, innocence, chastity, charity and grace. The blushing bride in white, is a common image of white personified. In other cultures, specifically Asian ones, white is a colour of death, mourning, and grief. Han Kang's "The White Book," becomes a treatise and meditation on both the shade white, but also a quasi-testament and pseudo-memoir of Kang's older sister who prematurely died two hours after childbirth. Throughout "The White Book," Han Kang inventories and categorizes different white objects: rice, sugar cubes, swaddling bands, snow, moon, and salt, among other white objects or phenomena. Poetically each white article becomes the catalyst for Kang to trace and narrate the brief life of her older sister, and how her death and the fallout of grief would be woven into her own upbringing and life. Life is fluttering and fleeting; a feathered thing both winged and wounded, wrapped in white through and through. White is that primordial shade who shimmers into variations but retains its essence, one of contrary and competing attributes. From unadulterated purity to bleached sterility; possibility and potential to loss and absence. For all its expansiveness there is redaction. White is the clinicians shade, disinfected for all examinations and autopsies, but always having that feeling for postmortem, the perpetual afterwards. If one is looking to inject life and character into anything, it must be with colour. What kind of character, what kind of perspective, and what notion of life, is completely dependent on colour.
"The Paris Review," had a marvelous column from a few years back called: "Hue's Hue," written by the informative and marvelous Katy Kelleher. Each column provided a detailed analysis, overview, and influence of a specific colour, capturing the cultural significance, literary impact, artistic history, and all the other whirling impressions all colours possess. The column is further enriched by the fact that Katy Kelleher takes absolute interest and fascination with each colour she examines, swathing through the stereotypical components of colour analysis. These are not columns discussing the rudimentary: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet—Kelleher, has far too much originality to bother with the generic and general. Instead, Kelleher positions her analysis towards the specific, the beautiful, the mercurial, the peripheral. Her columns analyzed such specific colours and shades as in the case of Scheele's Green that colour of toxic imitation, which is rumoured to have killed Napoleon in his exile in Saint Helena, due to the colour having a foundation in arsenic, which bled from the walls in the humidity and was ultimately inhaled by the former French leader, poisoning him to death. Through each column, Katy Kelleher is provided a colour and sets sail, exploring and traversing each shades diverse place within the human experience and imagination. These columns are insightful, beautiful and intriguing. The colour russet is imbued with a whole new life and sense after reading Kelleher's column, which present russet as an austere puritanical shade of red. If there ever was a colour that embodied the no frills and not bothered perspective, russet does so whole heartedly. It’s the liveliest colour of a limited palette that is aptly described as depressing. Kelleher points out the life of a peasant was never glamorous. While those fortunate enough to have a spot at court and live in gentrified poverty were privileged enough to obtain fine fabrics and colours and peacock their splendors, the majority of the populace were expected to adorn themselves with more chaste and austere clothing. As Kelleher wrote embroidery was deemed unseemly—or unvirtuous—as was any colour or pigment that would betray or promote any lightness of mind to inspire anything other than physical, mental and spiritual suffering, as is the way in which one is expected to worship God, by reenacting the suffering of Christ. In other words, farewell to the brightness of yellow; the soothing properties of blue; the regality of violet; and the voluptuousness sensuality of reds. Peasants were expected to be cloaked in the drab and dreary threads of grey, brown, and black, the most suitable—and more likely, most available—pigment readily available for peasants to wrap themselves in, and commence the drudgery that was their life. Russet was the only exception, the only hint of colour beyond the gravely dour uniform that was expected of them. Russet has not been treated as a luxurious colour, rather it's filled with the connotations of being austere and severe, grim in the mouth, reminiscent of the end of October, when all of autumn's leaves have fallen and the last candles in the jack-o'-lanterns fadeout into the night with November waiting in the morning like a gravestone at the end of the funeral march.
If it were not for Katy Kelleher and her column "Hue's Hue," I would never have learned the name of a colour that has fascinated me and made me inarticulate with every attempt at describing it: Eau de Nil (water of the Nile). It is an elegant and elusive green, pale as a green phantoms whisper, but no were close to a saccharine pastel of an Easter frog. Eau de Nil is graceful and vaporous, abandoning the principles of green being a grounded and earthly stable colour, instead embracing the light and insinuative. Without Katy Kelleher I would never have had the proper name for such a subtle shade of green, which has been poorly defined by others as seafoam green (to mercurial, an aerated aqua product of violent rolling waves and raging skies that produced Aphrodite), mint green (though not as cloyingly sweet as a sugared pastel, it is clinical in application, being both sterile and discomforting), and verdigris (though another colour I've grown fond of, it remains in a category all its own of metropolitan grandeur, of aged cities in a perpetual state of impermanence and metamorphosis, never static in being, but perpetually becoming). Having read all of Katy Kelleher's columns over the series, the only disappointment is the fact that the series has ended, as Kelleher's thorough analysis and deep dive into every particular shade and colour she chose to write about was always informative as it was engaging. When (and I suppose if) I ever settle down into a house that I can comfortably and merrily declare is my own notion of home, I intend to incorporate and deploy the colour Eau de Nil, embracing the ethereal elegance and mystery the colour radiates. After reading Katy Kelleher column "Hue's Hue," one begins to contemplate the colour of the world with more insight and curiosity, approaching the vibrancy of the world with a sense of wonder and awe, not overlooking it as a component of the landscape.
The complexity of colour on environment is not a new concept to human society. Interior designers and architects have become conductors of colours, composing harmony and symphony within interior spaces, showcasing both utilitarian durability, but also curating a feast of aesthetics. In the short story "The Way You Might Break a Finger," Amanda Michalopoulou (translated by Peter Constantine) wrote:
"One has to be contemplating suicide to paint a room brown."
Brown truly is one of the most unappealing paint colours. I should think if an individual is seeking to incorporate brown into their home, it is far more advantageous to do so via millwork and wood accessories and accents. Beautiful hardwood floors; timeless wood furniture. Brown carpet, extensive wood paneling, and brown paint, creates a home not only deprived of colour, but occupants desperate for it. Having lived in homes painted in a variety of shades of taupe, beige, ochre, and unapologetic brown, there was always a longing and immediate desire to inject something dramatic, something bold. Living in a world drenched and encased in brown is a cavernous experience. Brown is this ultimate colour of despair. Its not grounding its burying. White as a monochromatic colour scheme is much the same way. Bleached sterile and lifeless. When looking for resale value and quick turnaround, realtors advise their clients to paint in neutrals. This is why homeowners are quick to whiteout themselves from the space. All that remains is a blank canvas for the future homeowner to envision the space as their own. Grey is the ultimate neutral. Often described as the accountants colour, an assured colour of accuracy and stability. This shade has neither allegiance or ideology. It lacks the sterility of white, the absorption of black, and the consuming cavernous of brown. Over the past decade, grey has enjoyed a renaissance of sorts. It’s a colour that has been both celebrated and incorporated into the interiors. It’s a shade that is compatible and welcoming to a variety of highlights and colours. Despite its successes, apparently grey is falling to the wayside. A shade that is described as the colour and mascot representing fiscal responsibility, financial prudence and austerity measures, is as exciting as a shade defined as clean, clinical, and unassuming. Grey maybe more accessible and versatile, like all the other neutrals and shades it lacks a sense of soul and spice.
In turn black was a favoured colour of two renowned historical and legendary widows: Catherine de Medici and Queen Victoria; both women were astute politicians and complete powerhouses in their roles. Catherine de Medici was a dynasty maker, who had to fill the role of stability as the men and kings around her proved to be incompetent and juvenile, they had no political acumen or steadiness in health, thought, or ability in order to accomplish greatness. Coldness and reptilian political talent aside, Catherine de Medici truly loved her husband King Henry II, even though he was infantile and incompetent, who routinely retreated to the skirts of Diane de Poitiers—who's official court colours were black and white, both to recognize mourning for her late husband, but also a play on the facets of the moon, harking to her name derived from the Roman goddess of the moon and hunt). As for Queen Victoria, she is often remembered and stylized as the toadish frumpy monarch who was lost in the throes of grief after the death of her beloved Prince Albert, and in turn consoled herself with food. Before Queen Victoria draped herself in black and presided over the Victorian Era with melancholy and wallow, she was known as quite the spitfire with emboldened stances and opinions, she was both honest and obstinate, but more importantly completely independent, despite her upbringing seeking to stifle and reduce her character to a state of dependency. The bridal tradition of the white wedding dress is rooted in Queen Victoria, who chose the unadulterated shade to represent her chastity, virginity and purity when entering the marriage with Prince Albert.
The literary world exists in an abundant world of colour in turn. Streaks of colour emerge from the monochromatic sepia landscapes and grisaille skies of Patrick Modiano's novels, taking shape and form in the most ubiquitous of places: a yellow coat; a blue ether bottle; a phosphorescent green light from the radio. The character Little Jewel brings to mind a pale nondescript green, a peridot who had been polished and marketed as a fraudulent emerald. The ambiguous and ever so implacable Jacqueline (in all incarnations) remains preserved in mist of etherized blue, impressionistic and perceptible while remaining distant and out of reach. Orhan Pamuk is a visual writer, his descriptions of Istanbul—both sweeping exteriors and personal interiors—are vivid and dynamic. Pamuk's appreciation of colour is clearly seen throughout his novels, but is obviously clear in "My Name is Red," where the pigment itself narrates a chapter, wistfully mediating on what it means to be a colour. Red is a divisive colour. Alfred Hitchcock once described it as jolly. Politically it's been applied as a brander, leaving behind a scandalous scarlet letter to designate someone as a communist, as red was the ideologies favourite colour, easy to market and immediately identifiable (as black is to fascism). Though as Herta Müller noted the entire colour palette was grey. Grey on grey. Red is also the characteristic uniform of the titular Handmaids of "The Handmaids Tale." Those cloaks of red paired with the white bonnets, are designed to be distinguishing and alienating.
The world is saturated in colour and all the endless pairings. It is the soundtrack and landscape to how people interact with the world. Colour has been used to categorize people, as Katy Kelleher noted regarding the mandated uniform colours peasants were expected to wear; or symbolic gestures of allegiance and ideological preferences; to an expectation being worn to symbolize one's own chastity for marriage or their bereavement in grief. Even to think on colour for too long will inevitably lead one moving in different directions of thought. A thought on pink, sweetly saturated and cavity inducing to insincerity and a sense of plasticity, will ease up on the criticism of the overly frivolous colour, to appreciate the gentleness of cherry blossoms, brief and transient, which harkens to the thoughts of P.L. Travers and her Chelsea neighborhood, London terraced house with its clean white brick exterior contrasted with the gentle pink door. Its hard to imagine the writer, amateur anthropologist, and folklorist being fond of such a whimsical and frilly colour. White is the blank canvas individuals are born. Colour is life. All the mess and chaos of life. Inevitably, black is the end, the absorption of all colour and the great equalizer. Still, I look forward to embracing the colours of the world. As summer rages on, its punishing yellows and reds, greens wilting to brown. I look forward to the reprieve of winter. The overcast moonstone white skies veined with grey. Evenings dusted in mauve. The coldness of blue stinging in the air.
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
For Further Reading:
Katy Kelleher's "Hue's
Hue Archives," at the Paris Review
Amanda Michalopoulou's short
story: "The Way YouMight Break a Finger," from Words Without Borders
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