Let's think about color.
Once, many years ago and many miles from here, I was a student with little money and a budding aesthetic. I learned to dye natural fabrics with coffee, tea and certain dark vegetables. I learned that a set of mismatched solid and striped towels could be unified with an application of powdered dye in black, turning them into coordinating deeper shades of themselves with black flecks.
Probably should've been a clue to rethink that biology major.
Possibly I found my palette there. Reds were deep, orange was burnt and yellow was gold. Purple became eggplant, Blue muted by winter, French and midnight. Green shades of sage, moss and Charleston. Rare touches of pink dampened into deeper shades found in varieties of flesh.
Possibly it goes way deeper.
It rained the other night and I turned everything off so I could listen to the sounds. As I lay there, Bilbo bit at my toes. I knew what he wanted. He wanted to ride. He climbed on and hung on tightly while I bounced my foot up and down, up and down. I imagined the spring-based tot rides at the park. How about a giant foot to bounce on? Bilbo is getting too big for this. Soon it won't work anymore.
I can no longer throw Orion in the pool.
In a way, it's like shrinking.
But I was talking about color. As I lay there listening to thunder and bouncing Bilbo I looked at the art on my walls. My work and that of others, all in the palette I'm drawn to. The same colors that followed me to and from all the places I've lived.
My furnishings fall within these shades.
As do the clothes in my closet.
Basic colors with undertones of black. It makes perfect sense for me.
Shades, not tints. Is my palette made up of ghosts of other colors?
Children ask each other, "What's your favorite color?" It is, after all, a completely logical question.
What's your favorite color then, and why might that be? Let's talk about color.