A meditation on light and colors
I'm in my era of pink.
I am looking outside my window to a sky that I can see through the bare branches of winter that is the color of a powdery blue veil. On top of a branch directly in my sightline is a black plastic bag that has been entangled there for years—I can’t remember exactly how long, but long enough that it’s badly tattered and frayed at the edges.
In winter, this is how I know that it’s windy outside. This bag that has taken on a second life as an accidental windsock has survived years against the harshest elements, giving testimony to something that we all know to be true: plastic bags never die. By summer, when the same view out my window has filled in with leaves, the bag is inhaled by the greenery, not to be seen until months later when the leaves turn and drop again.
The sun is out today. It finally came out on Saturday and has stayed since at full strength. We’re not taking it for granted because it had been a really gloomy January full of days when the color of the sky bleeds into the concrete of the sidewalks uninterrupted. From my camera, the monochromatic compositions of these neutrals in one frame can be pleasing; in real life, however, the view outside my window all month looked as if the city had all the color sucked right out of it.
As I sit in my room watching the sun throw all kinds of light and patterns on the wall, I’m beginning to understand why such a prolonged lack of sun is oppressive; the sameness of everything that is cast by gray skies is disorienting.
There is no change to track the progression of the day;
No shadows that grow and contract with the sun’s angles;
No patterns of light tracking time across my ceiling.
Sunbeams that flood through the window are the ephemeral planes where the hard edges of inside vs. outside get blurred.
Cats are wise to this.
As much as I love color—and I do—my aesthetics in pretty much any creative expression has been grounded in neutrals. I typically wear black, gray and navy most of the time (I know, how predictable as a New Yorker) and my home is decorated in these same colors too. There’s something to be said about a color that makes you feel at home with yourself. As a gothy moody teenager, black was that color and it’s been that thread of consistency through the years.
But as I get older, I’ve softened to the idea of certain colors that I swore I would never wear. I added white to my wardrobe a few years ago and the lightness that it brought felt profound. I never thought I would be a person who wears white at all, but I love it now and colors that I rejected previously because they were too charged with things that I didn’t want to associate with—too preppy, too girly, too fussy!—are getting second looks now.
I seem to have entered into my era of pink. It started a few years ago with a single pale pink t-shirt. Maybe I got sucked into the trend because millennial pink was everywhere in stores, but I discovered it to be a versatile addition to my dark wardrobe. The particular shade I’m referring to is found along the translucent tips of my cat’s ears and the very first blooms of Spring. It’s the color of innocence and the color of promise.
For christmas, I requested a multicolor striped scarf that has a huge swath of bright pink. It makes me happy. Then while thrifting with the kids last month during the coldest week we’ve had all year, I spotted a bright pink cashmere sweater on the racks. It’s the same color as a vintage cardigan that I had for 15 years and wore till it fell apart. The shade of pink is hard to describe—not quite watermelon and not quite berry, but undeniably bright. It is the color of happiness; it is the color of my future.
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I’ve been avoiding color in my artwork for a few reasons. First—and I know I’ve said this before—I really do feel like I’m learning how to draw all over again. Second, paint is really expensive. I know I shouldn’t think like this, but when I look at a painting, especially one that is rich in texture and brushstrokes, one of the thoughts that run through my head is: how much paint did the artist go through? What is the cost of this work in tubes of paint? Having given all of my paints to my artist teenager who has been way more prolific and skillful in painting than I am, I get shellshocked looking at the cost of paints. So I stick with pencil and charcoal for now.
In my mind, however, I visualize works that I want to paint someday, but I’m intimidated because I’m not sure I have the skill yet to execute them. I see abstraction and fields of color that I’m not sure I’m ready to dive into. Colors are emotional and evocative of so many associations. I did not paint much when I was younger, even in art school, and I hated everything I produced.
When I begin again, it will be like learning a completely new medium. For now, when working with charcoal where I’m learning how to build layers in this rhythmic exchange of additive strokes and subtractive erasure, I can see how I might approach a canvas with a paintbrush. It’s teaching me how to paint, and I’m learning all over again, the artistic difference between technical skill and expression.
Related reading
A few interesting things this week
Everyone’s a sellout now So you want to be an artist. Do you have to start a TikTok? (Vox) “The internet has made it so that no matter who you are or what you do — from nine-to-five middle managers to astronauts to house cleaners — you cannot escape the tyranny of the personal brand.”
This one has been making the rounds but a good read if you haven’t read it yet. I have thoughts about this, but probably in a future newsletter!
‘Gilmore Girls’ Is an Endless Buffet of TV Comfort Food (gifted NYT link) Why is this so true? This is the show I put on when I need something comforting and familiar in the background while I tackle mundane tasks, like taxes!
‘NPR is cool!’ How Tiny Desk Concerts became a pop culture phenomenon (The Seattle Times) Comparisons to MTV Unplugged? Yes, and thank god because some of those Unplugged performances were legendary.
Are you the same person you were when you were a child? (The New Yorker—may be paywalled)
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I’m not a person who goes viral on social media, but it’s happened a few times on Threads. On Monday night I mindlessly posted this after my feed was flooded about Sunday’s Grammy performance of “Fast Car.” I did not expect people to share memories of where they were in life when that song was released, but that’s exactly what they did. I guess this Atlantic article is right. Maybe we all needed a collective cry for awhile, and this was the moment.
It's funny that you have started to embrace pink into your wardrobe; I recently purchased my first (as an adult) pair of dungarees. I'm not so much venturing towards colour but feeling a urge to try something slightly out of character. I wonder if it's a new phase of life, maybe when kids are suddenly doing their own thing and we suddenly think: ok, who do I want to be now?
(Also, Gilmore Girls is our family go-to comfort watch, too!)
Yes to color! I’m the same. I used to be the neutral lady with my decor and wardrobe and now i am slowly adding the rainbow in. A reflection of what I want to invite more of in my life.
Love these lines:
The shade of pink is hard to describe—not quite watermelon and not quite berry, but undeniably bright. It is the color of happiness; it is the color of my future.