Murals

I have begun to understand my life as colors.

Emotions are problematic for me – they are good, or they are bad, and all of the upsides seem to have downsides. Colors evade this paradox. There is no bad color, no hue without a place. A putrid greenish brown taken out of context makes my stomach lurch, but in a stifling bayou at midday with water striders casually walking on the foaming algae as if any creature could perform that miracle, with sweat beading on my brow, it is heaven.

I had a reliable, consistent, selfless love once, but he was white and black. The two rarely mingled into gray, and a day of blue or an occasional night of red felt like an entire light show in comparison. In his unhappiness, my pigments had to be divided among two canvases. Texture was impossible to achieve with the paint spread so thin.

Color explained this to me.

You told me I am various unusual shades of green – though with more poetic license - and that I matched our restaurant tucked into the canopy, our “veiled treescape” of City Park. A ridiculous voice of societal indignation suggested I should be offended to be reduced to a single muted color; I am, after all, an independent woman who has taken on the world, am I not?! No, world, I am not. My chest expands: I inhale the croaks of a frog hunkered down in tall wetland grasses. My chest contracts: I exhale the quietude of a Douglas fir growing strong beneath a blanket of fresh Sangre de Cristo snow. I see Goethe’s powerful red, and raise it a panoramic green.

Impulsively, I retorted that you are navy, crimson, white. You enabled this egotism, clarifying your familial colors, proudly explaining your crest. Our conclusions felt wrong, so I snuck them home, melted them down with intentions to build a better understanding, and now find the answer as I stir the molten wax – no reconstruction needed! There in the melting pot floats a shade only made possible by azure Bombay gin, gules maraschino liquer, or lemon, and confirmed by a splash of floral brandy: the most unconventional shade of violet.

Gone are the clean lines of pressed ties, white jackets, polished boots and wedlock. The blurred palette has been exposed and although I don’t dare to paint with it, I cannot unsee it – unsee you. My greens are found in every place, at any time of day, and there is value in that. You and your violet are excruciatingly uncommon (although occasionally imitated by a southern man in a thick lavender polo shirt that’s always just a bit too tight around his belly; a laughable attempt at rarity).

Like the Aviator, your hues come to life in the light, and when I give you a stir. People travel the world to gaze up at your ever-changing aurora borealis and get drunk on your seductive grapes. You are the indigo plant that is available to very few. The purple mountain majesty that provides the inspiration to win wars of independence. You are the gravitas felt by a ruler who assumes the duty of a kingdom. The open heart that whispers a prayer in the wee hours. You command full attention for a brief moment before a typhoon or a crucifixion, and then you disappear, leaving chasms that span eras before you reveal yourself again.

Build your fortress. Break the cloudy violet fluid into clearly constructed chambers of bold, well-defined colors. Gaily proclaim your crest as bestowed upon you by tradition and legacy! Give audience to those who do not question.

I will sit Indian-style on my lily pad, laughing at our inside joke, unafraid of the salty green crocodiles and enjoying the bugs and birds that light across my Thumbelina world. When I catch a glimpse of a purple dartfish or wake to a veil of violet fog or see the sunset turn amethyst behind my cypress grove, I will paint an art nouveau mural in my mind to save the scene, gild it with a golden thought of gratitude, imagine a palace where it could be displayed as a series, and smile at our muted Mardi Gras.

New Orleans, 12 May