Brown is now our primary color. Brown and maybe some yellowish-brown, reddish brown and green-don’t forget-with tinges of brown.
The snow must fall only to cover up the dreadfully bland palette that, not unlike a preschool painter that mixes every color to come up with a sludgy, dark combination to smear on their canvas, was plastered over our trees, hills and bushes for months on end.
In snow, it’s a winter wonderland. White, clean, cool and gorgeous. The world becomes a two-tone monochromatic silver halide photograph. The snow is white, everything else, dark, other. Give me fat flakes obscuring all but the hundred yards encircling me, a personal snow globe.
So spring is springing, but has not yet sprung and the only thing worse than not seeing the sun for two and a half months is having it illuminate the dirty, mud-soaked, grass- and sweat-stained football jersey that is this town.
I remarked once last summer driving through the Navajo Reservation that I wished to have a color swatch for each tone I saw in the landscape, I was so moved by the colors. To recreate even a shadow of the earth’s uncanny ability to spin the color wheel, to know instinctively which pastel perfection matches which, would be a blessing, a joy, would make a house a home, a home an ode to Mother Nature’s artistic hand.
Hopefully I’d be painting over the colors I see here now. For they deserve no presentation or thought. Ponderousness would be lost, for there’s no conclusion to come to, no deeper meaning to find in the colors of sick, of, not quite death, but the sallow, gaunt horrors of the undeath, the surviving but only just, the sick gasp of a landscape fresh released from an icy burden.
Oh good. Here’s some rain.
yousharknotpass
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
theartofmadeline
blakekathryn
gummygunk
kaledo-art
origamiaround
