Carolyn J. Rose
Many of the photographs from
my early childhood (late 1940s and on into the 1950s) are in black and white.
So I’m not surprised that my mental snapshots are also in shades of black,
white, gray, and sometimes muted greens and reds. There is also pink in a
variety of shades because my grandmother, who sewed many of clothes, believed
firmly that boys wore blue and girls wore pink. (She also made everything a
size too large and a few inches too long because I was sure to grow into it.
But let’s not go back to that land of schoolyard embarrassment.)
My clearest memory of a color
beyond the traditional blues (navy and powder) selected for my brother’s
wardrobe, involves the discovery of a shard of robin’s egg dropped beside a
dirt road. I stared at it for long moments and then hunted for other pieces but
found none. (Robins may eat shells or carry them some distance from the nest.)
Disappointed, I took it home and put it on a shelf in my room. Later, when I
could be trusted (but not far) with a paint brush, I slathered an attempt at
matching that color on my bedroom walls.
Perhaps it was that same year
when I marveled at the deep blue of the Colorado summer sky. Don’t talk to me
about how sunlight is scattered and why the sky appears blue. I know what I
know. “Bluer than can be believed,” I called it. Photographs couldn’t capture
the depth of the color, but it imprinted on my brain and caused me to fall
deeper in love with all shades of blue.
Cobalt
Azure
Lapis
Sapphire
Cornflower
When it came time to paint or
repaint, my choice was always along the blue spectrum. No matter that others
indicated by their expressions or comments or complaints that they were done
with blue. Only occasionally did I cave, going for silvery gray, greenish gray,
or an off-white barely smoke-like shade of gray. Once I even made the daring
choice of—are you ready?—apricot.
It was a brief romance, and
one without chemistry or electricity.
And then it was back to blue.
This is, after all, my life.
