Tag Archives: blue

Mazarine, Luteus, Vermilion

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The other day at work in the library while prying apart two colossal artbooks- my left hand pushing the row as far over as it would budge, while holding between right thumb and forefinger another sizable tome, the remaining three fingers were left with thrusting the opposing mountain of books to the opposite side when Lo! a small book revealed itself recessed in the deep shadows of the imposing giants surrounding it. With all of my fingers engaged, I let out an exasperated sigh. With reluctance, I released the hard earned space I had created. I  deftly (more likely, spasmodically) slipped my left hand in before the hidden entrance snapped shut in the jungle of books squeezed onto the shelf. If it hadn’t been a high shelf I might have engaged my foot to keep that damn space, but alas, I do try to maintain a professional demeanor.

My wearied fingers just managed to coax the little book out. I had only intended to help it reclaim its allotted space, but when I read the title, The Primary Colors by Alexander Theroux, I had to take a look. That very morning I had finished reading The Manticore by Robertson Davies, so when his back-of-the-book-two-cents blurb promising essays of “prodigal and vagarious adventure” as oppose to the “terse and apophthegmatic” sort, well, I ask you – how could leave it on the shelf?

The word sings. You pout pronouncing it, form a kiss, moue slightly, blowing gracefully from the lips as if before candles on a birthday cake (3).

Blue. It can only be blue, of course. Theroux’s discursive, plaited, and enigmatic exaltation of the primary color is a crazy delight to read. In equal parts: laundry list, rapturous praise, historical, poetical, and literary- azure my love, and blue, blau, bleu…some 50 pages into the thicket of illusive, expensive, pensive, doleful, blithe, yet blissful blue, Theroux insouciantly begins a new paragraph by saying, “Speaking of blue…”

Georgiana Peacher in Mary Stuart’s Ravishment Descending Time may well have given us the greatest passage on yellow eyes ever written, which I include here for, among other things, the edification of those undermedicated hacks, shameless book-a-year novelists, and jug-headed commercialists yahoos whose predictable prose comes cranking out of the trafila of their heads like streams of common pasta (104).

Yellow seems the perfect color to evince such a vitriolic run of the pen. At once sickly and weak it just as easily turns to exuberant luster. The sultry and louche lemonade pucker in no way disturbs the energetic primordial yellow, “I was going into the yellow” as Theroux quotes Marlow looking at a map of the Belgian Congo, “I was going into the yellow” (157).

As to barbaric richness of color, Francis Bacon, who wanted, among other things, to make the human scream into something “which would have the intensity and beauty of a Monet sunset,” like the color of blood, whether Antioch-red or paintbox bright or cherry: “It’s nothing to do with mortality, but it’s to do with the great beauty of the color of meat” (193).

Indeed, it is not accidental, I think, that  “there is no red Necco wafer” (172). Of all the names for red: cochineal, carmine, rubious, crimson, scarlet, a seemingly endless array of nuance and aspects. The copse of all that red denotes, connotes or promotes seems to tangle Theroux a bit in the final essay. As if there is too much to feel in this – the true primary color (no matter the language, “red” is always the first color named after black and white). Love and death, fervor, pain, a blush, the saucy and tart – my heart! my heart! Cranberry that it is, bursting with bitterness, but ever awaiting the sweet start.

 

*luteous (from lutum, mud) one of those perfectly good English words completely ignored nowadays as pretentious and arch, except by literate people like Virgil, who in his day used the word “luteus” as a synonym for yellow (73).

** Print by Dana Jennings Rohn

 

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Feeling Glaucous

He is surging up from under my pen.
Vladimir Nabokov, Spring in Fialta (298)

IMG_0031The sea, its salt drowned in a solution of rain, is less glaucous than grey with waves too sluggish to break into foam. (289)

Glaucous. It was Vladimir Nabokov’s short story Spring in Fialta that made me look it up. Some people prickle when the more obscure words of our language are put to the use they were meant for. But not me. I love my dictionaries and especially, with a mother’s love of the neglected, the recondite words within. Specific words can have complex personal histories of epic proportions to the user or writer: a life that looms like a long shadow behind the letters which readers can never fully make out. Still,  the secret life of the writer’s words breathe and color the sentences. I experience words in a very visceral and visual way. I don’t have synesthesia, as Nabovov did, but I do understand the personal connection.

…but with every new book the tints grew still more dense (299)

However,  glaucous is a problem child. The definition says it is blue-grey. Ah, but it also says it is yellow-green. That is a obfuscation that I can not quite forgive. In the story Nabokov surely intends it to mean blue-grey- his sea is more grey, but the mood is clearly blue. A woman, Nina, comes in and out of Victor’s life, casting a glaucous glaze of love and longing over his life, his story.

And moreover was she not chained to her husband by something stronger than love – the staunch friendship between two convicts? (306)

Nabokov uses color to illustrate what is a story of a story. The way that our remembrances take on a remote quality of literature within our own minds is fascinating: the fugue of color and book beautifully describing memory’s form.

Inspired, I perused (another problem child having -in many dictionaries- duel opposing meanings, in this case I mean skittered through- which is of course the meaning sometimes rejected, but I always root for the underdog) Color: A Natural History by Victoria Finlay. It was fun poking around the history of how the colors we use were and are procured. They all have their own tales of intrigue, blood or murder. I can’t look at my freshly painted red nails now without conjuring up the image of  bloody cochineal beetles farmed from the cactus prickly pear to make true carmine red. The mythical cow piss and mango makings of orange, and the horrors of slow death by (lead) white paint all linger in the technicolor images of my mind.

Each of the side-pillars [of the door] is fluffily fringed with white, which rather spoils the lines of what might have been a perfect ex-libris for the book of our two lives. (292)

The Spring of Fialta is a chromatic tale that comes together into a epiphany of white light at the end: the full spectrum moment of clarity in which the admission of unrequited love is made. The “scarlet woman” of his affection has the same problem many pigments throughout history have had- they never “fix.” They fade, or worse turn into completely different colors- white or green turns black, reds become drab browns. The color of love may be unknown or different in each heart, but surely it is color fast?

She kissed me thrice with more mouth than meaning (291)

Of course, as Finley tells us, the word scarlet didn’t originally mean the color red. It was rather the cloth itself. A scarlet woman is a woman of the cloth. Oh that’s funny. I love words.

*The Spring of Fialta from The Penguin Book of Russian Short Stories edited by David Richards