Blue and black, gold and white.
Light is seen in different ways, of course, but the same kind of light or color can be witnessed according to one’s field. In this way, who you are is found in the eyes.
What of color? It can’t be corrupted, right? Well..
The physicist notices the waves of light’s length. To the psychologist, the physiologist the notice of color is a matter of the synapses, of our neurological responses found deep in our eyes seeking marriage with the brain. Unfortunate few, frayed nerves, rickety nervous systems suffer limitations when absorbing color.
Color in nature is boon and bust; it offers nature-lovers awe when beauty fills their eyes, however, the hue and tone of a beast, of the flora and fauna is camouflage; it’s hiding place and its survival.
Understanding black, blue, ochre social historians and linguists unravel threads, tied to the shawl of community and culture. The art historian fumbles with skeins; seeing over time how, say, muted earth tones take on the patina of dream. For that artist, color is a turning of the inside out, bringing what lies beneath, atop, surfacing and glistening like blood, like stars in a dark sky. The intangible becomes wood, dark loam; a canvass of sea.
I’ll tell you how the sun rose a ribbon at a time
— Emily Dickinson