Existence

My mother loved pastels. The palest of colors, nearly not color at all. Pale blue, pale green. All our walls and her clothes - self made of chosen fabric, a standard pattern, light and just this close to colorless.

I hated pastels. Preferring dark greens and blues, and purples especially. Clear and intense colors, jewel tones.

Painting over the muddy darks of the previous owner's covering for their Big Screen TV sins, in vibrant blue and cranberry ice, I think about color a lot. Affects my emotions and sense of wellbeing. As well as maternal preferences. Love that the colors I've chosen would piss her off.

The nearly white tangerine for the alternate walls is another matter. A tint of a clear orange, not a pastel. White with a slight lean toward a clear orange.

Definitely tending to the cleanest of colors. Hints and suggestions. Too light for pastels.

They put "celery" up once. I hated it immediately, but my opinion was discounted. It was too yellow, a vomitous color, which was eventually noticed. I have visceral reactions to color. They should have paid attention. I was not given credit, of course.

Color is not just a matter of shade, but of brilliance, shade, hue, and how much in what context. I love purple, but a purple house or car is not good. Our house is green with orange trim, it works, I don't know how. But House knows what she is, what looks good, and I listen.

She loves these vibrant hues, bright and intense. The houses around here that are more modern boxes love the muted tones of museums, art-ready walls. It matters how a color is used. How dull or cheerful, how small or vast. It all matters. Sunsets are gorgeous, but so are scarabs. Everything needs to know itself.

We need to know what we are.