In 1968 I was eighteen when my son, James, was born. A complication caused a severe bleeding disorder and in the hours that followed I floated off into the wild blue yonder, dissolved into the vibration of color and sound, a delight beyond my power to explain. Each molecule that was once ‘me’ was immersed in everlasting essence.
Multiple transfusions corrected the problem but two months later I was hospitalized and kept in isolation for thirty days, the only remedy at that time for severe hepatitis. So isolation is not new to me, and in day 10 of “shelter at home” during this current pandemic I see similarities. Back then the staff wore full protective gear to clean my room, collect specimens, or to deliver meals. I could wave to my son outside when his grandmother brought him to the window but for the first two weeks I could not get out of bed or speak on the phone, nor even brush my teeth. I was to remain still. Stillness is not my thing.
During self-quarantine this time I roam miles of hiking trails on the mountain. I am free to cook, clean, iron, refinish my kitchen floor, and make dozens of cookies for our horses. In fact I have already done all these things in the first few days. During meditation each day I imagine waves of absolute, intense, extreme color washing over me, through and through. Golden yellow and bright rose, orange and violet, cocoa brown and fizzy pink. I think of others, the ill, those caring for them, and send color beaming their way. Last week I dropped off extra N-95 masks at the community clinic, masks left over from the firestorms here two years ago.
When I was twenty, living with my son on thousands of acres of grazing land, my hippy friends called me Rainbow Ma. They understood my color story. We are all just molecules in some kind of agreement, I told them. Lizards and frogs and yellow-breasted finches are agreements of molecules too. All is essence, just in different forms.
When I began remodeling houses in the 1970’s I started making my own paint colors; the standard colors were missing depth, they had no juice. I added a bit of intense yellow, cadmium red or deep violet tint. That mystical immersion at eighteen informed my intuitive mixes, and in time I taught myself all I needed to know to begin a career in decorative painting.
One day I was using a certain brush and making some marks for a random pattern and unexpectedly dabbed out what would become my logo. I call it the Hand of God. It turns out it is also very similar to the Hebrew letter Shin, which would be the first letter of my last name. But at the time I knew nothing about Judaism, and had no inkling that I would eventually convert. I just knew that this mark, this logo, represented what I experienced the day I dissolved into the everlasting forever, the day I was drenched in color, when I was eighteen.
Squash blossom yellow represents the light of the soul. And the fuchsia shadow line? I like to use unexpected colors for shadow. Monet often used lavender, other artists use dirty aqua or rich butter. In this case the shadow represents the heart, and bright contrast between the heart and soul feels like a sudden clap of joy, that’s what I see. The Hand of God is my shorthand for “this is this…” Be awake. Look, and you will see.
Translating color and how it makes people feel is sensitive business. Interpretation is required. Creating background tones that enhance rooms, and the people living there, is a thing. It’s my thing. After forty years I am quite good at it. But when designing, I am not looking at what is present, but what is wanted. Sometimes there is a client that, without realizing it, wants to feel more feminine. Or an eave line that wants to lift the roof. Transformation with color, and value, and contrast can set a building right. But in this pandemic, I have no magic formula. Like many of us I return to the comforts that I know. The transformation required all over the globe is internal. A reset. In forty more days we will perhaps have an inkling of what is wanted.
Is hope a color? Maybe it is pink, pink and gold, radiant and glimmering. I see it in the blooming lantana, those doll bouquets on our patio. I see it in the dawn, a pink light warming the golden grasses. In another eighty days the wisteria will be almost done, dropping white petals like snow. May we meet then, together stepping into our new day, survivors steeped in living color.
No matter what subject you chose here, I am ever reminded about a great writing of years ago, titled then, “Even So.” I have told so many others of that great piece. Could you not publish it so others could be transported also? I love your blogs here and cannot wait for more!
Your description of color, its power to transform and heal, speaks to my essence. Light and color are fundamental to well-being and I love that you live it, and give it to others.