I think we can make
something of very little if we’re pre-disposed to as W. G. Sebald’s character
is described in Austerlitz:
‘… as he talked, forming perfectly balanced sentences out of whatever occurred to him, […] and the way in which, in his mind, the passing on of his knowledge seemed to become a gradual approach to a kind of historical metaphysic, bringing remembered events back to life.’
Reducing this lofty
concept to domestic banality then, let’s consider the memory and naming of
colours. The bliss of my childhood paint box: burnt umber, raw umber, cobalt,
sienna, dark sienna, sepia, lead white and the travels these names carried me
on before the concentric circles of my life looked like reaching their limits.
So now we come to the
banality of bedroom one destined for Arabian Red which ended being Summer
Pudding. Arabian Red was, of course, entirely wrong but
would the name have conjured the occupant’s dreams to smell and feel coarse woven wool, dwindling smoke, freezing starlight, fat low moon rather than a
dumpy pudding with a spring of mint on top in a soggy English climate? The
pudding, a passing pleasure, the other, connection to a land of pain and
pleasure, fear and adventure.
 |
| La gitane |
Bedroom two became
Swedish Blue (with a hint of arsenic green) where at least, with soft white
cotton voile puddling to the floor, doors flung open to the garden and a pair
of eighteenth-century china dogs on guard, a sense of romanticism could be
observed; given a little imagination.
Finally the
entrance hall where choice wavers between Maria Theresa Yellow, Sun
Yellow or Sun Dust #2 or #3. I wish
Maria Theresa’s colour bore more resemblance to the dress of La gitane by Kees van Dongen, 1910 (L’Annonciade,
Musee de Saint-Tropez). I’m afraid it’s going to be Sun Yellow that
lifts us from our grey little lives. As
we admire its chalky texture, we’ll congratulate ourselves on a good choice and
remember the places we still want to visit, trying very hard not to remember
how little time is left.
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