As Liz said I'm applying for a master's right now, and while I do I'm taking some classes. One is a class in color, my favorite of most favorite topics. My confession though, is that no matter how much l love mixing new colors, swirling my palette knife around, or meticulously applying the paint to grids + wheels + charts ... My favorite part ? When I get up after all my concentration, turn the faucet on, and watch the colors run together, or thin out, or grow. I like the found combinations I hadn't planned on, but happened to house next to each other in their divots. I overheard a girl in my class say she preferred her metal palette to her plastic, because the paints didn't stain the steel color like they did the white. And it's funny because for as type A as I am, those stains are one of my favorite parts. Like an antique quilt faded from time in the sun and loving washes, or a table whose rings tell the stories of a thousand dinner parties, a colored patched palette warms my soul.
And I find myself snapping pictures of these palettes as I let the water run though my sink. For what ? I don't even know, but lucky you, you get to see them too.
I went to wash this last one last week + thought to myself how ugly it was. Clumpy and dark, I had no plan of photographing it. But as I stared and thought this, I realized how much I felt like that palette on this particular day. I was having a very sad day that felt heavy and blue. It was dark, and felt like I had to trudge through the muck, instead of swimming though cool lake water.
So I took a photo of him too. It felt worthy after it felt representative. And I don't even know why I'm sharing this with you except to say color is one of my favorite things (and I usually use too many words to say very simple things). And to love objects and people for where they are worn + tattered + imprinted, because that is where they've been loved or hurt -- probably the things that have made them the better imperfect that they are today