The study induced Bark, and the guest room, given its here-and-there smatterings of deep red, earned Bunchberry. The living room I privately christened Driftwood. But coming to recognize them a few summers ago may explain the exercise I self-imposed then: naming our house’s rooms based on their predominant colors and what of the natural world they evoked. What such choices reveal about me, I can’t say. Best I know, green lichen splotching rocks in the woods or shores may be bright but is never neon. It’s fairly safe to say that the colors on my walls, in the bed linens, upholstery, or even the dishes on the table are primarily those occurring in the natural world. These, I’ve found, have longer “shelf-life.” They marry well with art and rugs and, especially in the case of our island house, don’t attempt to upstage the native landscape and views beyond the windows. Any deviation has been in the realms of mushroomy browns or the palest sage greens. The paint chips, however, were another matter.įor wall paint, I naturally gravitate to that part of the color wheel favoring beige, tan, cream, and myriad off-whites. My preferred wardrobe choices with, apparently, the default set to my go-to black, has evolved by way of what’s most comfortable, easy, and, especially when packing for trips, requiring the least amount of thought. Later in the essay Hurd gets into her themes: how or why some of us want to blend in unnoticed with our surroundings, and how what we attempt to camouflage can be more revealing than a bright costume or masquerade.
MACARONI TANGERINE COLOR WHEEL SKIN
Writes Hurd, about loving such a comparison, “all those shadings, the shadows on its curves, the way something as invisible as wind could change its shape.” For her, color was not about complementing skin tone, improving vivacity. “But that one,” her mother exclaimed, “makes you look like a sand dune.” Which clinched it.
She plucked a camel-colored coat from a rack and held that up instead. Standing before a mirror, her mother held up a green coat to her daughter, declaring the color turned her hair golden, made her face more vibrant. Her mother kept selecting green coats from the racks, in shades Hurd describes as “emerald,” “jade,” “apple green,” and an “almost lime.” Hurd wanted brown. In it, she recounts an episode when, at age 14, she and her mother went shopping for winter coats. And the occasional green that, I assure you, is neither neon or lime. As would my interspersed “splashes of color” – muted shades of brown. But the amount of time I spent perusing the Benjamin Moore color kiosks was so protracted, it even seemed to arouse curiosity if not suspicion in a young clerk who meticulously stacked and restacked a nearby display of bagged sidewalk salt and re-arranged a phalanx of snowblowers for which an anything-but-normal Chicago winter has yet to elicit much demand.Ĭolor is important to me, although, were you to open my clothes closet, its preponderance of black and grey may suggest otherwise. This should’ve been easy – my palette when it comes to home décor is, by intention, fairly limited.
I left with another brand I liked just as well, and, as important, in an easier-to-live-with blue and black.Īs it so happened, the next stop on my errand run was the hardware store, my single mission there to select some paint chips as possible colors for a few walls in our house. The other options: orange, crimson, and an eye-popping purple and teal combo. Earlier this week, at the store where I’d gone to buy new running shoes, the young saleswoman and I agreed about which pair seemed to fit me best.
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