Sometimes when we travel, if we're lucky, we get changed, transformed by the experience. A few weeks ago, I was in DC and thanks to a thoughtful friend with tickets, I got to see two extraoridnary exhibits. (previous blogs)
To say both exhibits--the Janet Echelman tsunami of color at the Renwick, and the Kusama exhibit at the Hirschhorn--are colorful would be a gross understatement. They pulse, vibrate, ooze color. After falling into a color trance in those exhibits, back home I'm longing for that kind of deep saturation of color in my life.
The prayer cloths hanging in my office--saffron, gold--give me a boost of color. But I want more. I want to breathe in color, to be surrounded by it, to vibrate with it--like at the Hirschhorn exhibit.
My closet has bursts of color, especially my favorite reds. Could I live with a room entirely in red? Then I remember I tried that once. Years ago, a much younger version of myself painted some rooms the color of my lipstick, and the result was a terrible experience. A red foyer, a red hallway, and a red bedroom. Ugh. What had I been thinking? What had I wanted to achieve? That the wandering, unfaithful man in my life would be attracted to the color of my walls?
Maybe the lesson of this recent positive experience of drowning in color is to savor bursts of it wherever it appears. And to understand more deeply the therapeutic power of color. The Santa Monica Mountains are alive now with the yellow-chartreuse color of mustard plants. Last weekend on the way back from Montecito the mountains were mind-glowingly gorgeous--pulsating in vibrant yellows.