Thursday, December 05, 2013
The
Colour of Memory
Modern life is destroying colour in a kind
of genocide, a universal clearance of the natural spirit of tone, shade, tint
and hue. So it appears to me in retrospect.
The following lines by A E Houseman
encompass the notion that for each of us, memory has its own presiding colour.
For him, blue represented a time, an age to which he could never return.
For me it is colour in its very being. As I have already ventured, I became a
putative Zen Buddhist in its early adolescent form though without any such
label. The brief vignette in an earlier post in this series recounted the
rhapsodic nature of being in a lilac tree or the extraordinarily vibrant
flashes of blue and yellow in corn fields that were not yet annually brutalized
by spraying. Those were the days when a farmer or gardener fought cunning
battles with predators, with their blood constantly on his hands, and had a
kind of grudging respect for his foes, even though today we might regard the
strung up carcasses of birds and animals to deter further predation, primitive
and inhuman. We now prefer mechanised killing on a grand scale from planes,
from tractors and from genetic laboratories and have a growing population of
city estate children with no knowledge of where eggs or milk or the beef in
burgers come from, or of nettles and thorns or wild fruit and fungi. No, those playful
days provided arrays of colour in the hedgerows, meadows and cultivated fields
that burn in the mind’s eye.
Nothing since compares in my mind to the spectacular
spectrum of colours to be found in birds’ eggs, their positioning next to each
other in cardboard containers lined with cotton wool. If a rainbow had been
constituted from the colours to be found in my box, it would have stretched right
across the sky. I suspect that in those immediate, post-war British days where
the range of paint was limited in houses, where products in ironmongers and
department stores were similarly lacking in much beyond magnolia, green and brown,
when fathers wore dun and grey utility attire and women had not cultivated the
seeds of fashionable independence, eggs were a wonder. They were a child’s
stained glass windows affording a view of the spiritual essence of existence.
Since then industrialisation and mass production have led us to a point where
we cannot pick wild flowers without guilt and where more and more flora and
fauna are necessarily added to the lists of the protected. It is said that 96%
of all species that have ever existed have become extinct. In my own private
lifetime with its unique visual history, it is the bleaching and extinction of
so much colour, wild, savage and limitless that causes the pang of loss. It is as
if, as I age, Death, the robber, has begun to visit early to begin pilfering my
sensibilities from me.
He is particularly keen on colour.
www.chronometerpublications.me
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