Orange is my favorite color. I decided this one day, the way one decides to have something on a menu. I gravitate towards saturated colors as it is, and it quickly became apparent that Orange and Purple were vying for my attention. It took some considering. But in the end, Orange kept taking the top spot. Purple was just too dark. I decided that Orange was more the direction I've chosen to go in my life. I want this brightness, this sensuality, this warmth. It looks like a plushy color. Like it might spring back from touch or like it might stick to any part it comes into contact with. I have no problem with that. I’d be happy to have Orange stick to me.
One of my earliest memories is of daycare. I must have been 3. I was a precocious child, but shy. I preferred to look at maps and read books. I think I had the teacher worried. Other kids were playing with blocks and fighting over play dough. I didn’t like the pink stain that the home made play dough left on my hands. It made it impossible to hold a book later, for fear of ruining those objects which I adored most. But I was a passive child, and did what I was told.
One day, one hot summer day, the teachers rolled out butcher paper under the canopy of a huge tree in the playground, and set out some paints on shallow lunch trays. I could see it coming: finger painting. I just wanted to finish my book. But the clever teachers got me. They managed to intrigue this jaded little girl. We were not to do finger-painting. It was all about the feet painting this fine day. As was my way, I didn’t voice many of my thoughts. Instead I ruminated internally. “Are they kidding? But we’ll get paint all over everything…Is there somewhere to wash afterwards? Are we expected to make something or just walk on the paper?” All along, Teacher Delia worked off my shoes and socks and put them neatly to the side before I realized she’d done so during my internal dialog. I was now barefoot in the playground and before me was a tray of red, one of blue, and one of green paint.
She nudged me along, giving instructions, though I wasn’t really listening because the instructions were self-explanatory. But I just couldn’t get it through my head that I was expected to walk on paint. I don’t know how long it took to coax me onto the activities. I don’t remember which paint I eventually chose. I haven’t the foggiest clue what, if anything, I painted with my tiny baby feet. I only remember standing in front of those trays, presented with the opportunity to do something unheard of.
Anyone who knows me now, knows that my preferred mode of existence is the bare-footed one. And that Art became part of my life in just as unexpected a way as that day of the painted feet. I can still conjure up the feelings of discomfort and forced rebellion in my little pre-school mind. Today Orange is my feet painting. Orange is what makes me feel daring. Orange, in a corporate world, is my life boat.
One of my earliest memories is of daycare. I must have been 3. I was a precocious child, but shy. I preferred to look at maps and read books. I think I had the teacher worried. Other kids were playing with blocks and fighting over play dough. I didn’t like the pink stain that the home made play dough left on my hands. It made it impossible to hold a book later, for fear of ruining those objects which I adored most. But I was a passive child, and did what I was told.
One day, one hot summer day, the teachers rolled out butcher paper under the canopy of a huge tree in the playground, and set out some paints on shallow lunch trays. I could see it coming: finger painting. I just wanted to finish my book. But the clever teachers got me. They managed to intrigue this jaded little girl. We were not to do finger-painting. It was all about the feet painting this fine day. As was my way, I didn’t voice many of my thoughts. Instead I ruminated internally. “Are they kidding? But we’ll get paint all over everything…Is there somewhere to wash afterwards? Are we expected to make something or just walk on the paper?” All along, Teacher Delia worked off my shoes and socks and put them neatly to the side before I realized she’d done so during my internal dialog. I was now barefoot in the playground and before me was a tray of red, one of blue, and one of green paint.
She nudged me along, giving instructions, though I wasn’t really listening because the instructions were self-explanatory. But I just couldn’t get it through my head that I was expected to walk on paint. I don’t know how long it took to coax me onto the activities. I don’t remember which paint I eventually chose. I haven’t the foggiest clue what, if anything, I painted with my tiny baby feet. I only remember standing in front of those trays, presented with the opportunity to do something unheard of.
Anyone who knows me now, knows that my preferred mode of existence is the bare-footed one. And that Art became part of my life in just as unexpected a way as that day of the painted feet. I can still conjure up the feelings of discomfort and forced rebellion in my little pre-school mind. Today Orange is my feet painting. Orange is what makes me feel daring. Orange, in a corporate world, is my life boat.
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