For color and beauty alone


Jessie Warren

A picture taken at Art Prize this year of one of my favorite sunsets in the city.

A classic melody slowly winds us into greens and taupes, mixing smoothly with primary tones of red, blue, and yellow. Deep auburn takes the lead, the once melodic tone turning hazy and muffled as the conversation between strangers crescendos. Things skip, a silent bell rings as crickets chirp, and indigo rests within the stuffy, yet open and aerated, rooms connected by a simple chestnut door. Rapidity heightens now, music pounding with little bass. Lush greens meld endlessly with fresh blues, not exactly stopping where they are drawn. They float up into one another, like tie-dye—little decorum.

By the swimming pool, we see first the peachy hues of orange and pink mingling with aquamarine and stone of grey. Things are gentle again, the air outside providing daytime heat accompanied by the light feeling of summer nights. Bicycles drive upon gravel streets as the classical refrain elongates as if we are running alongside them. The sky is endless, and so is the mellow heartbeat that rests behind the soft harmony placed there once, maybe long ago, by an unknown composer. Things shift from the aforementioned tune to silence and back again as emotions long kept in become common knowledge.

The nature of things becomes playful shortly, lime raining down upon mahogany. Curiously raw, as if born anew. Then white, like the clouds. Music so high it is barely there, only heard in the hearts of those that know it. Those that have known it and can recognize it lightly in the background. Rapidly torn away, depth of tone choking those on the receiving end. Back to cobalt, and rain. Cold rain.

They float up into one another, like tie-dye—little decorum.”

Voices strewn over orchestra. Dust and nineteen-eighties pop music. The in-between painted emerald and onyx. Paper of cream, pen of obsidian. White. Then morning fog acquainted with cold water of teal. Questions and worries. No music anymore, just heartbeats and glances. Then she accompanies us all once more, with her melodies and harmonies that fit every mood and shape every moment. Blush and ash and the crinkling of bedsheets stained with tears. Finely carved stone archways with ivy working their way throughout. 

Goodbyes and hellos, not necessarily to solid beings but to times wasted playing games. Olive-tinted comfort within sheets of creme and covers of beige. Sloping hills where piano overshadowed by crashing waves and shouts of freedom ring. Then comes azure and The Psychedelic Furs. Church bells ring, and pain spreads like butter on toast as two so bound to one another realize that the color that they so beautifully painted across their lives is wasted soon by distance. Nighttime. Dreams of things not seen by those observing this tale, but only by those within it. Wonders and wishes.

Trains. The sky now melding with light stone. The red of the curtains, and the brown of the bag. No beat, but no silence either. Existence, or the lack thereof. Tears and the stroking of a mother’s touch along her child’s head. Done in comfort, though none now exists. Forgiveness by those hurt for pigmentation and music that they unknowingly could not provide in another’s life, and understanding that those that could provide such beauty will go unmatched. 

For color and beauty, we walk to the ends of this Earth.

For color and beauty alone.