When I was in the first grade I can remember a specific day that has never quite left me. It was a dreary Monday morning and I was coerced into wearing a pair of brown slacks by the parental units that were neither comfortable nor remotely close to what other kids were wearing. The very brownness of them depressed me—I know that sounds heavy for someone six years of age—but it's the only word that captures my memory. Specifically: I'm walking up Downs Avenue. I'm looking down and the rain is paining me. Stay with me, this story has a good end. I get to class and things just don't feel right. I never recovered from sleep. I was so anxious about my clothing (I don't think my shirt was much better). The truth is I simply wasn't feeling well. This was the source of my pain: a stomach bug that soon had me vomiting in our in-class bathroom. I think this made me cry, because I remember the blurry vision that comes from tears. I was lucky that my father was working from home that day and I was able to press the reset button. Soon I was back home, in bed, and recovering. I didn't throw up again but the stomach illness was bona fide. And yet, its connection with my mental outlook that day never left me. I connected being sick, the colour brown, and all my anxiety in one big mess of a concept. Cut to 2007 and I'm creating a folder in My Documents entitled Brown Period. I often title my works and ideas long before the meat. It's just my way, I'm sure many of you do the same. Illustrations like this one and this one and this one embody my love for brown. ¶ It's been years since I've avoided brown. The part of that day in 1981 that stays with me is how real and harsh everything felt. How sad I felt that my bad day was getting worse and worse. Until it got better. How good and relaxed I felt once home in bed. It may seem strange to associate a colour into that sort of experience, but it happens. The point, though, of these sorts of associations, is as true then as it is now, even if my feelings have inverted: it matters. It matters that I was wearing a pair of slacks that I hated. It matters that my father was home that day. It matters that it was raining. It matters that it wasn't entirely my brain that was on the fritz. My stomach was, too. And there's relief in all of it. An early cathartic day. Yes I avoided brown for many years after. That was the cost of my experience. The payoff is everything else. For example, the Brown Period, for whatever that is worth. ¶ No illustration this week. Freelance work has taken over my week! It's positive, all, so I'm not complaining and with any luck, I'll have my 9th portrait in Admiration of Benefit ready for Tuesday AM, even if I will be in NYC.

Labels: Brown, Freelancing, Memories, NYC, Vague

¶ 11:12 AM