Is anything black or just white or even black and white? There are shades of grey—and don’t forget some blacks are warmer than others. Some are blue/black; some are red/black. I’ve seen it in the bleed from my Epson printer.
So why do I rant about this now? I’ve been limiting my colors all week, black and white and brown and white, as a way of keeping my sanity, trying not to get angry at little things or at myself for not being perfect, and because it seems a fitting image for our world right now.
Apparently, many of us want to be with people just like us, who look like us, and who think like us. Perhaps it makes us feel safer, and there is less time spent in discussion giving us more time for Pokemon Go or whatever.But the reality is this: like it or not, we are all different even if we appear the same. Our children, bless them, are not exactly like us whether the same blood or just our love flows through them.
We used to talk about America as a melting pot. We thought everyone eventually learned English and moved out of the neighborhoods where their native languages were spoken and into the suburbs where they dreamed the American dream and became like their neighbors. The dirty little secret was that we were all still different; we just didn’t admit it.
My American dream is for a great salad, not a bland fondue—those of us with color and without not melting into a single, unrecognizable generic monoculture, but adding our own distinct flavor to the mix and being celebrated and respected for that contribution. Hopefully, my art is like that too.