I was staring at the patterns (vaguely eastern) meditating on the fabric, and in a sudden epiphane I was suddenly aware that I had been in denial about my favorite colors- bouncing around from greens to oranges and blues if they were properly tealish. I was suddenly aware (with an importance I can't quite convey without admitting it will seem silly to you) that crimson has been my favorite color for a very long time. I'm drawn to reds and burgundies in my home things and my wardrobe,my paintings have always featured alizarin crimson. (I'm enamored too by the name of the plant used to make this pigment: madder.)
It was a blooming, powerful understanding to become aware that this color, of my blood and paint, of anger and power and passion, of birth and wounding, is my most beloved. It was like I'd always thought I was a ghost and suddenly realized I have substance. Flesh.
Crimson is a visceral, physical woman color. Throbbing, vampiric, erotic, wine color.
It's the hue of owning my mortality and physicality.
Edit: Art is a quickie PS manipulation of art that'll appear in Weave Issue #1.