I was lying in bed, drowsy and contemplative, and staring at what I think of as my g***y curtains: a too-large dress sliced up and tacked over the bedroom windows. There are violets and golds but the dominant color is a perfect, satisfying crimson.
I was staring at the patterns (vaguely Eastern), meditating on the fabric, and in a sudden epiphane I was aware that I had been in denial about my favorite colors- bouncing around from greens to oranges and blues if they were properly teal-ish. 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.
The image is a super-quickie PS manipulation of art that appeared (with no red) in Weave Issue #1. This was originally posted in a personal blog but I decided that it obviously belongs here.