White Lines

WORDS: MIKE MCCORMACK ~ ART: EMMA PETTERSSON

Always the colour first and then the shape; always that split-second lag before the borders meet as outline, before containment. No doubt there are cognitive reasons for this, neurological and so on, but I am convinced the world is drawn into being by colour before it is ever shaped by line. Floors and flowers and coffins and god knows what gathering to their own shades and hues, each one of them after the fact; each one of them belated and just in time.

This being the time-being of course…

And would anything be gained if we could hold the world in that moment before colour is contained? What would we see? Colour as ecstasy… colour in the wild…free colour…colour, not coloured. And it is by no means certain that we would be able to cope with these sudden colours. Maybe that momentary glimpse is enough. Otherwise who knows what sort of blindness might afflict us.

And if being rather than beings were suffused with dye how would the world show up? What patterns and rhythms would it run to? What are the real colours of loss and grief and fond farewell… In what shades would gratitude come up? A life lived wisely – what hues and…

Up all night putting a different spin on our colour wheels…

And of course white is wilder than all the rest: wilder and deeper, less given to borders and horizons. Surely its instinct is to spread out and cover the world, to engulf in an obliterating embrace even as it withdraws to that originary point in which all things have their source. Easy enough to lose yourself in and be gone forever.

Deeper than the rest and less forgiving…

 

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