Out of the Crayon Box : Red
Red. Open us up and that’s what we spill.
Anything walking around on earth is a bag of contained red and we are each our own private Lake Baikal of blood, each animal its own deepest lake, its trailing runnels branching off into ever smaller tubes of containment, rushing on timetables of fluid precision, a rushing at the tides’ say so, the sound of a sea shell held to the ear. It’s amazing that all this liquid stays inside, and if some of it comes out, it can make you queasy. A darting glance at mortality in a sudden splash, a vibrant stain.
When this most precious juice leaks to the outside: It makes your head spin, to prick your finger for Science Lab when you are sixteen. Supposed to do a blood test and record the results. Feeling faint, must rush outside and take in some air. An acquaintance awkwardly pats your back. You won’t be going into medicine for a career. Be an artist, instead. So satisfying to step on a tube of paint labeled carmine, and squish the red out. Trail your heels through it, smash it on the studio floor. Guts. Do you have the guts? It’s all there, red and gelatinous, inside you. Women never forget this.
Open up the earth and lava comes out; it is red, too. Boil yellow and orange hot enough, they become red. This is what the thunder gods and blacksmiths knew. That we have to keep the heat, the anger, the lust, the power contained and inside, and that it takes a craftsman to know how to turn it into something else we can use. We are each our own deepest journeymen, going at it hammer and tongs, blasting through lifetimes to channel our heat to conscious purpose.
When we can’t see live fire, everyday objects in red remind us we’re alive. Red is what children play with: wagons, plastic toys, shiny wooden blocks, wiry metal chairs. The color that defines an object’s most classic form, reduced to its most basic, recognizable self: a red car, a red rose, a red cape, a red gingham tablecloth, a red dog collar, a red apple. A fierce white rooster with a bright, red comb. A red object says: See, I am the truest thing. I might come in other colors, but you will see me and read life’s iconography best if I am red. Red is where it all starts. If you ever forget what this object is, red will remind you. Apples are green, they are pink, they are pale red, they are yellow. But nothing says apple, like red.
A red door, a red dress, red shoes. This color rushes to the front of the line. It can’t help it, our eyes are conditioned to see it first, and prick up our senses, in case something untoward should occur. Pay attention. Red never makes a statement that sounds like a question. Hesitant, never. Misguided: sure. But red is always certain. Once it makes a decision, it doesn’t doubt itself. Is this why a Hindu bride wears red? The wedding lasts for hours, the reception lasts for days, guests stay around for weeks; the marriage is built to last forever and beyond.
But what if you get tired of red, living with it every day? Red rooms overheat us, and look tawdry by light of day. Red never changes its mind, can hardly register that you’d want to. There is really no room for you to waver. It’s all red, or nothing. It’s idea of a request is really a command. A bark, a shout of conquest. You are required to meet red with its same intensity of mood. So we contain it. Will red ever forgive you for choosing pink, or orange? Sure. Red couldn’t care less. Red is proud that we can only handle it in small amounts. But how we savor those moments of red.
A red mug, the favorite. A red flannel nightgown, a red lumberjack shirt: so comforting. The throat of a rare bird, the blare of a horn section, a smear of red lipstick. A red sweater will give you courage when you are a thousand miles from home. The wool of a soldier’s redingote, before camouflage became necessary, before it became savory to commit violent deeds undetected. Once, the noble urgency of violence meant soldiers wanted everyone to know that red was on their side. Not anymore. Now that killing is so easy, please let the shedding of blood be discreet.
To get a true red, they once crushed the shells of beetles for it. Most of the time, reds were finicky oranges, indecisive madder, reddish purples, dried blood maroon, not a true red. The red in cheaply dyed cotton was called “Turkey Red,” because the most dependable red dye came from Turkey. The sun has faded cheaply dyed red fabrics, now, two hundred years later, to yellow, beige, even ivory. The red has completely disappeared from some of the textiles of the 19th century.
Red refused to comply with time. Red said: I don’t intend to age. Like a dame with a cigarette dangling out the side of her mouth, Red said: I won’t hang around here, if I’m not noticed. Sun, take my soul back from this abandoned quilt. You know I’m the color of blood: The only color it comes in. I’m nothing if I’m not alive.
