“Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.” -Oscar Wilde
I think I could write a song called ‘Purple’. A song with no words, but a wealth of choral harmonies to wade between. And all would distill into lavender sweetness at first, and falter with a vulnerable flutter, but then it would merge into a highway of torrential grandness, and the color would deepen and deepen until– until its beauty was too great for the human ear to comprehend. It would end in a flash of clarity, and never resolve, just lilt out of sight and sound….
I think I could write a song called ‘White’. And because white is indeed a color, not just the absence of color, it would be thick and firm… but on the top there would glisten a layer of ruffly coloratura notes, which would lend a sense of innocence. But while white is pure and sweet, it is also strong and proud. So the reigning notes of White’s song would have long voices and measured vibrato, alluding to courage and honor and love. What can black do against such reckless beauty?
I think I could write a song called ‘Green’. It would modulate several times, each key higher than the last. Because green is a growing color. Not only is it the color of growing things, but it seems itself to grow. Green’s theme would be peacefully progressive, blowing from a whispering flirtation to intense and eager friendship. If you ever wanted to be friends with a color, pick green.
I think I could write a song called ‘Blue’. Oboes and clarinets would be called upon to play. And the notes they projected would wash the sea into your throat and the sky under your feet. Listen closely and see anew / the wonders and mercies of the color blue. Don’t look for bird interruptions or green undertones, for you will find none. Blue is vast and foamy and bold, and it calls. One could be subsumed forever into such fullness of life.
I think I could write a song called ‘Red’. It would be busy, it would be fast. Almost too fast, for before you scarcely had time to register the definite pattern of flickering, lively notes, it would vanish in a whirl of presumptuous authority. But you would smile, and probably play it again.
I don’t think I could write a rainbow. But I can let the elusive thoughts of such a melody caress my mind… and then I can go outside and watch the colors of the world splash by.
If you don’t have anything else to do… maybe you could come with me.