Yesterday you sent me a snap, a black Saison, with the caption, âas black as my soulâ. Of course, we joked that it obviously is not so, in words so firm and strong to leave no room for possibilities. It stuck with me all day, an image forming in my head, that ignited a charcoal burning desire to paint. Even though I now am beginning to know the secrets of oils, they do not seem like the correct medium to portray your soul, a thing more complex than any two-dimensional form could every display, nor could a third do it right. Yet the image smolders at the edges of my mind, an image that absolutely does have black in it.
      How does one define the shape and form of a soul? Do you limit it to the beating lump of the human heart, which in itself is so abstract and strange? Is it boundless like the interior of your mind? What is the separation between mind and soul? In a person such as you, there is so little difference. Concern rattles in your mind like a loose book in a suitcase, nothing that will actually cause damage, yet holds great potential. Anxeity pairs so well with confidence, limitations and boundless possibility, never shall an ego form on you. So, what is the image of a soul?
      An all-expansive canvas with no terminus, where hue, tint, and shade have no delineation in value or range and never dry, yet always defy gravity, constantly blending. There is no white ground of the impressionists, instead this is where the black lies. It is the basis of everything, the background to life itself. Black is what gives prominence to everything else, what highlights glory, and diminishes shame. Your blackness is not deeply dark, nor mono-valued. A phantasmagoria of value: the grey of burnt wood, the white of papers straight of the press, the deepest black of the universe, itself. Layers of green and red occupy the body of that universal space: Pompeiian Red, in wall paintings, Rothko canvas, and Latin Loebs, Copper, in your hair and candles sticks on your mantel, Tawny, in the bookcase you built by hand and the pants you love, Forest Green, for a summer of adventure and a never ending love, and Grassy, in Bunches and Rhizomatous. A flare of barley blonde inks across the bottom, sunshine, flowers, smiles, pasta, beer, and a beloved pair of shoes.
      So, what is the image of a soul? Itâs something without form, shape, line, or any qualities of fine art. It is color. It is emotion and expression. So yes, my dear, your soul is as black as that Saison, but it also has the color of cardamom and grapefruit. The bright explosion of a million colors that are all you. Â
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