The Metaphysics of Colors
July 6, 2009
Oh well, I knew it. I knew I would lose it with the painters.
Honestly, I did find it funny, the first three days, to sit with them while they mixed colors until we got the right shade of blue.
When the office turned out purple, I wasn’t angry. I just told them they’d have to redo it again.
When they started painting the living room purple too, I just made them throw the whole bucket of “white” paint and buy a new one into which they were not allowed to add a drop of red, blue, or God knows what they think adds brightness to the color white. This was a fairly amicable interaction.
Then they got to my bedroom, and my mood sank. The fact that I had to move everything out on a Saturday morning was fine with me. But trying to get some sleep in the guestroom without the solace of the aircon, this proved difficult. I woke up craving a chilled beer.
When the painters arrived on Sunday morning I was drunk dreaming of a North European drizzle, chilly mornings in Lorraine and vast expanses of Alpine snow. That’s when I thought damn, I really love having people do things for me, but it eeeez starting to get on my nerves.
Can I never be miserable alone?
The painters boss arrived later and I took the liberty to remind him of the purple office he would have to redo.
“But ma’am it’s not purple it’s white it’s the company the paint oil water and the frames and the coat you understand I will go but maybe not it’s because not purple brightness…”
That’s when I lost it. After a week of fruitless arguments about the metaphysics of colors, days of camping in a house covered in dust, after a Saturday in the factory and a sleepless night without aircon, I finally gave in.
“Listen, I said, I am fed up of this conversation. I don’t care whether you think this is white or orange. I am just telling you: it has to be painted again.”
Oh but it’s not my fault. It’s the heat.