letter #43

my colour is purple

My dear friend

My niece and I were chatting one day. (By ‘one day’ I mean in that unspecified time which is something more than one year but is not as many as five.) We were chatting about nothing in particular, having the kind of conversation that moves from one thing to another.

One of those things was me describing a beautiful dress I had seen while I was out and about in the shops looking for something to wear to an occasion the details of which I have not remembered. I did not try or buy the dress because, I explained, it was red. ‘Can you imagine? Me! Wearing red?’ Here, I would have sniffed or laughed or shrugged in some non-verbal but emphatic form of communication.

‘But Aunty Tracy! All your clothes are red.’

‘What? Red? No, I never wear red.’

My colour isn’t red. It’s purple.

I thought of all the purple things. The belted coat, the ‘vegetarian leather’ (plastic) sandals, the mary-jane shoes, the velveteen trousers, the button-up shirt, the scarves, the socks. All purple. Countless umbrellas, quilt covers, towels, the picnic set. All purple. And when we were children my brother’s woollen blanket was orange and mine was purple.

And yet, a look through my wardrobe proved my niece right. The dresses and tunics? Red. The fluffy jumper. Red. The cashmere jumper. Red. The little cardigan I pull over dresses in autumn and spring. Red, because it matches so many other things. My clothes might once have been purple, but somehow, without me knowing it, they had shifted to red. How could I not have known this about myself?

For many years, I’ve been fascinated with the idea of getting my colours done. Mostly, I’ll admit, I’d be doing it for the anthropological experience of sharing time with someone who ‘does people’s colours’. I’ve got as far as googling, as reaching the contact page on somebody’s website, but then I’ve always thought, ‘What’s the point? I already know my colour’s purple.’

In colour theory, red and purple are analogous. They sit side-by-side on the colour wheel. So it’s not like I thought my colour was purple and really it’s orange. On top of that, the reds in my wardrobe are all blue-reds not yellow-reds. But still. I thought my colour was purple.

I was reminded of this conversation earlier this week. For reasons so boring I can’t bear to relate them to you, we had to replace the front door of our house. This leaves us with the boring task of having to paint the door, the pain of which is alleviated only by the fun of first choosing the colour.

My automatic reaction was to say, ‘Purple. We will have a purple door. It would be so much fun.’

‘Mum!’ My children were united in their disdain. ‘Purple. Why would you even say that?’

‘Um, because purple is my colour.’

‘What? Purple’s not your colour, what does that even mean? Who has a colour? What?’ By now it is disdain but there is also something deeper. Really? They know so little about me that they don’t even know that my colour is purple.

I am struck, once again, by this continuing complexity in the parent-child relationship: I know them so completely, but they know so little about me. We, my children and I, are standing in the kitchen that I want to be standing in for another thirty years. And they will soon be leaving. I know them less completely all the time.

On top of that, I think of all the times I say, ‘But you love making things! You love banging in nails. All those sculptures you made with bits of wood and hundreds of nails. You love making things.’

They say, ‘What? I was probably four. Was I four?’ And when I nod they shrug and say, ‘See what I mean?’ And I am left thinking, ‘How can it be that these times I describe to them are so vivid and intense for me, but seem not even to exist for them? They love making things.’ No wonder they don’t know that my colour is purple. How can I expect them to know me when they don’t even know themselves?

By now they are talking about the colours I could paint the door. White, like the house, or possibly green like the trees. I pick up the pile of colour swatches I’ve collected. I’ll show them what I mean, convince them of the merits of painting the front door purple. I shuffle through the cards, but instead of the shades of purple I thought I’d been collecting, nearly all of the swatches are red.

With all of this in mind, the photo to go with this letter chose itself. It’s a terrible photo, poorly focused and mis-aligned, but it’s one of my absolute favourites, taken outside the Tate Modern on a trip my boys and I made to London on one of the Abu Dhabi school breaks. One of the best days of one of the best weeks of my life.

Have a lovely Friday evening. I’m looking forward to voting tomorrow. The older I get, the more emotional I always feel when I cast my vote. Like I already told you, I’ll be writing yes, excited at the possibility of living in a country that lives in the present, looks to the future, and acknowledges its past. Talk again soon and until then, take good care

With love,

Your friend, Tracy xx