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  • He was a man who loved the colour blue.

    He was drawn to it. He loved the deep desert blue, he loved it as a tribesman loves silk in dyed indigo, dyed in pots of saturation from the growing plant material. He loved the sky that way. Like it was plant material.

    He loved blue even though he knew colour was a mirage. He loved it like a sweet lark, like a man who sang blue with his eyes like a song.

    He loved it in paint on chairs, the way blue made them look old and romantic, blue like they had a story, blue like tiling and walls, like artisanal craft, like religion without images, like Atlas sky in old Morocco.

    He loved blue not even knowing that he loved it. He loved it in an intuitive way. His photographs leaned towards artistry and not archness, they were suffused with the pathways to the blue.

    He knew it was in the newest of colours. He knew it came after the red and black of the caves. He knew blue was a descendant of the ancestors of bison and elk on the cave walls, he knew it was past the ash and past the bloodlines. He knew it had to do with the travellers.

    They looked up from their animals and they saw lakes of it, above.


    (Photo by Susan, Mosaic Canyon, Death Valley)
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