On a typical day, most do poorly at noticing color, failing to reap the benefits of conscious appreciation, passively accepting the subconscious reception of color signals, but the conscious appreciation remains an effort worthy of the cause. How would a world without color be? I imagine it would be like the world of Charlie Chaplin. This picture comes easily. When not in a state of static, the screen was replaced with a short figure in motion, characterized by a charcoal-black mustache, a kick in his walk and an ever-astonished look in his eyes. It provides no challenge to imagine a visual life without color. I take any such recollection — the result of my father’s insistence on a black-and-white viewing experience — as easy to imagine. It is, perhaps, less easy to know.
Humans have three types of cone cells in their retina, which are sensitive to green, red and blue light. Contrary to dogs, which have only two sensitivities (blue and yellow), humans have trichromatic vision, allowing a wide spectrum of color perceptions. Dogs perceive no distinction between red and green; when invited to attend a home dinner, pulling a red napkin over your lap as a foreign dog mischievously stares up at you, you can be rest-assured they are seeing only an inferior picture. We, as humans, are fortunate to taste that experience that color-perception grants us, but rarely do we frequent a conscious consideration of this privilege. In Hellen Keller’s words, “If I, deaf, blind, find life rich and interesting, how much more can you gain by the use of your five senses!” I, admittedly, hardly stop to think about the berry reds of the strawberries I put in my mouth. On a hot summer day, the juice of those strawberries running down my chin is a small delight — painted like the scarlet wine you try not to spill on your trousers, as you know the vibrance will stain dark. Given time to sit with my perception, I find myself surrounded by a million simple things — experiences — that would be thoroughly depleted of their value if turned a belligerent gray.
Each day, I dress myself keenly. On Friday, the colors of my wardrobe speak to me as I fasten an onyx-toned tie, button up a well-cut trench coat, fit gloves to my hands, and paint my eyes shimmering midnight blue. In a world stripped of these sensory experiences, no longer would the smell of morning chai be accompanied by the foamy, burnt toffee brown of cinnamon and cardamom. No longer would the yellow hue of a speakeasy call out in its lullaby — candles suffocated and deprived of the silky cream complexion wax would formally boast. Each moment disrupted by a washing over, a taking, would bear the manifestation of a complete annexation.
“Colors, like features, follow the changes of the emotions,” Pablo Picasso once remarked — and it is true. Beyond aesthetic pleasures, color functions to distinguish objects and food, serving the identification and navigation of our environments. Color plays a crucial role in social signals and expressions, such as blushing or danger-signaling, associated with the smallest physiological changes, including shifts in metabolism and blood pressure. Subtly swaying our choices, color influences our moods, attitudes, and interpersonal interactions. In ancient Egyptian and Chinese cultures, the power of color was so thoroughly understood that it was used to heal through forms of light therapy and colorology, known as chromotherapy.
It is for these reasons that sleek, confident black is requested in every business formality. In your next interaction with a landscaper or interior designer, implore inquiry; each artist owns the craft differently. With deliberate navigation, you may find, as I do, the smallest of situations calling for a rediscovery of color. The soft tinge of the morning light, the shower tile marbling, the checkered plaid of pajama pants: each color is a story that threatens to bypass conscious thought, should we permit it.
I plead otherwise.
In a world without color, I venture into Chinatown, but none of the food calls out the same. Where the association of one hue with one flavor may previously guide me, all guidance is exhausted. The adornments around my neck and ears don’t take the light of the sun as before. The patent snake green of the bag I sling over my shoulder is devoid of its allure. In a colorless world, my appetite is suppressed, my endeavors superseded, as it all simply fades to gray.
In a considerate effort, the color becomes a numen. I take after the philosophy of Federico Garcia Lorca: “A poet must be a professor of the five senses and must open doors among them.” The mosaic vase at a New York museum, I behold with care… and when I find a half-crumpled newspaper on a cracked sidewalk, I take time to notice the ink bleeding from the last rain. This is how color guides me. Indulging myself in the words of past minds, I pursue the beauty of small things: “The secret of happiness, you see, is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less,” provides Socrates. “Self-awareness is your awareness of the world, which you experience through the five senses. Pay attention to your sensory impressions and be aware of those five ways that the world comes to you,” adds Deepak Chopra. Humans can see over 10 million colors. For the sake of the arts, sciences and the heart of what makes this life ours, perhaps we would benefit more from remembering color.
Oliviera Murray, GSB ’28, is a marketing major from Portland, Ore.
