There are certain things we remember no matter how long ago they began. For some unexplained reason, the more mundane the event, the bigger the impression.
At the age of six or seven, the idea of getting up at dawn thrilled me to the very core of my soul. I lived in a twelve story apartment house in New York City. Almost every morning at the first hint of light, the milk wagon, pulled by a single horse would clatter across the trolley car tracks flanking Broadway on both sides. It was the only sound that could be heard of the early darkness of the city streets.
The moment came when I no longer cared about hearing the clunk, clunk, clatter, clatter of the milk wagon. It became far more important for me to go down stairs to the street and see what that darkness was like. I knew this much...night time black was not the same thing as early morning black. There was an exciting difference. A small chink of light covered everything in the early morning. A blue/black I called it. Almost undetectable, but the difference was there.
Don't ask me why, but what a rush of emotion came over me as a single figure standing in front of my building, a witness to the appearance of daybreak. It was the darkest blue I ever saw, but definitely blue now..not black.
In the telling of this, another event has come to me...a much earlier time of life, when I was three. I looked out my window overlooking the Grand Concourse in The Bronx. The time was maybe three in the afternoon and I could actually see daylight turn to night in an instant. Several flashes of light and loud rolling thunder changed the color of everything. This was a very exciting visual event to me. From sunlight to evening in a matter of moments. A summer storm swept in and changed all the colors of heaven and earth.
I believe this is what hooked me into my obsession of deep, deep blue.
Moving along now, to the era of Milton Caniff's Terry and the Pirates; HE captured that blue color...very dark blue, in his nighttime scenes. Seeing this in the Sunday News caught me up short like an electric jolt. Maybe I could draw this blue myself and hold it in my hand.
My first attempt was with crayola crayons. No success came with this. Too much flaking from the waxed blue crayon. The harder I pressed for that deep, rich blue, the more flaking occurred. My efforts turned into a sloppy mess.
This all was so long ago, but the notion of creating that dark, mysterious, exotic blue has never left me. I have plans for the future in doing a painting. It may be a view from the rooftops of a small town. The hour will surely be around five in the morning...And the evidence of the time will be shining, dark blue tiles. And with God's helping hand, I will have caught that feeling with my own brush.
