“The deep blue water of the open sea far from land is the color of emptiness and barrenness; the green water of the coastal areas, with all its varying hues, is the color of life,” Rachel Carson wrote as she illuminated, enriching the literary canon of .
The color of life, the actual chromatic hue that makes our rocky planet a living world, is somewhere between the blue of the water and the green of land — when Carl Sagan looked at the grainy Voyager photograph of Earth seen from the far reaches of the Solar System for the very first time, he famously eulogized our. But the color of is somewhat between blue and green: a pixel of turquoise.
That color — its chromatic science and its cultural symbology — is what Ellen Meloy (June 21, 1946–November 4, 2004) explores in( ).
Two centuries after Goethe wrote in his poetically beguiling, philosophically promising, but scientifically incorrectthat “colors are the deeds and sufferings of light” and two generations after Frida Kahlo considered , Meloy bridges the metaphysical and the scientific across the undercurrent of the poetic:
Colors are not possessions; they are the intimate revelations of an energy field… They are light waves with mathematically precise lengths and deep, resonant mysteries with boundless subjectivity.
There is no more fertile a region of subjectivity than language — the human effort to contain the uncontainable, the fluid, the nuanced into vessels of concept and category. Therefore, the chromatic boundlessness of the spectrum has a peculiar relationship to language, exposing the limitations of our primary sensemaking instrument against the limitless vistas of nature. (That might be why Darwin took with him on The Beagle, a, as he set out to classify, categorize, and make sense of the natural world.) In a passage that illustrates just how primordial the link between the body and the mind is, just how inseparable our psychology from our physiology, Meloy writes:
Colors challenge language to encompass them. (It cannot; there are more sensations than words for them. Our eyes are far ahead of our tongues.) Colors bear the metaphors of entire cultures. They convey every feeling, from lust to distress. They glow fluorescent on the flanks of a fish out of the water, then flee at its death. They mark the land of a woman deity who controls the soft desert rain. Flowers use colors ruthlessly for sex. Moths steal them from their surroundings and disappear. An octopus communicates by color; an octopus blush is a language. Humans imbibe colors as antidotes to emotional monotony. When we pay attention to light, our lives compel us to empathize with color.
The very concept of empathy as we know it wasto describe the experience of projecting oneself into a work of art — a projection screened by vision, an instrument millions of years in the making. It may be that empathy and the eye are the twin triumphs of evolution. Meloy traces the interdependent development of the two:
In primitive life forms, the eye began as a light-sensitive depression in the skin; the sense of sight likely evolved from touch.
The complex human eye harvests light. It perceives seven to ten million colors through a synaptic flash: one-tenth of a second from the retina to the brain. Homo sapiens gangs up 70 percent of its sense receptors solely for vision, to anticipate danger and recognize reward, but also — more so — for beauty. We have eyes refined by the evolution of predation. We use a predator’s eyes to marvel at the work of Titian or the Grand Canyon bathed in the copper light of a summer sunset.
There was biology, and then there was physics: Three centuries after Newton first unwove the rainbow to launch the dawn of optics and the study of light as a stream of particles, quantum mechanics staggered our basic grasp of reality by positing that light — which is how and why we see color — might be both particle and wave. At the heart of this dizzying notion, called complementarity, is the idea thatin the words of the Nobel-winning physicist Frank Wilczek.
Sometimes, the truth can be so elemental, that it requires no explicit recognition or echo in language. Goethe attempted to defy Newton while anticipating quantum physics — considered the purest form of blue a transcendent nothingness,Meloy writes:
When a name for a color is absent from a language, it is usually blue. When a name for a flush is indefinite, it is generally green. Ancient Hebrew, Welsh, Vietnamese, and, until recently, Japanese lack a word for blue… The Icelandic word for blue and black is the same, one word that fits sea, lava, and raven.
It has been shown that the words for colors enter evolving languages in this order, nearly universally: black, white, and red, then yellow and green (in either order), with green covering blue until blue comes into itself. Once blue is acquired, it eclipses green. Once named, blue pushes green into a less definite version. Green confusion is manifest in turquoise, the is-it-blue-or-is-it-green color. Despite the complexities of color names, we somehow make sense of another person’s references even in the same language. We know color as a perceptual “truth” that we imply and share without direct experiences, like feeling pain in a phantom limb or another person’s body.
Within every color lies a story, which is the binding agent of culture.Color wheel based on the classification system of the French chemist Michel Eugène Chevreul fromby Amédée Guillemin, 1882. (Available and .)
But the most profound story of color is the most intimate one, which lives most closely to the perceptual locus of feeling that defines our entire life experience. Meloy writes:
It seems as if the right words can come only from the perfect space of a place you love.
In a sentiment evocative of the Scottish mountaineer and poet Nan Shepherd’s lovely observation thatshe adds:
It has been rightly said: Color is the first principle of Place. Between the senses and reason lies perception. Intoxication with color, sometimes subliminal, often fierce, may express a profound attachment to landscape. At home or afield, that is where amazement resides, shunning explanation…
We read the color the way we read Place: through our senses — this proboscis of consciousness, increasingly severed by a culture that kidnaps us away from our bodies to hold our consciousness, hostage, before and behind screens. Echoing poet and science historian Diane Ackerman — who wrote so beautifully inthat “there is no way in which to understand the world without first detecting it through the radar-net of our senses” —Meloy writes with soulful urgency:
Each of us possesses five fundamental, enthralling maps to the natural world: sight, touch, taste, hearing, and smell. As residents of data and artifice, amid crowds and clutter, we become miserly with these loyal and exquisite guides; we numb our sensory intelligence as we unravel the threads that bind us to nature. This failure of attention will make orphans of us all.
Meloy traces the layered sensorial story of the turquoise and its genesis in the body of the world — a testament to the indivisibility of science and culture:
Turquoise is an ornament, jewel, talisman, and tessera. It did not likely come from Turkey, its namesake, but it took the name of the land it crossed on the old trade routes from Persia to Europe. It is religion. It is a pawn. It is not favored for pinkie rings.
The chemistry of turquoise: CuAl6(PO4)4(OH)8•4H2O, a hydrous phosphate of copper and aluminum. The copper, aluminum, iron, and other mineral traces join with a phosphate radical, a group of oxygen atoms so clustered around nonmetallic phosphorus that they behave like a single atom.
Phosphates are known for their bright colors. According to some mineralogists, blue comes from copper; green comes from iron in turquoise. Dark, spidery veins reveal the matrix in which turquoise participates; the veins are usually limonite, iron-stained quartz, metallic oxides, or other minerals.
Turquoise occurs in limestone, batholithic, feldspathic granites, shale, and trachyte found nearly everywhere. However, unless they are in an arid environment, they are not likely to bear turquoise. Although turquoise has more than one origin, most types formed million years ago, when groundwater seeped into alumina- and copper-rich mineralized fractures in zones of igneous rock. What has been said about gold can be said about turquoise: turquoise is the burden of water.
Against this cultural-cosmic backdrop, she considers “the dignity of turquoise”:
Ancient southwesterners gave turquoise, the most incredible wealth, as offerings to water, the desert’s greatest gift. They left tokens of turquoise at canyon seeps and springs amid emerald mosses, maidenhair ferns, creamy blooms of columbine, crimson monkeyflowers, dragonflies the color of flame, and heron-blue damselflies with bodies as thin as a vein. They carved tadpoles a quarter-inch long from turquoise and set raised turquoise eyes in toads of black jet. With turquoise, they traded for copper bells, macaw feathers, the skins and plumes of parrots, and pearlescent shells from the Pacific and the Sea of Cortez — the stone of the desert for the glories of sea and forest.
Bridging the human and the scientific with her being, bridging the creaturely and the geologic with her brief existence, Meloy paints the psychogeography of color:
As a desert dweller, water is a truer entry to Place. In the West, aridity defines us. There is abundant water here in the Yucatán — ocean, marsh, lagoon, underground rivers, cenotes (natural wells where freshwater surfaces), and a tropical forest swelled with transpiration. Storms bring a hurricane’s eyewall of torrents or nothing; even jungles have droughts. By invasion and sheer presence, the sea pushes itself into what is drinkable and heard, or what you miss hearing when you are distant from the surf. The ocean holds an abundance of comfort and inspiration and danger, all that a person needs to rise to the complete largesse of beauty. If you allow this beauty to become blank an andour back to the blues and deny your dependence on them, you might lose your Place in the world; your actions would become small, and your soul disengaged.
A gorgeous read in its entirety,( ), published shortly before Meloy’s sudden and untimely death, earned her a posthumous John Burroughs Medal — the Nobel Prize of nature writing, of which Carson was also a recipient. Complement it with a , then revisit Maggie Nelson’s .