By Alexander Theroux
A suite of 3 erudite meditations on pink, orange, and green--the moment quantity in a trilogy together with The basic shades and Black & White--encompasses poetry, tune, fantasy, gossip, and a gallimaufry of minutiae.
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Additional resources for The Secondary Colors: Three Essays
Example text
Didn't that simpering father on The Brady Bunch always wear the Ban-Lon saffron shirts of a yahoo and orange "floods"? ) Orange (or lemonwhite or puppy-shit yellow) full bodysuits or leisure suits with gold stitching, which Jack Hyde of Men's Wear said made everyone who wore them look like a bus driver, were very popular during that dull decade of disco and dumbness, sappiness and sideburns. Rank stupidity, a kind of invincible ignorance, adhibits to the color. Bill Cosby, an opportunistic, face-pulling buffoon, in my opinion, not a comedian, maybe because of the shameless and incessant spate of commercials he does on TV, looks to me not black, but orange.
I am not certain if fire opals have salutary qualities, but I once saw a Mexican fire opal in a jewelry store window that in its bright deliquescent orange scintillants sparkled like godsong. Topazes are said to symbolize divine goodness, faithfulness, sagacity—"an exuberant name for such a gem of a knight," wrote Skeat of Chaucer's pilgrim, Sir Thopas—love, and the sun; it conjoins mineral orange to copper red, or chalcedony. I have already mentioned jazz trumpeter Ruby Braff. As a boy growing up in Roxbury, in an epiphanic and lifealtering moment, he first heard Louis Armstrong playing his trumpet over the radio on "The 920 Club," and he would later say of the experience, "It was unearthly.
There is always something of comfort and nurturing assurance in orange, from the glow of gaslights to Fresnel lights to the revolving holophotal lights of old lighthouses to the magic immemorial tints of a suffusing, soft-hued day in autumn. But also pain. I often sorrowfully recall that unforgettable photograph taken on June 11, 1963, of the suicidal but selflessly propitiatory Vietnamese Buddhist monk, Thich Quang Due, protesting American involvement—he was gazing into a decade of horror— sitting full lotus in a swirl of flames on a hot summer street in Saigon, back erect, shaved head held high, while orange flames, blazing up, consumed him in his orange robes as he stared transfixed into the middle distance with blackened hands raised like a statue in dying benediction.