On the Pleasure of Hues, a Passage -- by Alex Ranieri

We are beset on all sides by plastic ‘colors’ which profess to be fathomless; and yet, whose eye does not quickly tire of these bland, textureless hues?

 I have before me a prized possession: a woodblock printed initial in red and black, from the 17th century. And do you suppose I tire likewise of this red, though it sits on my desk and I glance at it many times a day? Certainly not! My pleasure from it can only increase. Its hues ease my heart whenever they happen to greet my eye.

Compare this, I ask you, with the matte, drab, offensive cardboard box, which professes to be scarlet. To be sure, at first glance it appears to be something of that nature—but where true scarlet draws in the eye to yet further and further depths of red, this faux-color is nothing but a wall. Sight slides over its impenetrable surface, searching fruitlessly for a way in—no entrance, however, can be found, for there is, after all, nothing to the hue but its surface—rather than hearts-ease, a headache is all the reward you will get for the gift of your attention.