synesthesia studio 22 : matter | wk michelle chang
People naturally seek meaning in our surroundings and in the everyday; whether we do this consciously or subconsciously, we are more often intrigued by semantics than the face value information that we are presented with. Colour is naturally loaded with meaning. It affects how we think, governs our emotions and influences our decision making processes. It surrounds us everyday yet we often overlook its significance because our reactions to colour are so ingrained they have become instinctive and not much different from a knee-jerk reaction. We in fact have very little critical understanding of colour and where it comes from. This is why today I would like to lead you through a journey of colour through a series of interiors – one that delves into the experiential, travels across history and threads through culture.
We begin with white. The colour of possibility, symbol of new beginnings. An achromatic colour composed of all frequencies of light within the visible spectrum, it is literally a colour without a colour. At the end of the pure white corridor is a small archway through which leads you to blue.
Opening out into a large domed space, the expansiveness overpowers the senses as if one were looking up to the heavens. Being the colour of the skies above and the oceans below, blue has this unreachable quality to it – always on the horizon, surrounding you completely but never quite within reach. Historically more precious in weight than gold, Lapis Lazuli rocks are brought in by boat as they once were thus deriving the name ultramarine meaning across the sea. The mines are filled - and what remains from the extraction forms the mounds of impurities that sit in the distance beyond. The air is always fresh here, as large fans dry the flowing pigment below blows also the Indigofera that dot the landscape and under-which the dye vats bubble away gently. Four large balloons are slowly unloading ingredients into the large shiny reactor in the distance – each labelled a different chemical. Phthalanide, Urea, Trichlorobenzene and copper chloride. At the bottom a brilliant deep Monastral blue emerges, filing the river that lazily flows towards the horizon edge of the platform.
The river flows down a staircase, taking the blue pigment with it as it pours and drips its way down to a murky green pool at the bottom. Sunbeams stream through the copper trees, reflecting light off the metallic bark underneath. A thick smell of vinegar hangs in the air. There is a sense of equilibrium, and of calm … the colour of balance and harmony, it leaves slow-moving blue behind yet never quite keeps up with active yellow – not that it tries to. It is exactly what is needed – a mediator, the middle ground, a neutral. With each step into the decent, you are surrounded by layers upon layers of branches, each producing its own shade of crusted Verdigris. Brilliant blue-greens, to pure greens but who’s to say which shade of green is the right one? Did you know that blue can’t be differentiated from green by some cultures, yet they are able to see far more greens than we are able to detect? Who knew that colour could tell us so much about how we grew up – and just how differently we all see our same old world. The conflicting emotions between the head and the heart find a quiet here – nurtured by the restorative energy of the space. Reminding you of the first signs of spring. But what was once a feeling of peacefulness begins to grip you, holding you within the dense smoke with a possessive power. Greed, control and envy. The forest tries to cage you in with its dense branches, blocking out the light under the dense fog of chlorine. Feeling the suffocating grip of the toxic gas you decide to leave – drawn to the light, you depart the emerald city, hoping to find a yellow brick road.
There is no road to take you back to Kansas but instead, you come across a river of gold – slow moving but flowing nonetheless. It gleams with a brilliance but what is that smell!? A stench as sharp as yellow cuts through the draft like the piercing sound of brass horns. It reeks of ammonia, the stink of urine that has been left out for days. The pipes leading out to the river trace back to a spiral platform littered with sickly looking cows – malnutritioned from being fed the only food source visible for miles – mango leaves. Men in hazmat suits are scooping up lumps of fluorescent yellow from the river, looking rather toxic. Disgusting. Yellow made from cow-pee. Above you are cages where canary birds would have been chirping away. But you realise however that the sounds of birds are only in your imagination as they are all empty. Wondering if this has anything to do with how toxic yellow pigments are; you decide not to think too much about it as it begins to take away any happy feelings that you first found upon meeting the colour. Nothing is as it first seems here. A little blue train awaits, the sign indicating its destination, orange. Upon boarding the train it chuffs along happily. But as you begin to descend underground, the pace quickens and there is a sense of urgency as the side rods holding the wheels of the train together begin to move and move and move.
“Mycopigments!” The conductor proudly exclaims – “The most interesting way of producing orange yet! MUSHROOM DYES. There aren’t many ways to produce a pure orange y’know? Most of the time they be just mixin’ red and yellow together.” A little overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the conductor you just nod and accept whatever else he rambles on about during the journey. Talkative man, interesting and so out there but half the time you’re more concerned over the safety of ride as a rush of g-forces hits you again while going around one of the many bends. When will this end? And how is he still talking so much while you’re here hanging on for dear life by the skin of your teeth? At least the scenery is rather amusing – giant mushrooms with more little mushrooms growing off the mushrooms. The smell of urine still lingered; though it wasn’t clear whether it was a left over stink from the river of pee or coming from the ammonia liquid the chopped up mushrooms were being stewed in to extract the orange. The train finally showed signs of slowing. The wheels grew heavy before the train came to a complete halt at a simple, boxed room.
It emitted a low hum – drawing you in and once inside it was clear why. Rows upon rows of prickly pears sitting underneath heated fluorescent lamps. Buzzing with activity. It was lucky you came during this time – it was a new cycle for the cochineal season. Each one of these little insects was scurrying across the cacti overflowing with energy and driven by purpose – their one duty: to survive and to reproduce. Once they have done their job however they die. Laboriously hand-picked and crushed to a red pulp only to be put into pink yoghurt or Maybelline’s Red Revival 645. Perhaps they know their fate but carry on as always under the heat of the lamps. Duty calls for even the smallest of creatures. The room has a strong metallic smell to it – the odour of iron or the scent of blood. Maybe this is what bravery smells like. The low ceilings are beginning to feel as though you too are being crushed. Irritation overwhelms your entire being as the scratching sounds of beetle legs swarming over each other becomes too brash to endure. Hastily heading for the door, you are stopped. “No entry, limited access only”. But you open the door anyway.
A giant machine sits in the middle of the cavern, half embedded into the rock-face of one of the cave’s columns. A little disorienting after having been through such a rectilinear room, the soft crevices of the wall envelope you with its mystery and is filled with a supernatural energy. A row of tunnels sits to the left and right of you – all dark of course, and leading to more unknown and exclusive places. Spinney Murex snails fill the cave – thousands upon thousands covering every tiny surface available with their Tyrian purple slime. The walls of the cave slope towards the centre where the machine vacuums up the liquid, fermenting it before filling the tiny vial drop by drop to create the precious dye. 12,000 snails it takes. No wonder purple was a colour belonging to power, mystery and nobility. What is definitely not mysterious is the strong smell of rotting fish. Why is colourmaking always associated with nasty smells and chemicals? Seeing a peek of brown at the end of the tunnel in the distance, it does not make you look forward to what you’ll smell there. You board a humble canoe, reluctantly leaving the grandeur of the caves as the last glimpse of the alien-like creatures fades to darkness.
Thankfully the brown room offers no foul smells. Instead you just hear the loud roaring of falling water. It is the Caput Mortuum – the end-point of all the colours, creating a brown by combining all the colours; similar to that of a painter’s brush pot. The waterfall cascades over multiple levels, the velocity of the fall thoroughly mixing the pigments at each level to create the same reliable shade of brown at the end. Leaning over the edge of the boat, you see the colours sink into one another – the density of blue and green pulling the colour downwards, while yellows and oranges remain hovering on the surface before it too is engulfed by the next wave of brown that washes over. This felt almost authoritarian – as did the high umber walls that loomed over as you looked back upon reaching the end of the waterfall. Sepia producing cuttlefish lined the edges of the walls contributing their ink that is so dark would have otherwise been mistaken for black.
And black is where we end. Cutting back through the waterfall and into the pitch black tunnel everything goes quiet. The roaring of the waterfall is completely gone, leaving you to sit with your thoughts in complete and utter silence.