Synopses & Reviews
Life is not primary colors. We don’t see our families and landscapes in crayon red, blue, and yellow with bold black outlines. Instead, we are blessed with brilliant, contrasting shades — strawberry, salmon, carnation, brick, and deep blood. The canvases of life are swept with broad strokes and intricate detail, subjects ranging from yearnings for what we cannot have to rejecting what will not leave.
And so art reflects life. As we read, we journey into the creators’ worlds, unable to keep ourselves from dipping our own brushes into the various hues laid before us. We are sideswiped in a rush of harsh green when our bodies betray us, but cobalt brings us home, sometimes only to peer in the windows before moving on. Lemon fills the sky when we look back on a land that was once ours, but faded sienna stains the life we never meant to have. And there’s always red — those people in our lives, both loved and hated, whom we pull closer in a scarlet embrace and then shove to crimson exile.
And after all that, we fade to white. To the empty page, waiting to be filled again.