Light in the Darkness
The winter equinox is just around the corner. As I gazed out my window Wednesday night at one of Texas’ notorious thunderstorms, pitch black sheets of rain punctuated by trumpet flashes of lightning, I have to confess that I’m obsessed with light in all its splendor. Light is fundamental to life on earth. Without it, we would not exist and there would be no color.
But darkness also has its charms.
Located on the other side of light, the face of the deep has beckoned me for years in the form of shadows, mysteries, and unknowable truths. That’s contrary to the way we often spin “darkness” as a synonym for gloom, evil, dirty, corrupt, immoral, etc. (Despite myself, the storm last night made me think of Judgment Day.)
To my eye, night’s most compelling feature is the way that it masterfully frames the vast pageantry of galaxies and glittering stars. Without darkness there would be no light, like the yin-yang symbol that so gracefully represents this intertwined duality. Not only are black and white colors, they occupy all the territory from the darkest dark to the lightest light. I call them the “Great Achromatics.”
Every collage in my growing collection of Cosmos Nocturnes is set in the splendor of the night sky, offering meditations on the enduring duality of darkness and light. In Soliloquy (Nocturne XII, The Garment), the curtain has been drawn back to reveal a seated figure. Her hat is a white porcelain cup and saucer; her head is a river of stars.
Yours in color,
Luanne