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"White is the Darkest Colour" was a phrase I heard in a BBC documentary on Art I heard a week ago. I did a piano improvisation on the feeling of it, but knew that it would take a few days to really work out why it made my hair stand on end. I have deliberately kept the instrumentation to a minimun on this, because I wanted it to have an empty feeling, like that empty page. This is an attempt to verbalise the emotional response I had to the phrase this week. Thank you to Wes Martin for listening so many times and your generous feedback.
(Albus, Niveus, Bianco, Ahsbros, Sheero, Weiss, White)
In the past the colours had a different significant to me.
Now I find that White no longer is the colour of bridal purity.
An empty week ahead, shouted pages of my diary,
And now, in a lonely space it feels
White can be the place where
I'm forced just to be.
The ancient stones thought to be white
We scoured until they bled
For White, White, was not the colour that
The Sculptor chose.
And sometimes things need to be
Allowed to fade.
White is the colour
Of the pages of this Pilgrimage and
White, White was the colour of all the letters
In the envelopes, that she sent.
White was the colour
For Mussolini's hatred
Satues of Aryan myth
Obedience to be stated.
White reflects ll the feeling
Of the space
Of the light
You must face.