Light and dark
A meditation on atmosphere
I noticed a mist last night as I was driving home from a Christmas event, and this morning, with the temperature in single digits, it has clung to the trees as frost, creating, as the sun rises, a blurry, pastel light that reminds me of my youth. From first grade on, I walked to school—my mother never learned to drive—and I believe that’s how I came to love winter mornings so much. On a morning like this my mother would call up the stairs: “It’s bitter.” She would drag out the syllables to create emphasis. I still hear her voice in my head, and sometimes I say it to myself just to remember.
When I was young I modeled occasionally for an artist, and he taught me that even on a gray day there is a subtle lavender in the colors of winter. That one remark, casually made, changed forever the way I see the landscape. My phone camera rarely captures what my eye sees. But as I look out on the blue and orange snow, the peachy sky, the metal blue clouds, and the orange beech leaves, still clinging to their branches with the glistening frost, I see in the bark of the trees and the distant woods that soft purple that is distinctly seasonal.
Light and color have always had a deep effect on me, which is why I am so particular about the interior of my house. The right shades, the right lighting matter deeply to my sense of well being. I used to want to create a winter sunrise room, and although I have thought often of how I would do it, I haven’t ever fully achieved it, function and budget being a factor. Every time I contemplate the paint for a new project my husband teases me: it doesn’t matter where you start out, it’s going to end up being yellow—which has enough truth in it to be funny, but isn’t strictly true—as is obvious from my deep brown library and orange loveseat. But someday, perhaps with my office or our bedroom, I will make a winter sunrise room, just for the fun of it.
Even when we aren’t aware of it, atmosphere matters deeply to the human soul, which is why I feel almost physically wounded by the ugliness of the things this society builds. I was at a fairly new church last night whose interior was little more than a stage set in a theater, and while the set was pretty in a commercial kind of way, it did not inspire awe or majesty. It was just…a stage set. The real presence of Christ, signified by the lighted candle at the altar of an Episcopal church, was not symbolized in a way I recognized, and it felt strange to me because I think of a religious space as something apart from the secular world, a place that sends a subconscious message to me to quiet myself and contemplate, to be prayerful. I think it’s important that a service and a performance are not the same. Not everyone agrees, including people whose faith is deeply felt and sincere. And obviously, that’s why it’s vital that we can each choose how we express reverence.
But it’s not just churches. It’s hotels, and apartment buildings, houses, and stores, even barns and sheds. Light, beauty, an acknowledgement of the human psyche are all ignored, just so we can build as cheaply as possible. The form and structure of buildings have an effect on our emotional state, even when we are not aware of it. Big spaces with soaring ceilings inspire and awe; lower-ceilinged places offer comfort and shelter; warm, golden lighting cheers; windows give us emotional space and scope for the mind. Nooks encircle us and make us feel safe.
A well-designed building welcomes with shelter, gradually opens into spaces for us to move through, and gives us places to both gather and to hide away. Each room’s function determines its conformation. This is why those enormous houses with two story entrance halls that are so popular among housing developers leave us feeling small and cold when we enter. This will not be a fresh observation: but this culture values money too much. I am all for capitalism, but it was originally conceived as a moral structure for spreading prosperity, not as the worship of the cheap, the fast, and the easy. But I digress. Maybe.
Among my other personal quirks, I find contemporary lighting cold and misery-inducing. People who know me well laugh at my backstock of incandescent bulbs, and my incessant hunt for candles and vintage lamps. I like firelight and candlelight, I think it’s healthy to prepare our bodies for sleep with soft illumination rather than bright blue lighting, to wake in a glow, not in a glare.
Even now, in the soft warm light of my library, before the sun is fully up, I am comforted and cheered. There are windows on three sides of the room, allowing different kinds of light at all times of the day, the fire is sizzling, and the dogs are softly groaning as they snuggle into their furry blanket. I think the world would be a better place if the people who plan and build things took these kinds of factors into consideration, and we would all be in a better mood, too.
Wishing you a warm and cozy Friday.
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“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” ~Julian of Norwich
I am immensely grateful for my paid subscribers. I know times are hard, and your willingness to invest in my work is deeply inspiring to me and very much appreciated. It is a trust I take seriously. Lately it feels as if the world is losing its collective mind, and it’s difficult to look out and see the chaos around us. But we are not the only human beings in history who have lived through trying times, and although we are required to do what is right, adversity does not require us to live in abject misery. It’s essential to remind ourselves of the good things in the world, so I hope these posts provide a place of refuge for my readers. So, come and hang out with me, the dogs, and this stalwart little community of good people. We need one another. And remember: We do not have to live on bended knee.
Also: dog photos.
Whatever you decide, I’m glad you’re here.
And now for your gratuitous dog photo:
Dare I point out that both brown and orange are in the yellow family? I have a similar appreciation of winter colors although for me it's the soft warm browns, dove greys, wheat chaff buff, deep olive green, and blue-blacks of the winter landscape that I want to mimic in a room. With just the barest touch of the red dogwood branch, perhaps, too..
The painting by your friend is phenomenal, it invites you in and makes you want to stay in the kitchen for whatever is being prepared.
I have said it before and I will say it again, you have such a gift for sharing your view of the world with your readers and making us feel we are a part of what you see and feel. I absolutely love the colors of winter; the bluebird sky is so vibrant against the spruce green, the dark red dogwood and the sparkling white.
You clearly have a keen eye for design and architecture. What you described about the two story entrances is so spot on. I think it is why I cannot stand going into the enormous “big box” stores. It’s like walking into a cave. When I think about all those massive warehouses all over the country filled with mostly plastic junk, it makes me incredibly anxious and sad.