Cornflower Blue

Today in lecture I decided to look down at my prized 50's vintage silk suit. A shy beam of light from the 4 o'clock sun kissed my skirt and produced an iridescent hue of cornflower blue. Cornflower blue. Isn't our nominating system for the specification of colors so interesting? Why is it that I look at a sun's haze and think of amber? Why is a leather cover on a piano bench a burnt sienna? Why is a windowsill cilantro plant a shamrock green? 

It is inevitable for humans to be so pathetically intense and our qualitative observations of the world's hues are no exception. We always need context to understand, a comparison of another physical entity to help with comprehending a marvelous purple or a deep black. Desire is no light thing and our desire to equate linguistic terms with worldly acknowledgement is heavy with intent. 

However, language has its limits, and sometimes I see certain things that feel so undefined, incapable of commodification. I think it's okay to not have a name for things sometimes, to not know how beauty can exist within an object. That's okay. Appreciation is wonderful because it can be felt without identification.