In the place where I was born, we were all the same. On the pain of death.
Clothes were all in the same drab colours – if you didn’t like them you were to sew yourself new ones.
But then, the fabrics were all the same, so – you see – there was no point.
There seemed to be a dull and sleepy balance resting on all things, apparently jeopardized by just anything: a small pleasure, the spirit, a touch of primary colours. The only glare was the violent redness of flags; the blinding whiteness of snow.
Glass bottles were to be returned every week.
Newspapers were to be macerated.
Tin cans were used for planting spices and aligned on the window ledge, in the kitchen.
Jam was made in Autumn. And sauerkrauts.
And there were lots of books, because TV sucked.
All this can be refused or accepted. Taken for granted. Taken as a model. Nostalgically desired. Laughed at.
But colours are a right which should be granted to everyone.