Grey, dusk, winter

If I’d do twenty paintings, each
would be a different shade of grey, each
would depict a city just
after sunset, before the night.

I used to hate the not-even-an-actual-color grey, as I did the dusk. My objections against the latter included: it lasted too long in the wintertime that I despised in the first place; it preceded the night that I didn’t fancy much either; in short, it was an unclear time of day with no purpose for as far as I could see and way too much foreshadowing about it.

Recently, I realized the small hour or so between the light and the dark has become my favorite hour of the day. In Geneva, when immersed in thesis-writing, it would come not that long after I woke up, it would be my last chance to be part of the world of the day-people. I wanted nothing to do with their shopping bags and their free time and their happy ice-cream eating. I desired isolation, but I’d need my shot of light each day and a glimpse of reality. So I’d make my rounds between eight and nine (then between seven and eight, six and seven). I’d walk a daily inspection tour of the old city. I couldn’t stand day people during their distinctly purposeful mornings or evenings, but the city was all mine during their transition time, their rush hour, their lost and meaningless moment between work and home.

So grey, dusk, winter, - I can so take you on this year.