Color Field
Ann paints gradients. Just gradients. Pink to yellow. Yellow to green. Green to blue.
She's forty-eight. Lives in Santa Fe. Teaches art at the community college.
Her students ask why she only does gradients.
"Just what I do."
"But why?"
"Don't know."
She's been doing this three years. Since her mother died. Can't paint anything else now. Just transitions. One color becoming another.
Her studio is full of them. Canvases. All sizes. All gradients. Soft blurs. No hard edges anywhere.
Her ex-wife calls sometimes. Asks how she's doing. Ann says fine.
"You still painting those color things?"
"Yeah."
"Nothing else?"
"No."
They talk for a few minutes. Then hang up.
Ann goes back to painting. Pink fading to dust. Takes hours. Gets the transition wrong. Starts over.
Her therapist asks about the paintings. Ann says they're calming.
"What are they of?"
"Nothing. Just colors."
"What do the colors mean?"
"Nothing. They're just colors."
Her students try to copy her. Make their own gradients. They come out too sharp. Too defined. The colors don't blend right.
"How do you make it so smooth?" they ask.
"Just keep blending. Don't stop until it looks right."
"How do you know when it looks right?"
"You just know."
She's lying. She doesn't know when it looks right. Just knows when it doesn't.
Her daughter visits from Albuquerque. Looks at all the gradients.
"Mom, these are all the same."
"No they're not."
"They look the same."
"Look closer."
Her daughter looks closer. Sees the differences. One has more pink. One has more yellow. The transitions happen at different places.
"Okay. I see it."
"Good."
They eat lunch. Don't talk about the paintings. Talk about normal things. Daughter's job. Grandson's school. The weather.
Ann goes back to painting after she leaves. Yellow to green. The transition is too fast. Starts over. Makes it slower.
Better.
Her colleague asks if she's submitting to the faculty show. Ann says maybe.
"You should. Your work is interesting."
"It's just gradients."
"Still interesting."
Ann doesn't submit. Just keeps painting.
Pink to yellow. Yellow to green. Green to blue. Blue to purple.
Her mother used to say sunsets were God's paintings. Ann doesn't believe in God but she paints sunsets anyway. Just the colors. Not the sky. Not the clouds. Just the transition from day to night captured in pigment.
Her therapist suggests she try painting something else. Just to see.
Ann tries. Paints a tree. Hates it. Paints over it with a gradient.
Pink to orange.
Better.
Her studio runs out of wall space. She stacks the canvases. Leans them against each other. They blur together. One gradient next to another next to another.
She likes that. The way they blend even when they're separate.
Her daughter calls. Says grandson drew her a picture. Can she come get it?
"Just mail it."
"I thought you'd want to see us."
"I do. I'm just busy."
"With the gradients?"
"Yeah."
Her daughter sighs. Says she'll mail it.
The picture arrives. It's a gradient. Pink to yellow. Crayon. Uneven. Beautiful.
Ann tapes it to her fridge.
Paints another gradient. Tries to match her grandson's colors. Can't. His version is better. More honest. Less controlled.
She keeps trying anyway.
---
In Osaka, June photographs sunsets. Same spot every day. 6:47.
She's thirty-nine. Works from home. Translator.
Her husband asks why she does this.
"Don't know."
"Every day?"
"Yeah."
"Why that time?"
"It's when the light is good."
She has thousands of photos now. All sunsets. All 6:47. All from her balcony.
They look the same mostly. Except they're not. The colors change. Pink one day. Orange the next. Purple the day after.
Her husband doesn't understand. She doesn't explain.
Just goes out at 6:47. Takes the photo. Comes back in.
Her sister visits from Tokyo. Looks through the photos.
"These are all the same."
"No they're not."
"They look the same."
June shows her the differences. The way the clouds move. The way the light changes. The gradients from one color to another.
"Oh. I see."
"Good."
They eat dinner. Don't talk about the photos.
June goes out at 6:47. Takes the photo. Sky is pink fading to lavender.
Good.
Her therapist asks why she takes the same photo every day.
"It's not the same."
"It looks the same."
"It's not."
Her husband stops asking about it. Just knows she'll be gone at 6:47. Five minutes. Then she's back.
He's gotten used to it.
June's mother calls. Asks how she's doing. June says fine.
"Still taking those pictures?"
"Yes."
"Of what?"
"The sky."
"Why?"
"Because it's there."
Her mother doesn't understand. June doesn't explain.
Just keeps taking photos. 6:47. Every day.
Pink to orange. Orange to purple. Purple to blue.
The transitions. That's what she's capturing. The moment when one thing becomes another.
Her phone storage is full. She deletes other things to make room. Old photos. Screenshots. Everything except the sunsets.
Her husband says she should stop. She says maybe.
Doesn't stop.
6:47. Photo. Every day.
The sky changes. The gradient changes. Pink shifts to yellow. Yellow shifts to green.
She captures it. Saves it.
Her sister asks what she'll do with all the photos.
"Nothing."
"Then why take them?"
"Don't know."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
June goes out at 6:47. Sky is purple fading to dust. Takes the photo.
Good.
Comes back in. Sits down. Looks through all the photos. Thousands now.
All different. All the same.
All transitions captured. Held. Saved.
Doesn't know why she needs them.
Just knows she does.
---
Ann runs out of canvas. Orders more. While she waits, she paints on paper. Watercolor. Gradients. Softer than acrylic. More forgiving.
Pink to orange. Orange to yellow.
The transitions happen faster with watercolor. Harder to control. She likes that.
Her daughter visits. Brings grandson. He's five. Sees all the gradients.
"Why are they blurry?" he asks.
"That's how they're supposed to be."
"Why?"
"Because things don't change all at once. They fade. Slowly."
He nods like he understands. Maybe he does.
He asks if he can paint. She gives him paper. Watercolors. He makes a gradient. Pink to purple. Messy. Beautiful.
"Like this?" he asks.
"Yeah. Exactly like that."
She keeps it. Tapes it next to his crayon one on the fridge.
Her therapist asks if she's feeling better. Ann says she doesn't know.
"The paintings help?"
"I don't know if help is the right word."
"What word would you use?"
"Necessary."
Paints another gradient. Pink to yellow. Transition happens in the middle. Right where it should.
Good.
June hits 5,000 photos. All sunsets. All 6:47.
Her husband asks what she'll do when she hits 10,000.
"Keep going."
"Forever?"
"Maybe."
She goes out at 6:47. Sky is pink fading to nothing. Takes the photo.
Comes back in. Adds it to the collection.
5,001.
Her therapist asks if she's ready to stop.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not done."
"When will you be done?"
"Don't know."
Goes out at 6:47. Every day. Sky changes. Gradient changes. She captures it.
Pink to orange. Orange to yellow. Yellow to green.
The transitions. All saved. All documented.
Doesn't know what for.
Just knows she's not done.
Ann paints.
June photographs.
They don't know each other. Never will.
Just keep doing what they're doing.
Gradient after gradient.
Sunset after sunset.
Capturing transitions. Saving them.
Doesn't help anything.
Doesn't change anything.
Just keeps happening.
That's about it.
That's what's happening.
