About the Oyparaploo Palette name
Why "Palette"?
I used to think palettes belonged to painters. You know—those kidney-shaped pieces of wood, thumb poking through, chaos of colors that somehow made sense. I don't paint. Not with brushes anyway.
But I kept coming back to that word. Palette.
Maybe it started when I was digging in the dirt (archaeology, not gardening) and realized the earth has its own palette—rust and bone, clay and char. Or when I noticed how certain films leave color traces in your mind long after the credits roll. Or how some philosophical questions feel burgundy while others are definitely chartreuse. Don't ask me to explain that one.
"Oyparaploo" showed up one day and wouldn't leave. It's not from any language I know. Go ahead, say it out loud. Oy-para-ploo. Ridiculous, right? But also kind of perfect? It just... sounds right. Like something you'd find written in the margin of an old book, or what shadows might whisper if they could speak. Pair it with "Palette" and suddenly I had a name for this thing I'd been doing all along—refusing to stay in one lane.
This is where I put it all. The writing that won't behave. Photos of light doing strange things. Archaeological rabbit holes. Cinema that makes me forget to breathe. Philosophy that keeps me awake at 3am. Sound recordings from places that don't exist anymore. That peculiar shade of spirituality that lives somewhere between doubt and wonder.
Sometimes these things talk to each other when I'm not looking. That's usually when something interesting happens.
So here we are. My palette. Where nothing quite matches but somehow it works. A nonsense word for a real place. Makes sense to me.
Or at least, I think it does.
Fair warning: categories are suggestions.
Come see for yourself.
