Nikolai Tarkhov, a Russian painter who settled in France six years before the Revolution of 1917, and died there, impoverished and forgotten, thirteen years later, was in love with orange. Take Van Gogh, max out reds and blues in his palette, add a good measure of orange colour, and you’d get very close to Tarkhov, though not quite.
I guess I know why he loved orange. Perhaps, this is why we all love this colour. It is a very rare or temporary colour in nature. The sun becomes orange for the last few minutes of its daily existence above the horizon. A pumpkin turns orange when it is ripe and then it gets eaten. A tree gets orange before it metaphorically dies for the season.
Orange gives us an acute feeling of being alive right here and then. Orange is a pinch that wakes us up from whatever gloomy state of mind…
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