Violet, Indigo...

"Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red"
by
Gregory Norris

It was the pinnacle of my art. My whole career had been a meandering towards its simplicity.

I conceived its beauty in a single minute, while strolling with my girlfriend in an east London park one autumn morning. It took two demanding years to realise my vision - I needed technical mastery and a single-minded dedication to the goal. But the sacrifice, including losing the love of Megan, that girl I walked with under russet trees, was repaid by the work's purity.

I called it Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red.

My interest in colour reached back to my childhood. My elder brother was colour blind and I took delight in humiliating him by saying, 'That flower is mustard yellow. That cloth is crimson red.' At art school I spent my time studying how coloured light played upon the retina, encouraged by my mentor, Mario Franscisco.

In the ten successful years between college and the realisation of my masterpiece I created installations of shimmering coloured lights; I formed spaces bounded by light and dark. The emotional response of my audience was at a more primitive level than the response to paintings or sculpture. Think of a rabbit, entrapped by the headlights of a car, or think of a fire, lovers gazing into the restless flames. Light leads to a dream-like state, a less cerebral level of thinking, and my works tapped into this primal consciousness.

I finished Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red in September and on the first of October I set it running in my apartment.

Megan viewed it with cynicism. 'Dial a Colour,' she said, trying to provoke anger in me. I stayed silent, staring back at her, and she walked out that same evening, sending friends the following day to retrieve her possessions.

My neglect of her over the previous two years had fractured our relationship along a dozen fault lines. I had begun to doubt that I still loved her, and worked late each night and spent much time abroad. I immersed myself in my masterpiece as a refuge from the loneliness of failing love.

In fact, "Dial a Colour" was a good description of my creation. A dimmer switch is familiar to us all, the gentle variation of brightness in a light. On that autumn day under russet trees I said to Megan, 'Why can't we have the same for colour? Gently turn a switch to vary the hue of a light bulb.'

The idea was simple, the engineering was not. I spent many months in a German lens factory, experimenting with prisms, exploring how the refraction index varied with different composites. I needed an inner filament that would produce a light of pure white, and electronics and motors to tilt the prisms, allowing the desired colour to escape. The work caught the imagination of leading optical engineers and together we eventually succeeded.

My vision evolved during this time. I judge humankind to have too much power over the environment, so I decided against the colour-changing ability. Instead I wanted a passive viewer, enslaved by the varying hue. I designed it so the colour of light would change automatically over the course of exactly one year. The electronics controlled a steady lengthening of the wavelength by 1.1 nanometre per day, commencing at 350 nanometres - violet, and ending at 750 - red.

I hung Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red from the beam in the centre of the room. It was large and heavy, the light it gave off was strong and powerful. My East End apartment was converted from a warehouse and I'd torn out the partitions when I'd moved in. It was one huge room, bounded on three sides by large windows, the floor was polished maple and I kept the walls a perfect white. One corner was my studio, another held the bed, a third the kitchen area. The bathroom was downstairs, you had to leave the apartment and remember to take keys to avoid being locked out. It was the perfect place to build and install my pieces, which by their nature demanded freedom and space.

I always experience my works first, before releasing them to the public. This was essential for Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red - I needed to experience the sensation of changing colour for myself, in order to win full perception of the artwork. I believe it is true that any artist's most important audience is the artist himself. My one-year experience began that October 1st.

I sat beneath the deep violet light, my ears still ringing from the door slamming behind the departing Megan. It was a spiritual sensation, the colour so rich and pure and smooth. There was no compromise in the force of the light, it filled every corner of the room. Noble, like purple plums, it seemed to glow with a heavy scent. Each night I lay bathed in its light, unwilling to sleep, considering her departure with sadness but acceptance.

'Megan, our time had past,' I would say out loud. But strangely I did not feel so lonely, now we'd reached resolution. When I slept I had vivid but calm dreams, usually of the long-distant days when Megan and I shared love and contentment in an atmosphere of eternal optimism. By day I found I was thinking of philosophy, about humanity and the purpose of life, of love and the nature of religious belief. I read poetry, devouring in particular the works of the Romantics.

Above me Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red shone continually. The steady change in colour was too slow to notice day by day, but with the arrival of November, fireworks cascading outside my windows, the additional blue in the purple had become discernible. One evening I came across a line in Byron that described the colour perfectly, "Oh! 'Darkly, deeply, beautifully blue', As someone, somewhere sings about the sky."

This time had been a solitary one, and all the more intense because of it. With the light around me changing into indigo I became less isolated. I invited Jared over to view my piece, somewhat tentatively because I was still protective of my creation.

He looked at it for ten long minutes while I lent against the wall, my heart pounding with nervousness for my child being judged.

'It is the purest work of colour ever created,' he said.

'Yes,' I replied and embraced him.

With my mood lightened, he stayed for hours and we talked. Jared's generosity and support had allowed me the freedom to create at will in my early years; his exhibitions of my work had brought me to my fame. That evening I was very conscious of my debt and wanted to repay him with all the love I possessed. We agreed he should mount a major display of my works in the summer.

'And the summer after that Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red will be yours to exhibit,' I promised. 'Once I've finished my year of experiencing it.'

He stared at it intrigued. 'It is your own rainbow. A year of seven colours.'

I said, 'In fact, assigning seven colours to the rainbow is a human distortion. It is a product of our eyes and our traditions. In reality the range of colours is continuous, not divided.'

'Your own rainbow. A year of infinite colours.'

I told him about Megan. I could see the sadness in his eyes and realised he loved us both, and he urged me to try and resurrect. Perhaps he understood how great was her inspiration, how her unique response to my art helped me to create.

I shook my head. 'That light has gone out, Jared.'

In the weeks that followed I was young again. Jared's praise of my work had allowed me the confidence to leave it, and I went out night after night. I took delight in my freedom - I danced with teenagers in nightclubs, I chatted up secretaries on tube trains, I savoured the Christmas celebrations. I behaved like an art student again and laughed when I remembered the old saying, "The only thing you learn at art school is how to have an artist's attitude." So I dressed eccentrically and experimented with the latest drugs of the young and brought back nymphs to my bed for laughing, playful sex. I gave lectures full of enthusiasm and lapped up the applause, I signed autographs and encouraged young artists, I appeared in a documentary where I flirted outrageously throughout with the interviewer, a well-known TV-presenting nun. The New Year came and went and the sky stayed a smooth blue, the same colour as the light in my apartment.

One day I was lying on my back below the piece, staring at the depth of its colour. 'Sorrento,' I suddenly said out loud. 'Exactly the same colour as the sea we looked down upon in Sorrento, isn't it Megan?'

I stood up and staggered to the bed. The realisation of what I'd done hit hard, I finally knew how much I missed her. Bringing my knees up to my chin, I clutched my legs in childlike anguish. I sought out photos of us together and wept openly when reminded of her gentle beauty. Using subterfuge and direct pleading I discovered her current address and walked up to her front door, a speech of apology and petition written in my head. Megan answered my knock and we stood in silence for many seconds before I began to implore and beg and demand her forgiveness, my elegant words forgotten, and when I realised her answer from the look on her face I began to cry pitifully and without dignity. I made a final request and she said, 'No,' and shut the door.

My apartment became my universe. I did not work or think or read. I woke at dawn each day and stared at maps, tracing out with my finger the paths Megan and I had walked, the roads we had driven along. I ignored the brightening blue of the light, all thoughts of art were inconceivable to me. I did not eat because every item on a plate was given a blue tint and my stomach rebelled against the sight. In a state of permanent lethargy I let the days drift through February and into March.

Green was now apparent in my work and one morning I discovered the tone was identical to the blue-green used by Cézanne for his trees in Avenue at Chantilly. I walked out and strolled along the deserted streets of pre-dawn London, eventually boarding a bus with early-shift office cleaners. I reached the National Gallery and sat outside for three hours, examining the shades of grey in paving stones.

When it opened I confirmed my judgement, and delighted in welcoming back my old adoration of Paul Cézanne and his perfection of colour. I spent the morning taking pleasure in The Bathers, imagined myself walking on The Hillside in Provence and saluted the master himself in front of his Self Portrait. I ate a large and delicious lunch in the basement cafeteria, then returned to admire Avenue at Chantilly.

'Now that's a good painting,' I said out loud.

A young woman sitting on the bench beside me assumed I'd addressed her. 'Yes, I like it,' she said. Her hair was a beautiful shade of brown, the colour of malt whisky, while her eyebrows were golden. 'But then I don't know much about art.'

I nodded, much taken with her wisdom. 'No. Nor do I. Not yet.'

Her name was Victoria. 'Call me Vicky,' I was instructed. She was twenty seven and lectured in English literature at a London college. We shared coffee in a small café behind the Royal Academy and then browsed in a bookshop together. I noticed the first buds were appearing on the trees and the fresh green of spring was in the parks.

Vicky moved in with me a week later.

'I must admit, I hadn't heard of you before,' she said. 'I told you I don't know much about art.'

'That is good,' I said. 'I will show you Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red. It explores how the colour of our surroundings affects us.'

'I like the title,' she said, and we laughed.

I was filled with energy, yearning to create and design, inspired by the now green light. I sat weaving tapestries of fibre-optic cable and formed them into enormous fronds of ferns; I built trees that sparkled and danced with bright light. I talked to her of my ideas and she talked to me of her favourite poets.

Vicky possessed more kindness than anyone else I have encountered. She would open a window for a trapped fly; would carefully avoid a spider's web across her path. She massaged my back and neck with gentle hands, she slipped into the bath with me to wash my hair, she cared only for my pleasure while making love. I was entirely selfish - I wanted to receive, I needed her attention. Letting myself be misled, I assumed she was happy, for with apparent enthusiasm she read and listened to music and played sports.

One morning she spent many hours listening to the cellos of Dvorák and I intruded on her privacy as she lay curled upon the bed. I discovered her eyes were red and tired, and her expression of intense sadness was entirely new to me. I realised with instant clarity why she had been so giving - and to whom she had been giving. It had never been me in her thoughts when she'd caressed my body and my ego.

I took her in my arms and brought her head against my chest. 'Who was he?'

At length she said, 'His name was Duncan.' I let her cry.

This knowledge filled me with an unquenchable jealousy. The unseen Duncan still controlled my lover, his spirit levered its way between us, laughing at our humilation. It was him that Vicky saw, when her soft eyes drifted shut as we made love, it was his back she massaged and hair she washed, it was him who lurked among Dvorák's poignant themes. I wanted to find the man and beat him hard with a steel rod, to return the suffering he'd inflicted on Vicky and the disillusionment he'd visited upon me. I felt his presence everywhere, in our bed, in her touch as we held hands, in her eyes whenever they glazed over into nostalgic thoughts. I watched her constantly, having lost my ability to trust, visions of her leaving to return to her lost love controlled my mind. As the colour in my apartment marched from green into yellow I was in a state of constant insecurity.

I did not reveal to Vicky how I felt. Instead, I resolved to defeat the unseen Duncan in the only way possible for me. I hated that she preferred another, so I would ensure that she preferred me. To win her adoration became my only aim; I would make her fall in love with me.

I began to do everything for her as May became June.

"Dreaming of the summer days of paradise," sang a catchy pop tune on the radio, and I endeavoured to make the dream real. Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red shone with the colour of wheat fields and gave optimism to our passion. It was I that now washed her hair and massaged her lightly tanned back; I cooked for her, meals of Ormeaux and Niçoise salad, of Truites aux Amandes and fettucine. We indulged in wine-tasting sessions, giggling happily, and played tennis in the park, not keeping score. At last I began to know her well. I discovered she took delight in the small things in life - daisies among the grass, driving with the windows down, holding hands at the movies. I was afraid to enquire, but I hoped the loss of Duncan was beginning to recede from her mind.

Jared's exhibition of my work opened at his Albermarle Street gallery, which always tottered on the brink of bankruptcy. Vicky and I attended the first night party together, she stayed close by me and looked around with curiosity.

'Those early pieces are a bit dull, aren't they?' she teased. 'And the prices are outrageous!'

Jared was entranced by her and became very emotional.

'Am I making Jared unhappy?' she asked.

'His partner left him last year. Took their two children. I think seeing our happiness renews his loneliness and loss.'

Jared became drunk on champagne. 'You must marry that Vicky of yours,' he said, though she was standing beside me. 'Without any delay. For fear you might otherwise lose her.'

Afterwards the three of us got caught in a thunderstorm as we sought for a taxi on Piccadilly.

I said to Vicky, 'May I kiss you?'

'What about Jared?'

'He can be miserable on his own for a while.' Vicky and I kissed long and passionately, her wet hair plastered across our faces, while Jared lay down on the pavement, raindrops mingling with his tears.

Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red was now glowing orange and Vicky sat beneath it, newspapers strewn about her. 'I shall cut out the reviews of the exhibition.'

'To take pride in one's praise is childish,' I said. 'It's also my favourite pastime.'

'I shall frame this one for you, it is the most flattering. Johann Ritchter in the Guardian.'

'He's always been too kind to me.'

We visited a Cornelia Parker exhibition. It left me mesmerized, for her pieces - simple everyday items suspended above the ground to defeat gravity - illustrated with prescience exactly how I felt on that day. Suspended silver coins danced against each other in the breeze and I floated with them.

'Let's choose only those foods that are similar to the colour of the apartment,' suggested Vicky. We ate peaches and oranges, fresh apricots and mangoes. Children together, we made love with sensuality and abandon. Caressing her back was my greatest pleasure, her long brown hair cascading on the pillow while my fingers followed her smooth curves.

I now knew that my endeavour to win her love had reflected back on me. It was I who'd been captured. The love I'd experienced with Megan - though valuable - had never been love like this, this uncompromising devotion to a person with no other thought intruding. I was jittery with joy, seeking Vicky's opinion of everything I experienced. A single smile could give me a day's contentment. My masterpiece shone on and I dragged the mattress of the bed directly under it. When we made love beneath the reddening glow, it was with a more forceful passion than before, animal, energetic, urgent - there were no longer the smooth, lingering touches of sensuality.

The summer heat faded and my dreams evolved, away from chaotic passion and towards a more organised love, the kind necessary to build a life together. I found myself enjoying conventional thoughts of marriage and children and sharing of lives. Yet I stayed silent, for I knew Vicky had perceived my love for her, but had made no attempt to draw the fact into the spoken realm.

On the Sunday in the first week of September she sat by the window reading from Milton's Paradise Lost. I had brought her a dozen red roses and they stood a vase. The scent was bold and welcoming, but their colour was insignificant beneath the straightforward red hue of Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red. I was cooking a simple meal for her, I wanted that evening to tell her of my love. Bach's Gavotte in G minor was playing and Vicky seemed peaceful and content. I watched the curve of her back as she breathed gently in and out. I wanted to caress the golden hairs of her neck, hidden beneath her hair, so I approached.

I heard her quote from Milton, "A smile that glowed, celestial rosy red, love's proper hue" and I stopped behind her. The phrase echoed my feelings and my heart beat fast in the joy that she spoke those words for me. I went to kiss her and saw there were tears on her cheeks.

I stopped, seized with sudden horror, for I realised those words were for Duncan, the unseen Duncan, who, despite my efforts and my devotion and my burning love, remained still-loved Duncan, unchallenged ruler of her emotions and her heart, victorious Duncan, who controlled her devotion with effortless disdain, possessive Duncan who still held Vicky at a distance from me, unbridgeable.

She realised from my expression that I knew this and she shook her head gently. She showed pity on her face.

'I'm sorry,' she said.

I swung my fist at her, hard, trying to hurt and knock her unconscious and return the pain that filled me. She moved backwards but a little too slowly, my fist caught her forehead at the edge of the eyebrow, and a drop of blood emerged and coursed down her face. She looked at me without shock or anger or hatred and I swung again, this time missing as she moved well away, and for a moment I was paralysed for my mind was considering which weapon in the apartment would be best to use against her, running through the options of carving knives and metal spanners and electrical cables.

'I'm sorry,' she said again, and went to pack her bags. I followed her and watched as she folded her clothes neatly, telephoned for a taxi and checked for any remaining possessions while she waited for it to arrive. She left without another word.

My love for her and hatred of myself gave me unlimited energy. I overturned furniture; I ripped the mattress of the bed with a sharp knife; I set upon some of my works with a blowtorch and they burnt easily, giving off a black toxic smoke that shrouded the red glow of the light above me.

I began to find this destruction too quick and clumsy. I became more patient. Opening the freezer door, I watched for a day as the ice turned to dripping liquid, spilling out onto the floor. I set upon my books and I tore out every other page, making them unreadable but denying them the privilege of complete annihilation. I removed the putty from around the window panes and waited for them to fall. During a storm that night I noted two were blown inwards, shattering on the floor at my feet, while two were sucked outwards, to crash down on the street below.

As September passed, the light became a deeper, darker red. It now filled my apartment with the virulent hue of desolation, the colour Priam saw when Troy burned around him, the colour of Dido's blood when she fell on Aeneas's sword. I set about destroying my career with meticulous care and if ever I faltered I thought of that drop of redness, emerging from Vicky's golden eyebrow.

I accused my mentor, the inspirational Mario Francisco, of plagiarism, sparking much debate in the newspapers. I ordered a solicitor to sue the adoring critic, Johann Ritchter, for libel, over some lighthearted remark he'd made years before. I forged documents and passed them to the fraud squad, alleging that Jared had cheated me in his organisation of the exhibition. He was arrested one morning and his accounts were confiscated, he was released on bail after two days to find his reputation shredded by the furore.

I then sat down to wait as Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red ran through its final days. When it reached its conclusion at midnight on the last day of September, I took it down and dismantled it: I placed the electronics and motors in a vat of acid to be eaten away, I crushed the inner bulb and filament and buried them in the east London park of russet trees, and I took the prisms to a kiln where they melted and mixed with broken pottery shards to form a pool of dull dirty glassiness upon the floor.

This story was runner-up in the Real Writers short story competition in December 1999, judged by Angela Lambert. It was published in a Winners' Anthology in April 2000.

"Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red"byGregory Norris

"Violet, Indigo, Blue, Green, Yellow, Orange, Red"
by
Gregory Norris