Colour Theory

It is no secret that the east of Canada had a rough winter. When the snow eventually quit piling up I heaved a sigh of relief and began dreaming of spring, completely forgetting about Canada's fifth season: the grimy thaw.

The grimy thaw extends from the last snowfall until mid-May. It's as though the trees and lawns and citizens are holding their collective breath, waiting for the final blizzard of the season. In a stunning example of brinksmanship, Canadians and their flora refuse to tidy themselves up for spring before the warm weather hits and the weather gods refuse to grant warm weather until we sweep the winter's accumulated gravel off our streets. I think the only reason Spring actually occurs is that a day or two of the paralyzing curb-side stench of thawing dog shit galvanizes all parties.

The upshot is six months of existing in monochrome.

Though I am not by nature a colour fiend - I'm pretty sure the divine Miss N's moratorium on the purchase of black shirts still stands - its almost total absence from my life caused me to rebel in small ways.


As March eased into April my daydreams started to resemble a Robert Doisneau montage, except with less kissing and worse hair. I bought a red coat and yellow rain boots.

Salvation came early in May when a friend let me dive into her closet and fish out old bolts of marimekko fabric.


For the past month the floor of my room has been covered with puddles of vibrant prints while plans for projects gestated. I drew. Calculated yardage and seam allowances, and paid close attention to sidewalk fashionistas.

Outside my window, the cosmic game of chicken seemed to have stopped. One fiery tulip bloomed beside my front steps. Daffodils and magnolia trees followed suit. Time sped up and suddenly, weeks later, I had a free morning to play with fabric and draft patterns.

Fueled by copious amounts of tea, I swatched and pinned and snipped and measured and re-arranged and made notes and sat back on my heels and chewed my lower lip and thought really hard about what I wanted to make.


And when I figured it out, the giggles started way down in my belly and, like effervescent prosecco bubbles, spilled out into the sunshine and jazz-filled bedroom.

Apparently, I'm just contrary.