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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460751" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>0293 Black, white, gray, color</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Black and white are the magic of the drama<br>in the world of film; <br>gray, the poetry –<br>silver-gray of Paris; sunshine gray; <br>dark tragic gray of lovers’ partings<br>on the symbolic bridge, while the Seine<br>flows inexorably, darkly past like life and love; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">who needs Casablanca in full color? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there’s another gray – <br>the gray of exhaustion.<br>In 1945, a trip to London was a trip<br>to another race, of gray to unhealthy white<br>exhausted survivors, of the bombs<br>and doodlebugs and rockets, <br>of dead husbands, wives, sons or daughters, <br>broken marriages; bomb-shelter life drained of all emotion, <br>and almost too tired to welcome peace; <br>gray as the soot-encrusted buildings, <br>of smoke and London fog; <br>and Eliot’s ‘Waste Land’ which we had read<br>before 1939 as a vision of the new poetry<br>was now in 1945 a vision in the mirror<br>of what we were, of how it was; the truth of life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Paper – so dangerously brought across the sea in war<br>from Canada, in ships sharked by U-boats, <br>bombs, torpedoes, was reserved for<br>the War Effort – propaganda, booklets <br>portraying the British countryside, the villages, we were fighting for; <br>and the occasional Penguin book on brownish paper, <br>of the dazzling white and crisp black contours<br>of the Modern Architecture<br>in which we all, we happy all would live – this earth, <br>this realm, this England, this jewel set<br>in a silver sea, this demi-paradise...<br>Corbusier would house us in the sky, <br>reclining in our Breuer chairs, <br>Gropius would cosset us, <br>our outhouse would be Bauhaus.. in<br>a paradise of black and white and gray<br>as they and we should be</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and then, as we continued to snip<br>our ration books, ‘restrictions were lifted’ on some things, <br>and from America, that magic land, where<br>possibility had not died, one could order through the post<br>the lavish world of the colour magazine; and such things as<br>‘American Home’ came like a rainbow zapping<br>through the letter-box –<br>like some art film, black and white and poetic gray which<br>suddenly printed in full Technicolor: <br>California sunned itself by long, low walls, <br>fierce cacti tamed in terracotta pots; <br>New England sparkled, spick and span, <br>white picket fences in the sunshine, <br>The Flag on every trim front lawn, <br>and at the door, She wall-to-walled her smile<br>which matched her frilled red-white gingham apron<br>and the 2.2 children looking up at her adoringly, <br>young Dad with his pipe in the background; <br>inside, the blue-white gingham table-cloth<br>and blue-white crockery zinged against<br>the buttercup yellow wall; the bright blue red green yellow <br>painted (do it yourself) or stencilled <br>Pennsylvania Dutch chairs and cupboards said, <br>life is good, listen to the <br>Hoagy Carmichael, Benny Goodman, Johnny Mercer<br>in the background, life is buoyant, look at all the colours, <br>optimism runs from every tap, it’s in the air, <br>we’ll think of a new word for it all – upbeat…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">and the blood began to flow in our gray, exhausted cheeks: <br>there must be hope, for Over There, Over There, <br>yes, the Yanks were showing us, there was a magic land, <br>and it was here and now; Somewhere over The Rainbow<br>had arrived; Deanna Durbin sang, Nat crooned; there was, after all, <br>Something Worth Fighting For..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It’s a moment in history some forget, <br>some will never know, some few remember, <br>the moments of the heart which escape<br>the compressions of the history books, <br>the moral fables of a hopedry world; but<br>live undaunted in the memory<br>in full, glorious color, <br>the moments of the heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460751" data-title="0293 Black, white, gray, color de Michael Shepherd" data-description="Black and white are the magic of the drama
in the world of film; 
gray, the poetry –
silver-gray of Paris; sunshine gray; 
dark tragic gray of lovers’ partings
on the symbolic bridge, while the Seine
flows inexorably, darkly past like life and..."></div>
</div>
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