When I was young I wanted colouring books without dark thick black lines outlining the objects. (I finally did have one – of animals! – with faint grey lines, so that no lines showed when you were done.) There are no outlines in life, one thing ends where the other begins, even if the other is the sky or the wall. The colour and shadow.
If I pressed lightly with my crayon and coloured brown over blue or blue over brown I could achieve the richest grey, it was far superior to the grey as it came in the box. And this was a great discovery, a wonderful discovery, yet who could I tell? who would care? who would not shake their head or roll their eyes? I remember the wonder of brown and blue and grey.
My paintings, despite their subject matter, are often about blue & brown (or yellow or orange, certainly in the brown family). My rhino painting, my “Le déjeuner d’herbe”, is blue and yellow. Rhinos are not really blue. My paintings are not realistic. Blue and gold, blue and yellow, blue and orange, blue and brown. Even the green expresses the harmony of blue and yellow and the red expresses the absence of the blue and the yellow.
Land and water, earth and sky, fur and snow, man and god, warm and cool.