Pink and I have an interesting history together. I hated pink when I was younger, because it represented a kind of femininity that I didn’t want. My grandmother used to sew my sister and I matching dresses. Mine was always pink, while my sister’s was always blue (though once there was a wild peach and green diversion from the norm). Pink was fluff and curls. Pink was not trekking through the ravine in search of rusting old cars.
Until India. India changed my mind about the glorious color that is pink. From bougainvillea to every shade of sari possible, an Indian man’s brilliant pink shirt, hand block prints of pink camels, it is the pinkest place I have ever lived, and it is glorious. I couldn’t live without the color pink now; it is a bright flower, a wild house, a woman whizzing by on a scooter with jasmine in her hair. It is an enticement to the eyes, and no one is ever too old to wear pink. I met the woman in this painting in a small village in Karnataka, India, sitting for a spell in the late afternoon, blooming quietly and brightly.