by A. C. Wise
Beyond its physical appearance, the ultimate fate of “Yellow” is a matter of much debate as well. Later in his life, long after the disappearance and presumed deaths of both Blaine Roderick and Charlotte Aimsbury, Dean Aimsbury admitted to cutting the portrait from its frame and burning it. However, when questioned, the Dean’s housekeeper, Mrs. Templeton claimed if evidence of such a burning existed she would have found it. She is further reported to have said the Dean was “poorly” and “prone to confusion and fits of imagination” at the time of this confession.
Amidst this confusion, one thread of commonality does exist across all accounts of the painting: the mention of the artist’s use of color, in one form or other. Here again we find equal parts praise and damnation, everything from “brilliant, pure genius” to “having the appearance of a palette mixed by a blind imbecile, producing an effect not unlike physical illness.” But every account does mention color, with at least one calling Roderick’s use of it “near-supernatural, for good or for ill.”
*
Casey—Before you get pissed at me for writing on your research notes, I submit for your consideration this: You have not taken your nose out of your books in almost three weeks. There’s more to life than studying. I am officially kidnapping you for a movie night. No excuses. It’s a double-feature: House of Wax and Dementia 13. I promise, you’ll love it. I’ll even make dinner. Kisses, Rani.
*
“Toward a New Understanding of Color Theory” by Blaine Roderick (incomplete draft), St. Everild’s University, Special Collections, 1877.02.01.17.
[Appended note from Robert Smythe, Head of Special Collections, 1923-1947: The following selection from the papers of Blaine Roderick represents an early draft of an unpublished treatise on color theory. It is remarkable for the way it mixes scholarly writing and personal musings, lending credence to the theory Roderick suffered from an undiagnosed mental illness at the time of his disappearance and presumed death.]
If we are to follow slavishly in the footsteps of Isaac Newton, Moses Harris, and Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, we are left with only the primary, secondary, and tertiary colors upon the wheel, leaving no room for the creation of truly transcendent art. While theirs are serviceable models, they admit no space for otherness, for the ethereal, the cosmic, that which goes beyond the veil.
What of ecstatic experience? What of true seeing, but also in the act of seeing, being seen? What is needed from a new theory of color is a way to go between the shades we accept as representing the full spectrum. There are cracks through which we must pass to appreciate the fullness of the universe.
But yellow is problematic. What yellow? Not the color of daffodils, sunlight, or the delicacy of a canary’s wing. No. The yellow of bruises, aged bone, butter on the cusp of spoiling. There’s a taste to it. Slick with rot just starting to creep in. Yellow is joy, hope, life, but its underbelly is cowardice, madness, pestilence. They are not mutually exclusive; they are but two sides of the same skin. Pierce one, and you pierce the other as well.
There are shades between shades, hues which exist on the periphery of common understanding. Purple bleeds if you slice it deeply enough. I have seen such a color, printed on my eyelids. It is an infection, this color, a fever. Hungry. It means to devour me whole.
I want
Yellow remains problematic.
Why yellow? Because she must be dressed so. She is saddled with a husband she cannot possibly love. Too old. The yellow in the pouches under his eyes is common age, weariness. Is the shade I offer any better? Aging slowly toward death would be far kinder. More natural, certainly. But we are not natural creatures, Charlotte and I.
I’ve seen bones in the desert, scoured by sand. A shadow walks from the horizon, tattered by the wind. His darkness is the space between stars. It is not black. It is a color for which I have not yet discovered a name.
The wheel, were we to rearrange it, swap red for orange, yellow for the lighter shade of blue, would at first seem an affront to the artistic eye. But it brings us closer to what is needed for a true understanding of color. One must break to build. See how the meaning of color is changed as it is brought into contact with its opposite and its mate?
It is not simply a color, it is a door. She is a door. I know she has dreamed as I have. She has seen the lost city, where we are all hungry. She has seen our king in terrible rags, fluttering like flame in the wind. I tried to speak of it to her, but Charlotte looked so frightened when I touched her shoulder. (Yet I fear she understands far better than I. She will run ahead and I will be left behind.) I only meant to rearrange her into a better angle of light. It left an imprint on her skin, an oval the size and shape of my thumb. I have dreamed the dress in tatters, like the wrappings of the dead.
*
Casey—I’m sticking with what works. You can be mad at me later. So, movie night take two? I’m sorry I fell asleep last time. I haven’t been sleeping well. I wish I could say I was out getting laid, or even being responsible and studying like you. But it’s just bad dreams. My dad prescribed me some pills, but they didn’t help. Seriously, this shit is supposed to knock you out, put you under so deep you don’t dream. But fucking every time I go to sleep I see this fucking city. It’s creepy. I don’t believe in that reincarnation shit my parents do, but I’m always the same woman and she’s me in this city that burns and drowns and is washed in blood. I don’t like her. Us. The city. Fuck.
See? I’m so tired I’m not making sense. But I’ve got my coffee and I’m good to go, so tonight it’s your turn to cook. We still have wine from when my parents visited. You can even pick the movies this time. Kisses, Rani
P.S. The sketch you left in the hall? I don’t know if you meant me to see it, maybe it just fell out of your bag, but it’s really good. Is it supposed to be me?
*
From the diary of Charlotte Aimsbury, St. Everild’s University, Special Collections, 1877.02.21.1.
August 10, 1874
I met Mr. Roderick today, the artist my husband has commissioned to paint my portrait. First impressions do count for something so I will say this: I do not care for him. The whole time I sat for Mr. Roderick, he never touched charcoal or paper. He simply stared at me in the hideous dress he.... Well, I cannot imagine where he found it, whether he had it made, or whether he purchased it somewhere. Whatever the case, how is it that the dress fits me so well? Mr. Roderick would not answer my questions. He only insisted I wear it, and that I have always worn it. I could not make sense of him.
He was so insistent, growing flushed and agitated, I finally agreed, though I did not enjoy wearing the dress. There is a weight to it. The feel of it is wrong. It is...unearthly. I cannot give it a better word than that. It is compelling and repulsive all at once, and yet, for all the madness of Mr. Roderick’s words, it is familiar. I do not pretend to understand how such a thing could be possible, but I do believe the dress is mine, and that Mr. Roderick has it in his possession because I must wear it. I have always worn it.
Yet, I felt horrid with it on my person. The silk whispers each time I moved. At times it is like the wind, or sand moving over stone. Other times, I feel there are actual voices inside the dress.
Even if it were not so, Mr. Roderick’s gaze alone would be bad enough. I felt like a cut of meat, sitting so still while Mr. Roderick examined me, and he the butcher. Finally I asked him if something was wrong, and he snapped at me, commanded (his word, not mine) me not to speak.
I would be tempted to cancel the entire undertaking, but Mr. Aimsbury is set on this idea and it would displease him greatly if I were to protest. As for myself, I have no desire for formal portraiture. Such paintings survive long after one has passed on, and all future generations will know of you is the expression you happened to be wearing that day, the way you tilted your head or lifted your hand. Everything you were is gone.
August 14, 1874
I expressed my aggravation concerning the portrait to Mr. Aimsbury. He convinced me to re
consider.
September 23, 1874
It has been weeks of sitting, and I know nothing more of Mr. Roderick than I did the first day. It’s as though he’s a different person each time we meet. One day he is moody and sullen, the next all charm. Two days ago he kissed my hand and spent the whole sitting contriving excuses to touch me, arranging my chin this way, my hair that. Yesterday he seized my shoulders as if to shake me, then immediately stepped back as though I’d struck him.
Yet my own sensibilities concerning Mr. Roderick are conflicted. I say I do not know him, but there are times I feel I know Blaine very well. But it’s not a comforting sort of knowing. Or being known.
Today I asked him about it. “Of course we’ve met,” he said. “The color can only be painted on you. Don’t you remember? In the desert? In the city?”
It seemed he would say more, but he stopped as though he’d forgotten how to speak entirely. There was an intensity about him, as though he were in a fever.
He leaned toward me. I thought he meant to kiss me, but he only put his hands on either side of my face and said, “There are colors that hunger, Charlotte. There is a word for them the same shade as hearts heavy with sin.”
I hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant. Except, I almost did.
October 13, 1874
Today, Mr. Roderick spoke barely a word. We sat in silence and I felt I was being crushed to death under the weight of all that horrid silk. It does not breathe. I feel as if I will suffocate And why yellow? At times, I feel as though the color itself is draining the life from me. Is that possible, for a color to be alive? No, alive is not the correct word. There is nothing of life about it. I am not even certain it is yellow. I cannot explain it, but there are moments when the dress gives the distinct impression of being some other color, merely masquerading as yellow. Whatever color it may be in actuality, I do not believe there is a name for it….
October 14, 1874
How can I explain the horror of something that seems so simple by daylight? There was nothing monstrous in the dream. The dream itself was monstrous.
I dreamt of a hallway going on forever. I was terrified. But of what? A door opening? A door refusing to open?
It is irrational to be afraid of nothing. But in the dream, it was the very nothingness that frightened me. The unknown. The sense of waiting. Wanting. Is it possible fear and desire are only two sides of the same skin? To pierce one with a needle is to pierce both. Then one only needs follow the stitching to find the way through.
October 30, 1874
Blaine forbade me from looking at the painting until it is finished. But I caught a glimpse today. It was an accident, only a moment. Perhaps it was my imagination? A trick of my over-tired mind? I haven’t been sleeping well, after all.
I saw the hallway. The one full of doors. The one from my dreams. Blaine painted it behind me. I never breathed one word of it to him, but still, there it was.
He means to leave me in that terrible place, a doorway to step through and never think on again.
I will not let him. After dreaming that hallway every night, I know it far better than he ever can. I will learn its tricks and secrets. I will run its length forever, if I must, but he will not catch me and pin me down.
*
Casey—About last night. Look, you know I like girls. And I like you. I’m just not looking for anything super-serious right now. I thought you knew that. I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong idea. I’m just sorry. Talk to me? Rani.
*
From the papers of Dean Howard Aimsbury, St. Everild’s University, Special Collections, 1879.03.07.1.
November 18, 1877
Gentlemen,
It is with a heavy heart that I tender my formal resignation from St. Everild’s University. I have had occasion to speak with each of you privately, and I am certain you understand this is in the best interests of all concerned.
I have given over twenty years of my life to this institution, but I cannot—
I cannot.
It is said time heals all wounds, but I have yet to find a thread strong enough to sew mine closed. The past two years since my wife’s disappearance have taught me hauntings are all too real. They exist between heart and gut, between skin and bone. No amount of prayer can banish them.
I believed the dismissal of Blaine Roderick would purge any lingering pain. But all it did was limit his access to me and slow the tide of unpleasant—and occasionally quite public—altercations he attempted to instigate.
As I’m sure you know, gentlemen, throughout this ordeal, I have had no care for my personal reputation. I care only for the reputation of St. Everild’s. Upon my resignation, I trust you will do your best to repair any damage I have done to the good name of this fine school.
As for myself, what could Blaine Roderick say of me that I have not thought of myself? He made me complicit. He was ever the shadow, the puppet master, steering my hand. I am not blameless, but his will always be the greater share of the blame.
I am not without heart. Nor am I so vain that I cannot sympathize with the notion of a younger woman, married to a man nearly twice her age seeking companionship amongst her peers. If Charlotte...I would not blame her. Whatever the truth of their relationships, whatever Blaine Roderick may have felt for Charlotte, I do believe this: He hated her by the end. He feared her. Yet he was ever the coward. He could not bear to do the deed himself, and so he drove me to it.
Gentlemen, you know me. You know I did not, could not, commit violence against my wife. I cherished her.
And yet, in the depths of my soul I know there might have been a chance for her to, somehow, return. If the painting still existed.
Charlotte’s hope for life, for return, is now in ashes. My hand did the deed, but Blaine Roderick bears the blame.
I am weary, gentlemen. If this letter seems improper, I am certain you will forgive me.
Yours, etc.,
Howard Aimsbury
*
I’m scared, Casey. I can’t remember everything that happened that night. I know we both got pretty fucked up. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.
I wanted to tell you...I don’t think I can stay here. I know I haven’t been around the past few days, but it isn’t enough. I can’t stay in that house with you. When the semester ends, I’m going to call my parents and ask them to take me home.
It’s not your fault. We were both….
We fooled around. I shouldn’t have let it happen, knowing how you feel, and I’m sorry.
But I don’t remember everything else that happened. I have bits of it, but there are pieces missing.
All that wine. Everything was so hot, like I had a fever. I remember the color flaking, and falling like ash around me. Then there were colors running down the bathtub drain. I was scrubbing my skin so hard it hurt, and you were pounding on the bathroom door.
There are bruises.
Fuck.
Please don’t finish the painting, Casey.
I know it’s of me. Even though it isn’t done, I can tell. It’s fucking with my head, and I’m scared. I’m sorry….
I came back to the house just to get my stuff. I looked at the painting again, and it’s still wet. I don’t remember putting on that dress. Where did you even get it? The way you painted the shadows in the folds of the fabric. They’re hungry. Like mouths that have never known kisses, only pain. All those smudges of blue-gray around my throat. You painted me like I’d been strangled.
I don’t even understand some of the colors you used. They’re...I don’t know the names for them. But I can taste them at the back of my throat, slick and just starting to rot. I keep finding paint caked under my nails, like I’ve been scratching—rust, dirt, bone, a color like the texture of a shadow under an owl’s wing, like the sound of things crawling in the earth, like angles that don’t match and….
I don’t know what I did to you. I know. But I’m sorry, Casey. Just take it back, okay?
I can smell the
smoke from when the city burned, the tide from when it drowned. It’s sand-grit when I close my eyes, rubbing every time I blink. The dress is in tatters, and he is ragged where his shadow is stripped raw from the wind. He is walking from the horizon. I don’t want to go. I can’t. I have to go.
*
From the collected papers of Dr. Thaddeus Pilcher (Bequest), St. Everild’s University, Special Collections, 1891.06.12.1
Physician’s Report: Patient Charlotte Aimsbury, November 1, 1874
Called to examine Charlotte Aimsbury today. Cause of condition uncertain.
(I have known Charlotte since she was a little girl, and I have never found her to be prone to fits of hysteria like so many of her sex. She has a good head on her shoulders. She is a most remarkable woman.)
Patient claims no memory of collapse. Can only surmise exhaustion the cause.
(I do not blame Charlotte. While I make a point of rising above such things, talk, when persistent enough, often cannot be avoided. Being the subject of so many wagging tongues would be enough to weary even the strongest spirit.
Not that I believe there’s any truth to even half of what is said. Having met Mr. Roderick, I cannot imagine Charlotte succumbing to his charms, few as they are. Roderick is brusque, rude, and highly distractible. I see little to draw Charlotte’s eye. Yet, I suppose it is no great wonder that many would gossip.