If There Were No Color Left...

Paintings cover every inch of the wall, some bursting with vibrant reds and yellows, others softened by gentle blues and smoky purples. The creative energy seems to hum through the canvas. But then I wonder:

If there were no color left,
how would I feel?

Empty, perhaps. Like a song stripped of melody, or a garden with no bloom. Color is the emotion of the visual world. It sings through our eyes.

Who would feel?

We all would. Every artist who ever tried to speak through paint. Every child who reached for a crayon. Every person who ever stared at a sky and gasped.

What would I feel?

A quiet ache. A longing. Maybe even confusion. I would search the space for the heat of orange, the calm of green, the chaos of a Pollock drip, but find only absence.

Where would I feel?

In my chest. In the back of my throat. In my fingertips as they hovered near the textured surfaces, searching for warmth in a world turned cold.

When would I feel?

The moment I stepped into that now-muted space. When the once-vivid canvases faded into grayscale, when emotion dulled with the pigment.

Why would I feel?

Because color isn’t just something we see. It’s something we experience. It ties to memory, to meaning, to mood. A yellow wall reminds me of sunlight on childhood mornings. A splash of cobalt calls to distant oceans I’ve never seen but somehow remember.

Would I feel?

Yes. Perhaps even more deeply than before, because color's absence would make its presence all the more meaningful.

Could I feel?

I think so. Colorlessness would awaken something primal. I’d crave red, dream in green, ache for amber.

Which of my senses would feel the colorlessness?

Sight, first. But then touch, sound, memory... because color doesn’t live only in the eyes. It echoes in our being.

I look again at the paintings. The brilliant chaos, the creative sanctuary, the heartbeat of expression.
And I am grateful for color.