“Everything looks worse in black and white.”
The essence of everything is in black and white. It does not look worse. Color only distracts me.
Old photographs are so rarely in color, mostly are images of lines and shadow, black to grey to white and back again.
I wanted color television when I was little and we didn’t have it. But when at last we could see everything in color, it suddenly seemed more real. Less fun.
Now the default is color, as if we can achieve a greater reality when we add the hues to our memories. Can we?
Can we ever truly reproduce anything we felt in a moment to a photo?, a transcript of words spoken?, the clearest copy?, the lucid thought explicated. Examined. Defended. ?
Perhaps the best we can do is to distill a few moments, preserve the essence of them somehow. A photo in black and white. A charcoal sketch. Black words on a white page.
A black night with the lights turned out, and nothing but the streets below and the sound of the rain on the rooftops, on the ground, beyond.
The faint sound of an inhalation, an exhalation, next to me.