The New Black
Rating: PG
Summary: Watching three--sporadic!--women from behind a curtain. (a satire)
***
The chilly draft from the air conditioner ruffled my hair, but the dense curtains drawn around the stage didn't even stir. Most people knew to steer clear when that sign, almost as unmistakable as a bold red "Do Not Disturb," was present. I was new, though, and didn't. "Were they rehearsing for a play?" I would hear someone ask later. "Hmph," was the reply, and a snicker. "You wish."
Peering through a gap between the draping fabric, I could almost immediately understand the cryptic remark. There were three figures sitting on wooden chairs in the middle of the stage, perfectly composed and perfectly still, and I would've thought them to be some sort of statues if not for the occasional string of incomprehensible babble and murmurs.
"It's the crucial concept of making a statement," one blonde said. "We must testify against the sporadically incorruptible truth of color!"
The second blonde said, "Yes. Whatever happened to the whimsical and elegant responses to a intrepid indigo?"
"Or the subtle and glamorous envy to high class crème? The wholesome and playfully musky scent of lime?"
There was a short suspenseful silence, and both turned to the last brown haired female, previously named as Augustine. "Hmm," she said simply.
When I was younger I had fallen into the trap of thinking all artists were starving and Parisian, complete with the stereotyped black clothes and beret. Despite that more than twenty years had passed now, but I can't say I've ever really imagined that I would see not only one real-life starving artist, but three.
Augustine, the last to have spoken, was decked out in full costume, and her two companions were similarly attired sans the beret. These three women were far from starving, however, the fashion designers or color models and et cetera they were. They all had impeccable posture, and had taken elitist art to new heights. My head was still spinning from listening to their conversation, if one could call it that, for a mere thirty seconds.
"But the color," Augustine said, drawing it out dramatically, "should be grapefruit orange. Orange will be the new black."
"Oh, yes!" Blonde 1 said ecstatically. "Orange has the appeal, the androgynous appeal. The color of an intrepid sunset, the fragrance of romantic acid rain."
Blonde 2 nodded. "How can anyone resist the solid miscibility of orange?"
"Sporadic!" Blonde 1 said.
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly. She seemed to hold an intangible balance of power.
"No."
I almost sighed with relief. This made my head hurt more than the bubbliest champagne, but I was unable to turn away. It was worse than watching a car crash; it was like being caught in the moment before impact, knowing what will happen but unable to do anything about it.
"The color," Augustine said, "should be shell pink. Pink will be the new black."
Blonde 2 clapped her hands together, the first real movement I'd seen so far. "But, of course! Grapefruit orange will never have the translucent summer tones of pink, or the playfulness and ruffles!"
"Yes," Blonde 1 said. "Who would want to be confused with a male? Orange's miscibility makes you blend while leaving lumps of nothing. It should never have been considered. Orange is like a non-color now."
"Pink," together now. "Shell pink."
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly.
"No," she said.
Were they rehearsing for a play?
Oh, if only, if only.
"The color," Augustine said, "should be forrest green. Green will be the new black."
"We must've been blind," Blonde 1 said (or was it 2? It was getting increasingly harder to tell).
"By the easily corruptible and uncontrollable ruffles of pink."
"Was there ever a decision? Forrest green holds the key of elegance, the epitome of subtle glamour."
"It's the crucial concept of making a statement," Blonde 1 (I'm sure of this now) said, nodding sagely.
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly.
"No. The color," Augustine said, "should be vixen red. Red will be the new black."
"So obvious, so patiently waved in our faces that we didn't even see it!" Blonde 2 breathed.
"Green can hardly compare to the emotive red. We need a color that makes others envious, not ourselves green with envy!"
"Of course! It's solid, it's glamorous, it's intrepid, it's… it's everything!"
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly.
"No," she said.
I turned away, the curtains closing together once more. It was only a split-second before the cars crashed, and in the distance I could already hear the ambulance sirens.
"The color," Augustine said, "should be black. Black will be the new black."
"Oh, but of course!"
***
END
Summary: Watching three--sporadic!--women from behind a curtain. (a satire)
***
The chilly draft from the air conditioner ruffled my hair, but the dense curtains drawn around the stage didn't even stir. Most people knew to steer clear when that sign, almost as unmistakable as a bold red "Do Not Disturb," was present. I was new, though, and didn't. "Were they rehearsing for a play?" I would hear someone ask later. "Hmph," was the reply, and a snicker. "You wish."
Peering through a gap between the draping fabric, I could almost immediately understand the cryptic remark. There were three figures sitting on wooden chairs in the middle of the stage, perfectly composed and perfectly still, and I would've thought them to be some sort of statues if not for the occasional string of incomprehensible babble and murmurs.
"It's the crucial concept of making a statement," one blonde said. "We must testify against the sporadically incorruptible truth of color!"
The second blonde said, "Yes. Whatever happened to the whimsical and elegant responses to a intrepid indigo?"
"Or the subtle and glamorous envy to high class crème? The wholesome and playfully musky scent of lime?"
There was a short suspenseful silence, and both turned to the last brown haired female, previously named as Augustine. "Hmm," she said simply.
When I was younger I had fallen into the trap of thinking all artists were starving and Parisian, complete with the stereotyped black clothes and beret. Despite that more than twenty years had passed now, but I can't say I've ever really imagined that I would see not only one real-life starving artist, but three.
Augustine, the last to have spoken, was decked out in full costume, and her two companions were similarly attired sans the beret. These three women were far from starving, however, the fashion designers or color models and et cetera they were. They all had impeccable posture, and had taken elitist art to new heights. My head was still spinning from listening to their conversation, if one could call it that, for a mere thirty seconds.
"But the color," Augustine said, drawing it out dramatically, "should be grapefruit orange. Orange will be the new black."
"Oh, yes!" Blonde 1 said ecstatically. "Orange has the appeal, the androgynous appeal. The color of an intrepid sunset, the fragrance of romantic acid rain."
Blonde 2 nodded. "How can anyone resist the solid miscibility of orange?"
"Sporadic!" Blonde 1 said.
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly. She seemed to hold an intangible balance of power.
"No."
I almost sighed with relief. This made my head hurt more than the bubbliest champagne, but I was unable to turn away. It was worse than watching a car crash; it was like being caught in the moment before impact, knowing what will happen but unable to do anything about it.
"The color," Augustine said, "should be shell pink. Pink will be the new black."
Blonde 2 clapped her hands together, the first real movement I'd seen so far. "But, of course! Grapefruit orange will never have the translucent summer tones of pink, or the playfulness and ruffles!"
"Yes," Blonde 1 said. "Who would want to be confused with a male? Orange's miscibility makes you blend while leaving lumps of nothing. It should never have been considered. Orange is like a non-color now."
"Pink," together now. "Shell pink."
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly.
"No," she said.
Were they rehearsing for a play?
Oh, if only, if only.
"The color," Augustine said, "should be forrest green. Green will be the new black."
"We must've been blind," Blonde 1 said (or was it 2? It was getting increasingly harder to tell).
"By the easily corruptible and uncontrollable ruffles of pink."
"Was there ever a decision? Forrest green holds the key of elegance, the epitome of subtle glamour."
"It's the crucial concept of making a statement," Blonde 1 (I'm sure of this now) said, nodding sagely.
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly.
"No. The color," Augustine said, "should be vixen red. Red will be the new black."
"So obvious, so patiently waved in our faces that we didn't even see it!" Blonde 2 breathed.
"Green can hardly compare to the emotive red. We need a color that makes others envious, not ourselves green with envy!"
"Of course! It's solid, it's glamorous, it's intrepid, it's… it's everything!"
They turned their eyes to Augustine expectantly.
"No," she said.
I turned away, the curtains closing together once more. It was only a split-second before the cars crashed, and in the distance I could already hear the ambulance sirens.
"The color," Augustine said, "should be black. Black will be the new black."
"Oh, but of course!"
***
END