Day 6: November 15, 2016, #733
A Yellow Couch
I arrived at my gallery in the American Wing with squishy shoes and a foul weather attitude. Its marble floor sounded my defeat. Adding insult to injury, a bright yellow sofa shined in my direction. A piece of early American furniture, circa 1820, mocked my waterlogged arrival. Not only did its silk upholstery register a sunny confidence, the profile of the sofa made a splash of its own. Scrolled arms crested to each side like waves. The upper mahogany rail of its upholstered back spilled into smaller rosettes at each end to resemble octopus eyes looking back at me. Mythical dolphin heads, cast in vert antique bronze with their mouths agape, constituted the sofa’s feet. Their bodies extended up the sofa’s front legs and turned 360 degrees at the seat rail before drifting further up and out each scrolled arm to culminate in an elegant fish tail. Somehow the sofa pulled it off. It was pelagic; I was just wet.
When I worked in homebuilding, my company hired a color consultant to advise on streetscapes. M. would visit periodically to bless the exterior palettes (the selections of brick, siding, shingle and trim colors) that had been diligently specced for each house and mounted to presentation boards. On her first visit, M. began to review the schemes and then stopped in front of one board. “Never use yellow,” she said before quickly moving on. She had travelled to Atlanta from Southern California, the epicenter of all great housing trends, and therefore her word was gold. Her panache confirmed her as the color queen. “It is impossible to get it right,” she backtracked. Worker bees removed the offending paint chips and proposed something less risky like biscuit or sage. What M’s heart might have tendered was: “It’s tempting. I know. We all want a yellow moment every now and then.” But what she said was: “Mark my words, you will get it wrong and you will regret it because you will never sell that house.”
But every now and then, people did risk yellow and sometimes they got it right. When the color really landed, it was like watching a three-pointer, effortless and stylish all at once. Whether on a coat or a seaside cottage, someone had wrested innocence and wattage in a single move. M. was right, the risks were high. An Oscar dress was quickly dubbed “Big Bird.” Too much blue and the hue soured; too much red and it lost its bite. Still the couch had pulled it off.
I scanned the rest of the early 19th century American furniture on its slightly elevated platforms. The style was Greek Revival or “Empire” if one preferred the Napoleonic age. Strapping sideboards and an ebonized secretary with bold gilt work channeled victory. An intarsia-covered table with a set of klismos-inspired chairs evoked a successful campaign. Its cushions were a spicy mustard. A few of the case pieces rested on sculpted lion’s paws that gave them an aggressive edge. Upholstery tacks on the yellow sofa, precisely hammered edge to edge, lined up like military brass. Gilded laurel branches disguised the sofa’s bottom brackets at its legs. A gilt Greek key motif, the ultimate sublimated wave, graced the sofa’s lower rail. These furniture pieces were winners and the yellow sofa was at home amidst the triumph.
In my soggy state, I was a counterpoint to this furniture so self-assured it managed to surf and hunt in place. A guard admonished me for sitting on the floor; I had overidentified with a puddle. I love rainstorms, the way they invite a reprieve and bring us back to the present, especially in a hectic world. But in the city, during the morning rush, they leave a lot to be desired. Aggression surges and I still yielded on yellow.
