Laura McCullough How Artists See Weather Blue is arguable at best, the realm        of blues being broad and wide and fights happen between the land        of cerulean and that of cobalt; ain't it all just blue? No one would argue        that reductively, but the class divide is jagged twixt those who call        for sea foam or for cyan. How about orchid rather than purple?        The sky presses down on the painter with no less grief, the wand        waved overhead collecting low pressure particles is flicked across        the canvas: there is carnage in Geurnica which is not about weather,        but does depict a storm; and Van Gogh's sunshine eats the earth        and is infused in each brush stroke the way sun is infused in wheat:        the bread we eat is full of it. Think of eating Van Gogh        crustinis or Picasso pâté; would we ingest their eyes, what came        through their fingers? Is blue enough for you? Some days        it is for me, and others, I want the ochre madness damping        down my soulless day, proof of what I am, mad and kind, a horse's        face inside my own, or else the sower of the sun arguing for nothing,        just, yes, yes, this is blue, and so is this, and this, all in my arms        a collusion of ungrown things waiting to be tossed into the air.

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