Mr. Indigo and his legendary art store in rainbow street had kitted De Vinci out with vellums, Fragonard with blood red grounds;
Monet in water lily pink, Van Gogh in sunflower yellow, and Toulouse-Lautrec in wormwood’s absinth green.
Even Delacroix got his pigments of freedom from there…

The shop, with its shelves of colors, carefully aligned fascinated me as a child.
Side by side a Van Dyck brown, a jar of Véronèse green, one of Pompadour pink that caught my eye
next to fresh yellow butter. The red currant and coffee’s cream, the grey turtle-dove neck…
Belly of hind, wraps of hare, iridescent bubble of soap and the green plumage of the night bird…
Those clearly missing were firefly and chameleon’s undercoat.

Wandering to the back of the shop,
more preserved treasures most beautiful and rare lay in a box labeled “the colors of the Moon”.
Said I to Mr. Indigo, the merchant of such delight; “ Where do I find the color of the wind ? and that of a time-less moment passing ? "
He did not answer…for he knew it was decided… once grown, I would be the artist to outshine all hues.