Colors With Long Names
Let’s talk about colors. Specifically, colors with names that sound like they’re auditioning for a Shakespeare play. You know the ones. They’re not just ‘red.’ Oh no. They are… something else entirely.
I’ve always had a bit of a rebellious streak when it comes to color names. While others gush over the subtle beauty of a ‘cerulean sky,’ I’m over here squinting at the paint chip, muttering, ‘That looks like blue. Just… a fancy blue.’
It’s like the color world decided to get a little bit snobby. They started inventing names that require a deep breath and possibly a dictionary. These aren’t colors for the casual observer. These are colors for people who have a lot of time on their hands.
Take, for instance, the color ‘Periwinkle.’ Now, that’s a nice enough name. It’s light, airy. It conjures images of little flowers. But then you see it. And you think, ‘Okay, it’s a pale purple-blue.’ Which is fine! But does it need a name that sounds like a tiny, magical creature?
And what about ‘Mauve’? Mauve. It sounds so sophisticated. Like it’s wearing a tiny velvet smoking jacket. But in reality, it’s just a dusty, muted purple. It’s perfectly lovely, mind you. But let’s not pretend it’s descended from the heavens on a rainbow cloud.
My personal pet peeve is when colors get really descriptive. Like, too descriptive. We’re not just talking about a shade anymore. We’re talking about a whole story painted onto a swatch.
I saw a color the other day. It was called ‘Dusty Rose and Thistle.’ Dusty Rose and Thistle. I mean, who dreamt that up? Are we supposed to imagine a whole garden scene just to understand the shade of pink? It’s a lot of pressure for a color!
Then there’s ‘Cerulean.’ It’s a classic, I know. But every time I hear it, I picture a very, very calm person. Someone who’s never stubbed their toe. Someone who always finds their keys. Cerulean blue feels like that. A tranquil, serene blue.
But is it that different from sky blue? Or azure? Or even a good old-fashioned blue? I suspect not. It’s like the color world is playing a game of ‘spot the difference’ with shades that are practically identical.
And the names get longer. They just keep going. You have ‘Cornflower Blue.’ Sweet. Understandable. Then you have ‘Electric Cornflower Blue.’ Suddenly, it’s gone from a gentle field to a rave. What happened to the cornflower?
My theory is that people who name colors are either incredibly artistic or incredibly bored. Possibly both. They look at a shade and instead of saying, ‘Hmm, a bit of a greenish-gray,’ they say, ‘Ah, yes! The exact hue of a faded mermaid’s tail after a particularly long nap!’
I appreciate the effort, I really do. It’s like they’re trying to elevate color to an art form. But sometimes, I just want to know if it’s a light color or a dark color. Is it warm or cool? That’s all I’m asking!
Consider ‘Chartreuse.’ It’s a tricky one. Is it green? Is it yellow? It’s both! It’s like a color that can’t make up its mind. And its name sounds like a sneeze trying to escape a French pastry.
Then there are the reds. Not just ‘red.’ We have ‘Crimson.’ Pretty standard. Then we have ‘Scarlet.’ Also, pretty standard. But then we delve into the truly magnificent.
We encounter ‘Vermilion.’ It’s a deep, fiery red. It sounds important. Like a royal decree. But is it just a really intense red? I suspect so.
And let’s not forget ‘Amethyst.’ A lovely purple, named after a gem. But it’s just… a rich purple. Is the gem association really necessary to appreciate a good purple?
My heart truly aches for the simpler times. When ‘blue’ was ‘blue.’ When ‘green’ was ‘green.’ When ‘yellow’ was ‘yellow.’ It was honest. It was direct. It was, dare I say, refreshing.
Now, you pick up a paint card, and it’s a whole novel. You have shades like ‘Shalimar Gardenia.’ Is that a color? Or the name of a perfume that’s a little too floral?
Or how about ‘Whispering Willow.’ It’s a green, obviously. But what is it whispering? And why is it a willow? Is it sad? Is it wise?
The longer names make me feel inadequate. Like I’m not sophisticated enough to grasp their nuanced beauty. I look at a color named ‘Misty Mornings on the Moors’ and I just want to say, ‘Can I just have the gray one, please?’
It’s a conspiracy, I tell you. The color industry is trying to make us all feel a bit dim. They’re creating these elaborate names to distract us from the fact that, at the end of the day, it’s just a color!
Take ‘Fuchsia.’ It’s a vibrant pink. It’s fun. It’s bold. But its name sounds like something you’d find on a rare tropical bird. A bird with very bright feathers, admittedly.
And ‘Indigo.’ It’s a deep blue-purple. It has history. It has mystique. But does it need a name that sounds like it’s from an ancient text?
I’ve started making up my own names. When I see a color that’s a bit much, I just give it a simple, honest moniker. That complex green-gray? I call it ‘Slightly Sad Puddle.’ That orangey-brown? ‘Disappointed Terracotta.’
It’s liberating, really. You don’t have to be a poet to choose a color. You just have to like the way it looks.
But I do wonder. What’s the longest color name in existence? Is there a color called ‘The Existential Crisis of a Sunset Over a Foggy Harbor at Dawn’? And what color would that even be?
I’m sticking to my guns. Give me ‘teal’ over ‘aquamarine dream.’ Give me ‘burgundy’ over ‘rich garnet jewel tone.’ It’s just easier to digest. And frankly, more fun to say.
So, next time you’re faced with a color chart that looks like a library catalog, just remember: it’s okay to say, ‘That’s a nice shade of… that.’ You don’t need a thesaurus to decorate.
And if anyone tries to tell you that the color ‘Tuscan Sunbeam on a Lazy Afternoon’ is different from a warm yellow, just smile and nod. They’re living in a world of very long color names. And that’s their adventure, not yours.
I’ll be over here, enjoying my simple, straightforward, and delightfully short-named colors. They’re the unsung heroes of the hue world, in my humble, and clearly unpopular, opinion.