I never associate black with the negative. I never say ‘I’m in a black mood’ or similar.
I veer by default to black’s simple purity. I consciously value the clarity afforded by black and white.
(The greys in between may – or may not – have their own meanings.)
Good grief. It’s even true that the blackbird is my favourite garden animal. And that’s with their imperfections.
It seems a strange thing to say, but I rarely think in colour. But – cognitive dissonance alert – I often wish our north European world was more colourful. Our buildings, our clothes … our artifacts. And, not literally, our outlook too? Perhaps. Probably.
The why of it
An oddly-for-the-time-of-year warm day. Sitting outside eating lunch. A few yards away – birds. The frantic hunt for food, the competition for sustenance, the striving for a mate.
My frame of mind at the time led me to find it all predictable and fundamentally ugly.
Redemption came with the pleasure afforded by a blackbird’s arrival; both its appearance and its song.
It’s relatively well know that, for some, whether black (and white) are colours or shades is something to argue about.
Without a practical reason to get exercised by it, it’s not an argument that’s easy to be stirred by.