14
MLBLUE
FALL2016
GUEST
ITORIAL
“HeyNels,what colour is this?”
This question is barked atmemore than I care to
admit. It comeswith the territory of beingopenly
colour blind since I was a kid.
Back then,my parents boughtme aK'NEXbuilding
set that I couldn't figure out for the life ofme,
andwhen I was tested at the optometrist's some
months later, I can recall the doctor's inappropriate
snickering as I struggled toput the shaded chips
inorder. Somewhere near themiddle everything
endedup looking the same: amuddled, incessant
grey-green, or grey-blue.
My vision ismessedup.And as such, I live in
aweird-lookingworld. I'mnot truly colour
blind—I see colours. I see a lot of colours, just not
necessarily the ones you see.The literature says I'm
colour deficient. I guess you could say I seemuch
like a dog,withpockets of vibrant colour here
and there, butmost of the time, a dimmed-down
versionofwhat you're looking at.Or so they tell
me. Put it thisway: green traffic lights are almost
white, and I have no ideawhatmauve is.My
filmmaking andphotography is a testament to the
way I think I see things: oftenover-saturated, over-
corrected, solarized, burnt, pungent.
Come autumn, an elemental light showhits the
backbushand flocks of tourists and locals alike
take to thehighways of near-northernOntario
to catchaglimpseof this evolvingpaint palette,
ripewith the intricacies of dying foliageand crisp
ruralmelancholy. I don't really knowwhat autumn
looks like.But I'll tell youwhat I do see: imagine if
Rembrandtwas sucker-punchedbyBenjaminMoore.
OnanOctober afternoon, themaple canopy of
AlgonquinParkbecomes aneonbathofmarbled
fire. InNovember, the shores of theBrucePeninsula
become a faded saladof British racinggreen,
contrastedby orange-pulpedbirch treeswith leaves
the colour ofworn-out tan leather gloves.
The somber underbrushwhere theNiagara
Escarpment throws its shade at dusk becomes
oddly uninspiring. It becomes an empty, available
space, ownedby noone from thisworldor the
next.TheCanadian Shield, a leangrey andblue
bicep relentlessly flexes, thanklessly holding the
Great Lakes basin together.The buses, cars, and
thousands of pitter-pattering tourists through the
bush takingphotos of the foliage in this jubilant
seasonofmemory and chilledwonder.The land
laughs andgiggles, shakingoff her leaves, leaving
her skinbare.
No, I'mnot hallucinating—andno, I'mnot typing
thiswith the eraser endof a pencil clenched inmy
teethwhile I'm embracedby the stern caress of a
straightjacket. In aworldwhere I'm routinely told
what I see isn't “correct,” Imentally change things
around towhat I thinkwould lookgood.But that's the
essenceof autumn, right? It's about transformation.
Inpart, this elemental seasonal changemeans
adjusting thewaywe interpret our surroundings
bothphysical andpsychological, sowe canprepare
forwhat's ahead. Fall isn’t the funeral season it’s
portrayed as. It’s not the time to sit anddwell on
the loss of that sweet young thing called summer,
so instead, celebrate.Make a beautiful mess out of
whatever you’re gazingupon.
Looking at things differently is essential to turning
new corners—whether the things you’re seeing
are the right orwrong colours, or real at all.My
visionmay bemessedup, but fromwhere I'm
sitting, you’re the onesmissingout.
—NelsonPhillips
Imagine if Rembrandtwas sucker-punchedbyBenjamin
Moore.
COLOURBLIND INAUTUMN
Algonquindawn. NELSONPHILLIPS
Imagine if Rembrandt was sucker-
punched by BenjaminMoore.
