Blanche: Oh, Grand-pére Claude! There are dozens and dozens of little red flowers spurting out of the cracks in the sidewalk – I’ve never seen these before! Please, a moment. I shall press one into my planner and find out its name when we get home. So! They are red!
Monet: (Laughing) Well, it is summer! But what kind of red, Blanche? Explain, explain...s'il te plait.
Blanche: Fresh red – very vigorous, monsieur. Little sidewalk weeds the color of straightforward glory. The flowers themselves are small & vulnerable, but…compelling.
Monet: Continue, child. You are doing well.
Blanche: (Thinking hard) Grand-pére, remember the way Danielle had as an infant? If I waved my hand out, he would seize my finger and not let go. This red is the curl of his fingers. Unexpectedly strong for a beauty so small. It has the little warrior grip of an infant – warm and moist and tight. It is a warm color. Baby Dani and this color both remind me—my heart pumps real blood. No tinge of amber or purple – the red life in these flowers is bold. Beauty transposed into human terms for human eyes.
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