"These colors, which would seem to belong to everyone, are labeled,
coded and packaged for sale."
by Craig Kellogg
In the world of house paint, a rose is a Rose or a Rouge or even
a Red. When a company calls a green Forever or names a particular
beige Solitude, metaphor is being used to sell paint. "It's poetry
written by commerce," explains 35-year-old artist Peter Wegner.
"These colors, which would seem to belong to everyone, are labeled,
coded, and packaged" for sale.
Wegner discovered that most American commercial paint colors come
from a handful of systems developed by consultants; retailers
can simply buy access to lists of formulas with names and numbers
and start mixing gallon-size cans. In an exhibition last spring
at Manhattan's CRG Gallery (and another this fall at the Todd
Hosselt Gallery in San Francisco), the painter approximated consultants'
colors on large, carefully labeled plywood strips and swatches.
As in his earlier work--compositions of typefaces lifted directly
from a type specimen book--these paintings "show just how loosely
related language is to experience." Sly adjacencies, like True
Blue paired with a nearly indistinguishable Real Blue, make his
point nicely.
The more colors and color systems Wegner sees, the less sense
the names make to him. Reality "consistently overwhelms our preconceptions,"
he says--any word used to describe the color of a rose proves inadequate
in the presence of that rose. So when asked the color of his house
in Portland, Oregon, he pauses. Is it Bungalow, or Domicile? "I
don't know," he says. "It's a noncolor similar to a Band-Aid."
Well, what did it say on the chip? "The truth is the exterior
was already painted when we moved in." |
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