The Colors I Return to Again and Again
Some colors arrive like visitors — unexpected, passing, seasonal.
Others return like old friends — familiar, steady, full of memory.
In my practice as EMP, I’ve come to notice which colors I circle back to, again and again.
Not out of habit. Not because I “should.”
But because they continue to speak.
They continue to know me.
These aren’t colors I consciously “choose” every time — they rise on their own. They move through me like breath. And over time, I’ve realized they aren’t just palette preferences. They’re emotional signatures.
This blog is a reflection on the colors I keep returning to — what they’ve held, how they’ve changed, and what they continue to reveal about the emotional undercurrents of my work.
Rust and Earth Red — The Color of Memory
One of the earliest colors that stayed with me was rust.
It’s not flashy. Not trendy.
But it feels anchored.
Like history. Like the body. Like something that’s endured.
I return to rust when:
I’m grounding
I’m grieving
I’m remembering who I was before I changed
Rust is the color of emotional sediment.
It carries the past without clinging to it.
It speaks of resilience, erosion, survival.
In early EMP work, rust showed up as a background — a kind of quiet base.
Now, it often takes center stage.
It’s no longer what I’m hiding under — it’s what I’m claiming.
Soft Bone White — The Breath Between Things
Bone white isn’t blank.
It’s full.
It holds space without overtaking it.
I return to bone white when:
I need pause
I’m letting something land
The emotion is too loud and needs a place to rest
White space is part of my composition strategy now.
I used to be afraid of it — worried it made the work look unfinished.
Now, I understand that what’s not painted is often just as important as what is.
Bone white carries light, air, silence.
It holds grief and peace in equal measure.
It’s where the painting exhales.
Ochre and Honey — The Color of Warm Trust
There was a time when ochre felt “too much” for me — too rich, too ambiguous.
Now it feels like home.
I return to ochre when:
I’m feeling steady
I’m trusting the process
I want warmth without demand
Honeyed yellows have become central to my current palette.
They remind me that joy doesn’t have to be bright or loud — it can be slow.
It can hum instead of shout.
When I layer ochre, I often feel my breath deepen.
It’s not the color of arrival.
It’s the color of belonging.
Deep Slate Blue — Where My Grief Lives
Slate blue has followed me through every season.
It’s the color of depth, of introspection, of ache.
I return to slate blue when:
Something is shifting internally
I’m processing a loss
I need to feel without explaining
This color doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t try to fix anything.
It simply holds.
There are entire EMP pieces made in variations of this blue.
Some layered with white to soften.
Some scratched with texture to reflect tension.
Some standing alone — complete in their quiet.
Slate blue is my companion in the dark.
And I am always grateful when it arrives.
Raw Pink — The Color of Softness and Skin
Pink, for me, is not sweet. It’s raw.
It’s the color of:
Vulnerability
Flesh
Tenderness after rage
I return to pink when I’m no longer trying to be tough.
When I’ve let the armor down.
When the work is not about resolution, but about being seen.
Early on, I avoided pink — afraid it would be read as too soft, too feminine, too cliché.
Now, I use it as a weapon of softness.
To disrupt.
To reveal.
Pink has become one of the most emotionally complex colors in my palette.
And I trust it deeply.
Ash Black — The Mark of Transformation
Ash black is not heavy.
It’s clean.
I return to black when:
Something needs contrast
A truth has been uncovered
I’m creating structure within emotion
Black, in my work, is not an ending.
It’s a clearing.
A boundary.
A line drawn in the spiritual sand.
It gives the painting weight.
It signals a shift.
It says: “This matters.”
I don’t use black casually.
But when it comes in, it comes in strong.
Dusty Lavender — The Energy of Transition
Lavender entered my work during a time of change.
And it’s never fully left.
I return to lavender when:
I’m between identities
I’m dreaming about what’s next
I’m healing something quietly
It’s the color of the threshold — not here, not there, but becoming.
Lavender is not neutral.
It’s tender, yes — but also stubborn.
It refuses to be boxed in.
And I resonate with that.
Now, I often pair lavender with earth tones — to hold the ethereal with the grounded.
The dream with the dirt.
The hope with the body.
Why I Trust Repetition
Some artists avoid repetition.
They want each piece to feel completely new.
But I’ve learned that the colors I return to are not limitation — they’re language.
Each time I use ochre, I understand something different about joy.
Each time I layer blue, I meet a new part of my grief.
Repetition is how the conversation deepens.
It’s how nuance appears.
It’s how healing unfolds.
At EMP, I no longer fight the recurrence.
I welcome it.
I study it.
And I let it teach me.
When a Color Disappears
Sometimes, a color I use constantly will suddenly vanish.
It stops showing up.
I’m no longer drawn to it.
It feels hollow, or wrong.
That used to scare me — like I’d lost something essential.
Now I know it’s just part of the cycle.
When a color leaves, it usually means:
The emotional story it was tied to has shifted
I’ve moved into a new internal season
I’m being asked to find new language
And when that happens, I grieve the absence.
But I also wait.
Because something always comes in to replace it.
How Color Carries the Soul of the Work
I’ve made pieces where I changed the entire composition halfway through — but left the original palette.
And those pieces still felt complete.
Because the color held the soul of the work.
More than shape.
More than gesture.
More than structure.
Color carries the why.
The when.
The part of me that was present at the moment of making.
And this is why I return to certain colors — not out of style, but out of relationship.
Out of memory.
Out of recognition.
Color as Self-Portrait
If you took all the EMP pieces I’ve created in the last three years and lined them up by palette, you could trace my internal evolution.
You’d see:
The rawness of a personal ending
The curiosity of starting again
The steadiness I found in new rhythms
The fear I softened with breath
The hope I didn’t dare name, but painted anyway
Color, in that way, has become my most honest self-portrait.
Not of the body.
Not of the surface.
But of the emotional shape of a life in process.
Returning as a Ritual
The colors I return to are not repetitive.
They’re ritual.
They remind me of who I am, who I’ve been, and what I’m still becoming.
Each return is not a loop — it’s a spiral.
Deeper. Clearer. More refined.
At EMP, color is not a backdrop.
It’s the message.
The map.
The pulse.
And when I feel lost — creatively, emotionally, spiritually — I return to these colors.
Not for answers.
But for anchoring.
For presence.
For truth.
