T. S. Eliot wrote about “The Violet Hour” in the The Waste Land. Regarded as the most important poem of the 20th century, in his writings, this hour he speaks of, is tinged with melancholy. It’s loss, and repetitiveness, it’s the dying of the light, a purple bruise – on the sky – on his country – on his heart.
Purple is said to represent; royalty, luxury, ambition and wealth, creativity and wisdom, dignity, grandeur, and devotion, Eliot’s Violet Hour is not meant to evoke peace, refinement, or magic. If purple is in fact all these things, or some of these things, or none of these things to the person that chooses to interpret, place value, to believe in–what then, of its softer hue … violet?
Is it a clever thought, a crush, a frill, an expression of will, a momentary thrill? Is it playful? Is it paper hearts and pop tarts? Is it silly instead of serious? Childhood instead of adult, or is it something in-between? I’m not sure, but I know that I am drawn to the color violet.
I miss the bedroom in No. 3, painted in Ben Moore’s Violet Ice. It sounds chilly but it wasn’t. It was calm and happy. I would lie in bed and look at those wall and the grandeur of the crown molding and feel deep satisfaction. It’s easy and uncomplicated. Maybe that’s what I really miss…an uncomplicated existence.
I’ll find a way to sneak it into No. 4, because, for me it is Tuesday tea, and tutu’s made of tulle. Violet is beautiful at any hour.