About a year ago, the people who live in the house next door to me painted over the beautiful old red brick with a very bright, deep blue with orange accents.
It is an understatement to say that I am not fond of the new color.
In true honesty, though, the colors are not so bad, but for the fact that they covered over such a lovely brick facade: the quintessential urban Italianate, and a testament to Cincinnati’s legendary architecture status in that category. My bedroom window is flushed up against the building’s side, and, I must say, it is much better to look out over your desk and see the ever elegant ivy-on-brick wall, as opposed to the quaggy deep blue that is now my view’s reality.
The great thing about the change, though, is that it still didn’t affect how the sunset reflects off the building. Despite the fact that even a purple shift is less appealing than the dazzling oranges and glowing pinks of the previously red-brown brick in a sunset, I still can’t help but hold my breath for a moment when I walk into my room at sundown. This beautiful array doesn’t happen everyday, but still often enough that you would think it should lose some awe after a time.
Thankfully, it hasn’t yet.
Seeing a glowing blue sky, opposite the sunset and just barely escaping it’s grasp for a time, wedged in between the newly green foliage of the honeysuckle my father hates so badly, seeing the bright red glow of the nursing home on the next block in the background, draws my eye to the esteem of the sun and clouds, reflected in the blue, now purple, of that horrendously colored apartment building. Even better than seeing the sunset directly, the mood it casts, when I sit down to write or read or get work done, gives pause. It provides an instant sense of calm, of tranquility, even in the midst of next-day deadlines or rabbit deaths (true story). I could stare out that window for hours, just admiring the loveliness of the scene in front of me, beyond me.
I’m not kidding when I say it always makes me stop in wonder. I could sit at my desk forever, just staring out that window, and it would never cease to amaze me.
But the scene only lasts twenty minutes, half-an-hour at most. The sun goes down, the apartments are once again blue and ivy-less.
But maybe sometime next week, the weather will cooperate again. And at least now I can get some work done.