The Yellow House
For several years I kept watch on the yellow house on Kendrick Street beside Rio de Flag. As I walked on the urban trail from the library to the pond, I noted the time of day and direction of light on the stuccoed walls and gray-painted window frames.
In the morning, sunlight saturates the house front and shallow porch in yellows ranging from butter to lemon. Spaces under the eaves are gilded with reflected light. I can’t decide if the windows are gray or lavender. Perhaps they are blue, mirroring the intensity of the cloudless sky. Some of the light leaks around the corners of the house, outlining the shaded sides as the sun crosses above. Projecting beams catch the highest light, like staccato accents punctuating the roof’s cast shadow.
On the side of the house, only a single window breaks the flat surface. Afternoon shade veils the worn yellow stucco with an overlay of green, or is it purple? I stare at the house, trying to name the shadow color, but even as I watch, it slides away from my analytical eye and is dimmed, back lit by the low western sun.
I wonder about the house. It is square and simple, weathered to softer contours and sheltered by taller trees than when it was built. It is bigger than a doll’s house, and small enough to remind me that people don’t need a maze of rooms to feel at home. Has it been remodeled? Who painted it yellow?
French easel in hand, I tried different approaches to the house. I wanted to paint a picture of it, but I couldn’t find the right spot to work from. Recently, I discovered a new perspective from an adjacent parking lot. Now I am happy, because this vantage-point offers me the opportunity I wanted to document the yellow house as a receptacle of light.