In a world where color is banned, artists struggle. Corum had just finished his last vat of paint. He was a slender man carrying a malnourished look. Staring at his peace, he sighed. His canvas now conveys the view out his window, the dystopian city he lived in. No color ever survived for long in this hellhole. Art, a subjective matter, was made objective by this city. Galleries were lined with paintings of the same hue; artists succeeded by following the formula set. Corum hated that, he wanted to break that equation and find a solution elsewhere. He swallowed his pride, leaped out of his seat, and headed to the store.
While on his path, an idea struck him. Instead of taking the usual left, he took a right, down the alley only he could fit through. His mother, a kind soul, used to chase him down this alley only to stop and yell his name. he could still hear it sometimes. Corum’s feet padded softly against the worn cobblestones of the narrow alley. It was barely wide enough for him to pass, the brick walls cool to the touch, pressing against his shoulder blades. This place held memories of a time when there was still a glint of rebellion and joy in the city; when his mother's laugh echoed louder than the strict mandates.
The alley opened up into a secluded courtyard. Wildflowers, stripped of their hues, grew defiantly against the odds. The sight reminded Corum of a forgotten childhood memory: his mother humming a tune and grinding different colored stones to make homemade paint. Shaking his head to bring himself back to the present, Corum realized the significance of this memory. If natural elements once gave color, why couldn't they do so again?
He began to forage, collecting the colorless petals and leaves. He remembered how his mother would mix the powders with oils to create vibrant hues. Maybe, just maybe, the true colors of these flowers were suppressed but not completely eradicated. And with the right mixture, they could be revived. As days turned into nights, Corum’s makeshift studio became a laboratory. With every failed mixture, his hope waned, but he couldn't stop. Until one day, when the gray paste he had mixed began to turn into a soft shade of blue. Elation surged through him.
Using this newfound knowledge, he began extracting colors from other plants, creating a palette unseen in the city for generations. Secretly, he painted a masterpiece, each brushstroke a rebellion, each shade an anthem of freedom. Word of a "colorful spectacle" spread, drawing people from all corners of the city. The first to see it wept openly, for they had only heard tales of such beauty.
Corum's artwork became a symbol. People began questioning the oppressive regime, wondering why they had allowed color and individuality to be stripped from their lives. The drab paintings in the galleries now seemed lifeless and insipid compared to Corum's vibrant creations. It wasn’t long before the city authorities caught wind of Corum's defiance. But instead of arresting him, they found themselves standing in awe before his masterpiece, their hearts stirred by forgotten emotions.
In the end, it wasn’t just a revolution of color but of spirit. The ban on color was lifted, not by a decree, but by the awakened souls of the people. Corum's alley became a symbol of hope, renamed "The Alley of Colors". Children would run down its path, laughing, as Corum’s mother once did, the city blooming in a riot of hues, reminding everyone of the power of art and memory.
Loved writing this!