I never had a favorite color. Although, when asked as a child I remember responding with intermittent certanity that the color white was my favorite. Perhaps, thanks to the timidity of my youth, choosing a "favorite" color was a challenge. After all, I was to be judged according to my response. Perhaps I had wanted to be different. Perhaps I just wanted to be difficult. Whatsoever the underlying reason, I had regarded the absence of color as my color.
A recent conversation with a friend re-ignited my thoughts on "favorite" colors. As we sat looking out at the Atlantic Ocean, she asked me why the color blue was so often associated with sadness. I pondered this for some time, and resolved that when experiencing colors a curious exchange takes place; the color projects its aura, and we project our own emotions and percepts onto the color. The sadness of blue is fundamentally our own melancholy enticed by the authority of the color. Enigmatically, we encounter ourselves in the color. And all the while I was thinking about this, I was thinking about blue, in all its hues and tones; the cool and invigorating sensation of the sea on the skin, the clean shimmer of a morning sky, the glittering turquoise of melting snow, and the dark stain of an overripe blueberry on coarse hands, and I realized that I encounter my happiest self in blue. But this is today, and who is to say about tomorrow and what magic of a writers word may influence my retinal association with a color? Who might I encounter that may alter my perception, memory and imagination?
Now looking back on my childhood answer, I believe this to have been a calculated one. How can you choose a favorite color when you have yet to know all the colors of life?