Pushing color: Contrast and nuance

II was sitting in a café last week when I noticed a photograph of flamingos on a lake. The contrast was turned all the way up. The flamingos burned bright orange against the water. It was striking, almost impossible to ignore.

It made me wonder what draws our attention so quickly. I tend to like bright color, and a bright splash of paint will certainly get my attention. But for others, it’s something else, a beautiful flower, a piece of architecture, a note of music. It made me think about the creative interests people have, all so different and unique from one another.

At the time, I was sitting with a friend, and I felt inspired to ask him what he would create if he could do anything artistic.

“Geometric paintings,” he said. He told me it’s something he’s always been drawn to but never explored.

I loved that answer for him. Geometry is bold. Defined. Clear lines, strong contrast—nothing ambiguous.

Later, as we were walking through the Wynwood Walls, I couldn’t stop noticing it: intense lines, color, patterns that declare themselves. Art that doesn’t hesitate.

That is one way of seeing.

Then today, I was in art class and was directed to a very different way of seeing.

I was creating a surrealist painting of an animal, and I had to build form through subtle shades of color. As I worked, I began to notice nuance and detail. My art teacher gently redirected me a number of times to soften my brush, to dab here and there, to notice how the color shifted from dark to light, blending from warm to cold. I kept getting muddled, and each time he helped me, he said the same thing: put the color down without fear, flesh out the middle tones.

He was asking me to stop being afraid of nuance, of how color transitions, how light and shadow live together. Eventually, it all comes together. He was teaching me to stop holding the reins so tightly. Not everything is meant to be sharply defined.

It struck me: this isn’t just about painting.

I realized I tend to live in extremes. I reach for black or white. It is easier, clearer, less intimidating.

I remember learning to drive. I held onto that steering wheel for dear life. It took me ages to relax enough to get onto the highway. In art, the in-between (the blending, the subtle shifts, the slow forming of something) feels like that early stage of driving. And yet now, after more than 20 years, I can move down the highway with ease, only lightly holding the wheel. I trust that I know where I’m going and how to get there safely.

Life requires trust and patience.

Yes, there is still a part of me that enjoys being bold, direct, high contrast: wanting to plan, to control, to know.

And there is also a part of me that is learning to see fluidity: the soft blending of nuance, the willingness to stay in the unknown until shape begins to form. Learning to trust the process.

Both ways of seeing are important.

The question I’m sitting with is:
Do I know when to be each?

When to push color clearly, confidently, to plan, to take charge?

And when to let things unfold more quietly? To be more patient?

It is something I am still learning, just like my art.

Life, like art, isn’t just about contrast or nuance.

It’s about knowing when and how to use the ways we’ve learned to see. To be intentional about what we sharpen, what we soften, what we avoid altogether. To notice when we are being bold, and when we are being more subtle.

What about you? Are you fixed in one way of seeing, gripping tightly to clarity? Are you holding on to the orange flamingo or the geometry? Or do you find yourself drifting into too much uncertainty, where the lines blur and boundaries begin to fade?

Do you even realize it?

With noticing and realization, something softens. You begin to see when and how you are using these different ways of being. You step out of autopilot. You start to really see, instead of wondering how you got here.

With noticing, there’s a little more room. A little more movement. You begin to sense when something wants to be held more firmly, and when it might be better to let it unfold.

It doesn’t happen all at once, or perfectly. But with more awareness, you begin to allow something new to emerge, a space where new kinds of possibility begins to take shape.