for good reason and Anne of Green Gables is a fine book. Even that old grouch, Mark Twain had to love it. Anne Shirley is hyper sensitive to colours, to grating point at times, but in gunmetal November I’ll take what colours I can and mutter my thanks. I’ll cross the street to get closer to the International Klein Blue of a building plot fence on my way to the shops, smile at the memory of that Karate chopping colourist. If only he’d jumped out of the window for real, broke some bones for his art instead of cutting two pics together and running fake newspaper stories. But maybe great art needs some artifice? If too real, it passes unnoticed, hidden in the furls of our everyday lives and observations.
