In twenty-three years in the classroom, I have never had a student remind me so much of cotton candy than this kiddo. She wore pink. She wore pink every day. Every day, this kid wore pink. I thought at some point she would grow weary of this color, but it didn’t happen. One day, I asked her about it. Her response was one for the ages. She said, “Mrs. Bryant, I wear pink because my grandmother did. She said it was the color of joy that refused to fade, even when everything else did. Pink was her rebellion — her way of saying she would not be erased by time. When I wear it, I feel like I’m continuing her story stitch by stitch. Pink isn’t just my outfit; it’s my inheritance. One day, when I write my own novel, I want the main character to wear pink too — a reminder that survival can be beautiful.” Needless to say, I no longer see pink as anything less than the color of strength.
5” x 7”. Oil on 100% cotton paper.
In twenty-three years in the classroom, I have never had a student remind me so much of cotton candy than this kiddo. She wore pink. She wore pink every day. Every day, this kid wore pink. I thought at some point she would grow weary of this color, but it didn’t happen. One day, I asked her about it. Her response was one for the ages. She said, “Mrs. Bryant, I wear pink because my grandmother did. She said it was the color of joy that refused to fade, even when everything else did. Pink was her rebellion — her way of saying she would not be erased by time. When I wear it, I feel like I’m continuing her story stitch by stitch. Pink isn’t just my outfit; it’s my inheritance. One day, when I write my own novel, I want the main character to wear pink too — a reminder that survival can be beautiful.” Needless to say, I no longer see pink as anything less than the color of strength.
5” x 7”. Oil on 100% cotton paper.
