I’ve come to realize that my relationship with color shifts depending on whether I’m holding a paintbrush or choosing what to wear. The rules of color theory—contrast, harmony, mood—are the same in both worlds, but how I respond to them changes with context.

Take olive green, for example. I love the way it looks against my skin; it feels earthy, grounding, even quietly powerful when I wear it. But when I sit down to paint, olive green rarely finds its way onto the canvas. In painting, I’m drawn toward brighter hues, colors that spark movement and energy. Olive, for me, feels too restrained for the kind of vibrancy I want to express in art.

And when people ask me what my favorite color is, I tell them yellow. I don’t really know why... maybe it’s the color of my energy. It doesn’t dominate my wardrobe or my paintings, but it lingers in my imagination as something warm, light-filled, and alive.

That difference fascinates me. It reminds me that color is never fixed—it’s deeply personal, shaped by context and intention. What empowers me in clothing might not inspire me in paint. And yet, there’s overlap: the joy I feel when two shades interact just right, whether that’s a garment pairing or a brushstroke, always comes from the same place of curiosity and care.

Navigating between these two palettes—one that lives on my body and one that lives on canvas—teaches me that color is not just theory. It’s memory, identity, and emotion. And it’s always changing, depending on how I choose to see it.