Whenaworld-famousartistbeginstolosehereyesightandputsdownherbrushes,itisatragedy.Whenshestartstopaintagain,itmustsurelybeamiracle.“Whatarethosecolors?“Iasked,shoutingoverthewind.O’Keefferaisedhereyesskyward,restingbothhandsonthecane.Shelookedslowlyallaround,squintingagainsttheflyingsand,herwhitedressflappingloudly.Thensheloweredhereyestowardme.“Youtellmewhattheyare,“shesaid.AtfirstIthoughtshewasjesting.Iknewshecouldseethem,orIthoughtshecould.Butshewaitedpatiently,lookingatme.Iturnedbacktothesky.“They’relikepastels.“Istopped,focusingononecloudneartous.“Thiscloudislikeagrainyorangeandred--no,it’smorelikeapeach,withyellowsintheretoo.“Igesturedwidely.Itseemedasifonecolorwassuperimposedontracesofanother.Theairwasfulloffragrancesenhancedbyahintofmoistureandsharpenedbythewindasitpassedquicklyoverthesurfaceofsageandstone,sandandpi簽on.Somehow,allthatwaspartofwhatIsaw.“Buttherearereds,too.“Istruggledtothinkofhowtodescribethecolors.“Thereisagrayorwhitebehindthereds;andsomeorange.“O’Keeffe’sheaddeclinedslightlyasshelistened,herlipscreasedinafaintsmile.Inlatesummer1975,JohnPolingleftcollegetowanderthebeautyofnorthernNewMexicoandwoundupinAbiquiudoingoddjobsforGeorgiaO’Keeffe.NeverdidheimaginethatonedayO’Keeffe’srequestforhelpinpreparingacanvaswouldleadtoatwo-yearcollaborationthatwouldprovethemostrewardingyetmostpainfulofhislife.
