An invite to a beloved kitchen table, studio convert // what colour?

To a beloved man who caught me in his traps by inviting me to his studio (converted kitchen table) to paint.

It was a drunken evening, all I saw was red. Red the colour of the wine he fed me, and the blotches of red that surrounded me bruised bottom as I fell off for the fourth time, off the broken dining room chair.

Catching me by my shoulders, he led me to this damn seat and placed me in amongst his soiree of colours. Mattia is a man of colours. A man who knows how to find the perfect red, the perfect blue, and the perfect black. He sat me on his magic carpet of colour knowledge. We flew along in the swirls of colours, rolling through these dunes, diving down head first, then picking up again just before we hit the bottom.

I sat clueless to this monologue. I have no understanding of this. Every colour that hits my palette ultimately ends up a shade of grey. He argued and argued with me for my denial of this knowledge. He does not believe it. How can I, an artist, a designer, a snake slithering through the world with my eyes wide open not understand colours? Is this what he is talking about?

I am clueless with colour. What is it? Why do they say red goes with blue, or yellow and green is a terrible clash? I never understood this social conventional ideas. 

For me, the red that sits on top of the paint box is always the right red. The next colour that comes alongside my red smear, is the tube of paint that is at closest reach. That is my understanding of colour.

Despite feeling slightly crippled, he has become my beloved.