Have been struck by way of the beautiful color of the sea while seen via the chinks of a straw hat,” Charles Darwin wrote, in the past due March 1832, as H.M.S. Beagle threaded its way via the Abrolhos Shoals, off the Brazilian coast. The water, he wrote, changed into “Indigo with a bit Azure blue,” at the same time as the sky above changed into “Berlin with [a] little Ultramarine.”
Darwin, then twenty-three, became the handiest three months into the almost 5-year adventure that would transform his life and how humans saw themselves and different species. As the voyage’s medical man or woman, he could accumulate loads of rocks, fossils, animals, and flowers, periodically delivering his specimens to Cambridge in packing containers from barrels to pillboxes. Like other naturalists of his time, even though his primary documentary tool became the written phrase, and for the duration of the voyage, he drew a lot of his words from a slim extent known as “Werner’s Nomenclature of Colours,” posted in 1814 through the Scottish artist Patrick Syme.
Syme’s guide, a facsimile to be launched in early February by way of Smithsonian Books, contains samples, names, and outlines of a hundred and ten shades, ranging from Snow White to Asparagus Green to Arterial Blood Red too, sooner or later, Blackish Brown. Based on a coloration-naming gadget developed in the eighteenth century, using the German mineralogist Abraham Werner, the manual is complete with geological comparisons: Grayish White is likened to granular limestone, Brownish Orange to Brazilian topaz. A flower painter and artwork teacher, Syme added comparisons from the living world. Tom Werner’s eyes, Darwin’s Berlin Blue in the Atlantic sky resembled a sapphire; to Syme, the wing feathers of a jay.
Darwin stated that he always named the colors he noticed “with the ebook in hand,” and, certainly, Syme’s phrases are scattered throughout the diaries and notebooks that he stuffed at the same time as aboard the Beagle. Darwin describes cuttlefish as tinted with “hyacinth pink and chestnut brown,” a sea slug as “primrose yellow,” and a kind of smooth coral as “mild auricular crimson.” Specimens could degrade, paintings could fade, and shade pictures become still a much-off dream, but with Syme’s help, Darwin may want to encode the colors of a strange world—and bring them appropriately domestic. When his “Journal of Researches” (now called “The Voyage of the Beagle”) was posted in 1839, one reviewer referred to Darwin as “an incredible landscape painter with the pen.”
Syme’s guide becomes the best of charts, wheels, and other shade taxonomies proliferated in 19th-century Europe. Produced particularly using artists and naturalists, they had been supposed to set up a preferred set of labels for the seen spectrum, stabilizing the correspondence between Tanya Kelley, a professor of languages at the University of Missouri–Kansas City, has referred to as “word and world.” In a few approaches, those taxonomies handiest complex human communication approximately color, substantially increasing the range of named colors and creating a mess of conflicting classes.
But, as Darwin located, they also allowed shades found in one area to be reliably reproduced in any other, and they drew attention to sudden similarities. Syme points out, as an instance, that the spots on a tiger moth’s wings are the same coloration of reddish-black as the “Breast of [a] Pochard Duck.” The ultramarine blue Darwin recorded on the Abrolhos Shoals is now discovered not only inside the wings of the heath butterfly but also in borage plant life and lapis-lazuli stones.
Kelley, who has studied the records of shade nomenclatures, told me that she is regularly struck by using their authors’ faith within the descriptive electricity of words. “What I come away with is the optimism that people had in our cognitive abilities, within the ability of language to capture something that we now describe with mechanized methods,” she stated. Darwin’s contemporary-day successors have pix and spectrographic readings to assist them in cataloging shades. But Kelley argues that language nonetheless topics, as its movements, both the intellect and the feelings, regularly evoke features beyond hue.
Consider Homer’s “wine-darkish sea.” Scholars have suggested that oínopa, the historic Greek phrase historically translated as “wine-dark,” may also refer less to the Aegean Sea’s color than to the movement of its water, the shimmer of its floor, or the depth of its depths. Though these days’ Pantone coloration gadget—which lines its origins to an 1886 shade terminology with the aid of the ornithologist Robert Ridgway—uses numerical codes to become aware of its more than 230 hues, its curators appear to be well aware of the price of language.
Pantone’s 2018 color of the 12 months, 18-3838 UltraViolet, is characterized using the organization as a “dramatically provocative and considerate crimson shade” that conjures up the “experimentation” non-conformity” of Prince David Bowie and Jimi Hendrix. (given greater modest comparisons, Syme reveals one of his violet colors in a flesh-fly egg.)
Kelley told me that the discernment of Syme and his contemporaries has helped draw her gaze to less dramatic sun shades and to distinctions that she may not otherwise understand. “We consider dogwoods as just ‘inexperienced,’ however absolutely their leaves are grey beneath, and poplar leaves are silver,” she stated. “And there are so many belongings you’d never think are the same color—like a mushroom and a mallard’s wing—however, when you look intently, you may see that they truly are.” As Werner’s nomenclature reminds us, a word is worth one thousand photographs occasionally.