J. R. Harvey

Sometimes, you pick up a book on a recommendation from a friend. Other times, it shows up in pop culture, or you like the author, or someone highly respected mentions it. The Story Of Black was the last one, for me. Mentioned in passing in an essay I loved, I figured, why not read it?

What followed was a combination of science, semiotics, and most prominently, art history. This is not so much the use of black in all of time and space as the use of black as fashion and paint, the style of black moreso than the story. It's myriad meanings are touched upon, and the chemical processes that underlie how we come to understand it, but most of the value of this book is in the art history.

Want to fall in love with El Greco? Or Rubens? Ever wonder why Tibetan Buddhism has black demons, or how hinduism can be derided as cock worship at times? Those stories are the function of The Story of Black. Similarly, why black is a sign of our current times, at least in conjecture. This is not necessarily the story of how to make things black, only why that might be their shade and hue.

At times depressing, and sometimes fascinating, be prepared to come out of the book with a lot more feelings about artists, and some slight confusion as to the creation of cast iron. Don't expect a story about why black looks like the future, when it might actually just be the past. As an art book, this is excellent. As something to discuss semiotics, this is acceptable. Anything beyond is lost in the horizon of the book, light that simply cannot escape the pull of the stellar blackness. Not inky or sharp, simply all consuming.… (mere)