Mid-Atlas Mountains, Morocco
“The color brown, I realized, is anything but nondescript. It comes in as many hues as there are colors of earth, which is commonly presumed infinite.”— Barbara Kingsolver
The browns of Morocco. Like brown sugar or rich honey, it offers the comforts of a tattered throw, the familiar embrace of a worn leather chair, the sturdiness of the earth under our feet. Brown is at once familiar and a keeper of stories, a color of things that have lived. An old pair of leather shoes in a loud world of neon, chrome, and plastic high heels.
Mid-Atlas Mountains, Morocco
“The color brown, I realized, is anything but nondescript. It comes in as many hues as there are colors of earth, which is commonly presumed infinite.”— Barbara Kingsolver
The browns of Morocco. Like brown sugar or rich honey, it offers the comforts of a tattered throw, the familiar embrace of a worn leather chair, the sturdiness of the earth under our feet. Brown is at once familiar and a keeper of stories, a color of things that have lived. An old pair of leather shoes in a loud world of neon, chrome, and plastic high heels.