When I stare at a Rorschach test, the first thing I notice about the image the lack of substance in the white. It’s bright, but it’s as unremarkable as it is unavoidable. What brings my thoughts to life is what I envision taking shape in the black. All the work, all the contrast, everything that’s interesting is so because of what the black ink does for the empty white sheet of pulp.
We live in a Rorschach test. We come into our own after being torn from an unstable and unconscious darkness, and we’re given abstract black and white concepts to look at, then asked to describe what we see so we can be labeled with potentially life-threatening, man-made and un-pronounceable ingredients.
We’re taught to dread dark clouds, even though we’d be nothing without rain; that only sunshine can make trust-worthy shadows. We’re prescribed a rainbow of medication and given an outdated map leading to a non-existent pot of gold. We’re legally obligated to listen to the list of offensive side-effects when we should be morally outraged at being told to ask our doctor what’s right for us, and warned to avoid any gray areas… which, I’ve gotta tall ya, are pretty hard to find when we neglect to take off those Moscato-colored Ray-Bans.
We confuse matter and material. We don’t see there is more in what we don’t see than in what we do; that the blackest places in space hold the most intriguing secrets to life; that we have to have lines if we’re to ever going to read between them.
The metaphors practically write themselves.