Diary of an Opera Singer: Orange is not a jewel tone

Diary of an Opera Singer

“We must get your colors done.” I had absolutely no idea what my Grandma was talking about when she said this but it was a familiar line from her. It could have been any day between 1989 and 1994 because that’s how often it was said in our household. My mom explained that Grandma loved all things beauty related and that one day I would want to wear makeup like her and buy clothes in colors that suited me best.

The thought of it sounded completely unappealing but my Grandma was so stylish, regal, and determined this was happening. She gracefully moved through the world in outfits that were perfectly tailored in jewel toned purples and pinks. She wore matching hats and scarves for church, and fancy bedazzled shoes. She would stack her rings according to the colors of her outfits on her aging, delicate fingers and often had the matching earrings and necklaces to accompany those rings. She was fancy and I was unknowingly a baby diva in training.

Photo by Helenna Santos

Looking back, she may have urged me to “have my colors done” because of my day to day childhood attire. Back then I was likely wearing fluorescent neon pink spandex bike shorts and an oversized t-shirt with our “Langley Mustangs” track team logo on it. Or maybe it was a velcro sandals and tear-away track pants kind of day. It was as clear as my synthetic jelly sandals that I had a few things to learn. What can I say? My fashion sense in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s was…rad.

Grandma explained that there were some colors that would suit me more than others and that most people fell into categories of the four seasons and those colors would suit me best. This was the generation when people were obsessed with a book called, “Color Me Beautiful” by Carole Jackson. I remember the description on the inside of that book. Carole claimed that using simple guidelines and rules would reveal the thirty shades that would, “Make you look smashing.”

The promises kept coming with this bold claim: “Color me Beautiful will also help you: develop your color personality; learn to perfect your make-up color; discover your clothing personality; use color to solve specific figure problems, and more, including full-color palettes containing the thirty shades for each season--pages you can cut out to carry when you shop!” I remember my eyes focusing on the “specific figure problems” passage and panicking. What’s a figure? Why would there be problems? Did I have a figure or problems? What does that even mean? Is there something to fix that only this plastic looking white lady with giant bangs named Carole can fix?

At the time, my favorite color was orange. Mostly, I liked orange because I liked orange flavored things. Orange jell-o, orange flavored jelly beans, and well…oranges. I would eat a dozen a day if they were in the house and the same went for apricots, plums, and any kind of fruit.

We had a yellow plum tree in our backyard at the time and I remember being sent out to pick as many as I could reach. I came back covered in dirt and sap with only a dozen plums; having devoured about three dozen of them myself while trying to fill the bucket.

This is when most people would perhaps question if I had a vitamin C deficiency or if I needed a toilet but it was the early 90’s and there more important things on our minds like VCRs, microwaves, and MC Hammer’s pants.

The day to have my colors done had arrived but there had been weeks of speculation at home. Grandma thought I might be a “winter” like her and I still had no idea what that meant. I thought, “I like cold weather and that sounds kinda nice and cozy.” I felt like I was waiting for my fortune to be revealed by some magic woman with a crystal ball but I could also detect some judgment in her voice and sense that one season was somehow better than another.

“Your aunt is a spring,” my Grandma announced cheerfully with a lighthearted air of victory. Then in the next breath declared that my Mom was, “just an autumn” with a faint undertone of disappointment. “I think your cousin is a summer with all that blonde hair,” she would say dreamily with some kind of wistful longing I didn’t yet understand. “What’s my brother?” I asked innocently. She laughed and told me colors were for girls and boys could do whatever they want. Boy, was she right.

We walked into her favorite mall in North Vancouver and I quickly began to wonder if she was a celebrity. Everyone smiled and waved a super Canadian hello. She would sometimes return their greetings and sometimes ignore them completely.

My Grandma resembled the late Queen Elizabeth but she was no celebrity. She was, however, a champion shopper who I was quickly realizing may be supporting every store in the mall, financially. We walked into a store called Merle Norman where everything was fifty shades of beige, light pinks, and mauves. Carole’s Color Me Beautiful book was on display and I got sweaty.

Ms. Merle Norman asked me which colors I was drawn to and I immediately pointed to a sparkly orange eye shadow. She and my grandma chuckled disapprovingly and I felt embarrassed about my choice. “No, no. That’s not for you, dear. Orange is not a jewel tone. You have your grandmother’s coloring and with those dark curls, fine features, and ivory tones you will need something much more delicate and feminine.” Alrighty.

They covered my hand with samples of different shades of purples and browns and investigated how they hit the light in different ways. To me, it looked like I was on the losing end of a fist fight with a brick wall but I nodded according to their approving sounds and shook my head when I sensed they were dissatisfied.

A purple-ish red was approved. A red with orange undertones was rejected. Green was a no unless it was an emerald hue applied sparingly. My grandmother insisted that, “Blue and green should never be seen” unless I wanted to look like something called, “a loose woman.” I had no clue what that meant but I could tell it wasn’t something she approved of.

White was ok but not too white. Winter white only. Beige? Not with my skin tone. Cream? Sure, but too much of it made me look like, “Death warmed over.” Black was slimming. Brown was matronly. More words I didn’t know yet. Hot pink? Yes. Pale pink? No. Sapphire blue? Absolutely yes for a sweater, but sparingly in makeup. Robin’s egg blue? Never. Any shade of orange? VIOLENT HISSING SOUNDS.

Ms. Merle/Carole the color fortune teller of makeup wizardry had determined I was indeed a “winter” like my Grandma and under no circumstances could go near orange. We left with a bag full of makeup I had no idea what to do with and my grandma had a look of accomplishment and pride as she floated past her loyal subjects on the way out to her car(riage). This was a woman who when asked what kind of car she drove, answered with one word: “Amethyst.”

Since then, I avoid orange clothing and stick to orange accessories. The unfortunate thing about Carole and her Color Me Beautiful is that she’s kinda right. I look like a jaundiced jack-o-lantern set ablaze any time orange is near my face. It’s not great. It is incentivizing when considering committing crimes, I suppose. An orange jumpsuit would not be my color and I have accepted that.

I used to own an adorable pair of orange ballet flats and I wore them constantly, no matter what else I had on. My husband asked me one day, “Why orange shoes? They don’t really go with anything.” My response? “They go with nothing so they go with everything.”  Color me stubborn.

Decades after my color-me-carole date, my husband and I were living in the basement of my in-law’s house saving up money for a place of our own. I was doing my best to learn how to be a stepmom to a creative and intelligent seven year old girl. One day she asked me if she could do my makeup and I happily agreed.

She smeared black and purple and blue and green all over my face and eyelids. Silver and gold glitter on my cheeks and for some creative purpose, blues and greens on my forehead and chin. There was even some hint of orange somewhere on my eyelid that was my favorite part. I proudly posed for her when she was done and she insisted we drive down to work to show her Dad.

We showed up with sandwiches to meet him for lunch and I showed off her artwork. Yes, I got some puzzled looks along the way but my stepdaughter had never looked more proud. She told me that all the colors looked beautiful together and I couldn’t have agreed more. Take that, Carole.

As an opera singer, I’m at the whim of the talented makeup and costume artists of the industry. I’ve worn blazing red wigs, electric white wigs, and even a yellow troll doll wig. I’ve been lucky enough to wear all kinds and colors of costumes and makeup, orange included.

Photo by Cory Weaver, from San Francisco Opera

My Grandma attended nearly every performance I’ve ever done and happily supported every elegant, zany, wild, and beautiful costume I’ve ever worn. She passed away in 2021 but I still hear her voice when I get dressed each morning when rustling through my closet or jewelry box. I miss her constantly.

My mom and I are great shopping buddies who have definitely carried on the shopping traditions Grandma taught us. Still, I feel drawn to orange things on the rack and often silently reach out to sneakily pick them up. However, my mom is sneakier and quicker and is suddenly in my ear whispering, “Just put the orange sweater down and back away slowly. Don’t even stand near it. It’s not for you.” Fine. You win this one, Carole.