What if our cities remembered colour?

I once walked out of the Louvre, and into a world that suddenly felt… muted.
Not because the art was behind me – but because the colour stayed there too.

I visited the Louvre in October with my kids.… A week after that famous theft.
They weren’t interested in Mona Lisa’s gaze or conspiracy theories.
They wanted mummies. Scarabs. Ancient magic.

So we wandered into Ancient Egypt instead – and walked straight into colour.
Bold colour. Confident colour. Joyful colour. Everywhere.
Even the sarcophagi were alive with colour. A quiet reminder that honouring death once meant celebrating life. Today’s funeral industry could take notes. Less oak. Less grey.

Standing there, surrounded by objects that are thousands of years old, I realised something uncomfortable:
We didn’t lose colour because we didn’t know how to use it.
We lost it because somewhere along the way, we decided seriousness meant dullness.
Walls that were once kaleidoscopes became neutral statements.
Ceilings stopped talking.
Structures got quiet… Very quiet.

So I walk out of the Louvre (the old bit), look around Paris, and it’s stone. Grey stone. Beige stone. Beautiful, yes. But restrained. Polite. A muted world.

And I can’t help but imagine:
What if our connection to colour had survived?
What if our cities were a little less serious and a little more joyful?
Because honestly, in a world that feels increasingly heavy – and during long, dark winter days – we could use some innocent joy. If not in the sky, then at least on the walls around us.

— Judith, the Peters in PetersPetersson