Slate gray is stoggy, sometimes stingy, and believes himself diplomatic. Presses his suits in the dead of night. Prefers the dawn to the dusk, and rarely works even a minute past five. Is precise and patriotic, though rarely vulgar in his applause.

Robert Motherwell, “Grey and Black Open,” (1979).

Married for forty-six years – eats the same meal every morning — poached eggs with capers and a single slice of toast, sans the spread. Still proudly calls England The British Isles, conveniently overlooking the sovereignty of “the other two.” Makes every effort to dress like Hugh Grant, having once been mistaken for him in a movie theater late at night. Keeps a dictionary open at all times on his desk to use “big words” to impress his co-workers, though they know only too well what they’re up against. Once attended a masquerade ball dressed as Stonehenge. Rescued a puppy and named her Lucky because, well, it was just that obvious.

Joan Mitchell, “Champs (Gray); and Champs (Gray, Black and Green),” (1991-92).

Considers himself “worldly” because Europe really is the whole world. When asked about his taste in wine, he always answers, “something sublime,” keenly aware of the alliteration. Slate Gray, deliberately obtuse, a stoic and ardent supporter of storks probably because they are, like him, anonymous and drab. Smokes on Sundays because everyone deserves a small, harmless vice. Enjoys the occasional practical joke like the time he put sardines in his best friend’s underpants. His motto in life, if asked, “ I’ll let you in on a little secret – rarely is the slate completely clean.”