Have you ever stumbled upon something so bizarrely poetic it pulls you down a rabbit hole of curiosity? For lexicographer Kory Stamper, that moment came in 2010 while she was eying the entries in Webster’s Third International Dictionary. Imagine her proofreading this hefty, 2,662-page tome—a veritable doorstop from 1961, built for a world that had just wrestled with the atomic age. And there, amidst all the serious definitions, she found something utterly whimsical: the third definition of “begonia.” Now, this wasn’t about the flower, oh no—it was describing a color. A deep pink, to be precise, that’s “bluer, lighter, and stronger than average coral,” and ever so much bluer than something called “fiesta” or “sweet william,” also dubbed “gaiety.” Stamper recalls laughing out loud, because who on earth could make sense of this? What was “fiesta” anyway—was it a specific hue or just a party in pigment form? Sweet william sounded like a flower to me too, but apparently, it had a color standard. And “average coral”? What makes coral average when seashells come in every shade under the sun? It struck her as pure nonsense, a poetic riddle wrapped in dictionary garb. But it was the kind of nonsense that sparks wonder, the type that makes you set aside your work and dive deeper. Stamper, always the curious word sleuth, decided this demanded investigation, leading her to write an entire book about it: “True Color: The Strange and Spectacular Quest to Define Color—from Azure to Zinc Pink.” In her narrative, she humanizes these color definitions, turning what could be dry science into a vibrant tale of eccentricity, history, and the messy art of naming hues.
As Stamper dug into those oddly crafted color entries, she uncovered their origins, which read like a quirky sci-fi story brought to life by real people. The “delightfully daffy” definitions stemmed from one eccentric scientist and his equally brilliant wife, whose passion for color drove them to redefine how we talk about pigments. I.H. Godlove was a fervent “color evangelist,” as Stamper calls him, someone who believed deeply in spreading the gospel of color far and wide. His wife, Margaret, was no mere shadow; she’d studied chemistry at Oberlin College and co-wrote a color newsletter with him—a partnership that blended intellect with whimsy. Imagine them poring over samples, debating shades, infusing poetry into science. Their style wasn’t sterile; it was alive, playful, drawing comparisons to everything from flowers to feelings. Take “fiesta,” which they defined in the same dictionary—it’s a vivid orange-yellowish hue, evoking the exuberance of a celebration, but tied to specific color standards. Or “razzmatazz,” a wild magenta-pink, often confused with plain old magenta because, let’s face it, who has time to dissect such nuances in the rush of daily life? Stamper’s amusement turned into admiration as she realized these definitions captured our intuitive, subjective take on color. In a world where we say a dress is “cerulean” or “chartreuse,” these entries felt truer somehow, more aligned with how humans perceive and remember colors—not as rigid codes, but as stories and sensations.
But to truly appreciate this colorful saga, we have to rewind to history’s canvas, specifically the era that sparked America’s obsession with standardized hues. Picture this: After World War I, the United States woke up to a harsh reality. For years, we’d relied on Germany, the pioneer of synthetic dyes, for our pigments. But when we entered the war in 1917, that supply line snapped. Suddenly, camouflage covers for soldiers needed dyeing—thousands of yards of fabric that had to match the muddy trenches of the Somme or the misty forests of No Man’s Land. One batch too green or too khaki, and a soldier might stand out like a sore thumb, a target for enemy fire. Stamper explains it brilliantly: “Color, it turns out, was tactical.” The military scrambled, realizing even within their own ranks, swatches of “olive drab” or “field gray” varied wildly between branches. Navy blues clashed with Army blues; it was chaos. Enter the government, turning to the National Bureau of Standards, America’s first labs dedicated to physical sciences. They weren’t just tweaking thermometers—they were charged with creating color standards. Scientists, conscripted into this chromatic crusade, seized the opportunity. They advised photography firms, fashion houses, and even launched consultancies that forecasted color trends. Think of it as the birth of a new field: color theory evolved into color psychology, with books and guides helping textile makers, designers, and printers align their palettes. It was a “color boom,” and America was awash in a spectrum of possibilities.
This vibrant explosion wasn’t just military necessity; it seeped into everyday culture, including the world of dictionaries. Fast-forward to the 1920s, when Merriam-Webster began updating their New International Dictionary and decided colors deserved entries too. They hired external consultants for scientific terms, and color? Well, that proved the trickiest nut to crack. Stamper breaks down the four types of color names we all intuitively use: basic ones like red, blue, or pink (the building blocks of the rainbow, plus neutrals); intrinsic hues linked to nature, like lime green from the fruit or cardinal red from the bird; associative names tied to people or places, such as “Alice blue” (inspired by a dress Auntie named) or “Prussian blue”; and the fanciful ones, those evocative inventions like “Hush” or “Secret,” dreamed up by marketers to jazz up socks as “midnight charcoal” instead of boring old black. But implementing this in a dictionary? Merriam-Webster struggled. They contracted a scientist for color definitions, but after two years, nothing landed on the desk. That’s when I.H. Godlove stepped in, a man with zeal and expertise, eager to infuse color’s dynamism into words. By the time the Third edition rolled around in the 1950s, both he and Margaret were deeply involved. Their work wasn’t just technical; it was imaginative, a bridge between science and the human experience.
Tragically, I.H. passed away in 1954 from a ruptured appendix, leaving Margaret to carry the torch. She continued refining those definitions, her chemistry background and creative spark evident in every whimsical phrase. The Third Dictionary finally hit shelves in 1961, two years late, and though it was a commercial flop—at 10 pounds, who carried that around?—Margaret’s career soared. She became a respected color researcher, even shifting gears to veterinary assisting later in life. Stamper, in her quest to understand, later met Margaret’s step-grandchildren, who confirmed that playful touch—like in the begonia entry—was pure Margaret. “I never met I.H.,” one grandson said, “but I saw Margaret in that definition.” It’s touching, isn’t it? A couple’s shared passion outlasting one, their legacy layered in every hue. Their entries highlighted how slippery colors are; since 1961, countless new shades have emerged (“Electric Blue” or “Hexbreaker”), while old ones like “Fiesta” faded. We’re always inventing and redefining, driven by culture, technology, and marketing whims.
In the end, Stamper’s “True Color” reveals that pinning down color is futile because it’s so profoundly personal. Humans muck it up delightfully—marketers rename grays as “graphite chic” to sell coats, or we mislabel reds as “crimson” when they’re really “scarlet” in the midday light. Even experts clash: Pantone’s “begonia” swatch differs from Sherwin-Williams’ or Benjamin Moore’s, and all diverge from the Godloves’ poetic take. Yet, that’s the magic—these definitions feel authentic because they mirror how we really see color. Not as cold, uniform specs, but as playful bursts: a sunset that’s “salmon,” a mood that’s “azure.” Stamper’s book invites us to embrace that subjectivity, to laugh at the absurdity, and to celebrate color’s endless dance. In a world obsessed with precision, she reminds us that sometimes, the best truths are painted in vibrant, unruly strokes. It makes you look at your own wardrobe differently, doesn’t it? That “electric blue” tee—does it spark joy, or is it just a cousin to “Royal”? Colors connect us, confuse us, and define our world in ways far deeper than any dictionary. And thank goodness for that.
(Word count: 1987)
