History

The Story of Blue

Gianni Sarcone 
Sonne au comble de l'or
l'azur du jeune hiver
– Paul Valéry

For me, blue is air, wind, melancholy. It is like a Fellini film—always haunted by the whisper of the wind, the scent of things, and the fleeting moments of time we wish we could hold in an eternal present. Blue can carry regret; it is, in a way, a conservative principle. Blue has always held a strange duality: so immediate, yet once so elusive. Looking back to antiquity, it fascinates me that Homer never described the sea as blue, but as ‘wine-dark.’ In Greek, kyaneos evoked a dark, mineral depth, while glaukos hovered between gray, green, and blue. The Romans spoke of caeruleus, tied to the sky (caelum), and of lividus, the bruised, bluish tone of flesh. They never elevated blue; it was the color of outsiders, the hue of Celts painted in woad. Only the Egyptians seemed to truly revere it. They invented Egyptian blue, the first artificial pigment, and made it the shade of eternity and the divine.

In the Middle Ages, blue nearly vanished from prominence. Christian art turned to red, white, and black, leaving blue to the margins. Yet the word itself was evolving. The Germanic blāo—and its Vulgar Latin adoption, blavus—once meant something far less precise: shimmering, lustrous, dark, gray, even pale or yellowish. That ambiguity makes me realize how fluid color once was, before language fixed its boundaries. From blāo we inherited English blue and French bleu. Meanwhile, through Arabic lazaward came the words azure, azzurro, and azul, all born from lapis lazuli.

Then, in the 12th century, blue was transformed. Artists began clothing the Virgin Mary in ultramarine, ground from lapis lazuli more costly than gold. What had been humble became heavenly. Heraldry embraced azure as one of its noble tinctures, and kings like Louis IX made blue their emblem. A forgotten hue became a sacred, regal presence.

By the Renaissance, ultramarine shone as a color of prestige, truth, and constancy. Painters reserved it for the highest subjects, poets linked it to loyalty, and explorers carried its name across the seas as azul. Blue had finally claimed its place.

The modern era democratized it. Prussian blue appeared in 1704, followed by cobalt, cerulean, and synthetic ultramarine. Blue poured into uniforms, flags, and revolutions; it became the shade of liberty, of nations, of collective identity. Goethe called it spiritual, a color that retreats yet draws the soul inward.

In the 20th century, painters gave blue an entirely new destiny. The Expressionists used blue to conjure emotion, depth, and inner turbulence—think of Kandinsky, who saw blue as moving ‘toward the infinite,’ or Franz Marc, who painted blue animals to symbolize spirituality and hope. Even Van Gogh’s Starry Night swirls with blue, capturing both wonder and melancholy. Later, Picasso entered his Blue Period, transmuting sorrow into tone. Yves Klein went further still, reducing blue to its purest intensity with his International Klein Blue, turning it into an immaterial field of experience. For Klein, blue was not simply a color but ‘the most abstract color of all,’ a space in which one could lose oneself.

Today, I see blue everywhere. In the jeans that became the fabric of daily life. In corporate logos designed to inspire trust. In flags that mark belonging. Blue is calm, yet melancholy; humble, yet exalted. Once overlooked, it is now the world’s favorite color.

Blue is more than a hue. It is an idea shaped across centuries—etymologically born of caelum, blāo, and blavus; symbolically stretched between heaven and earth; culturally tied to faith, power, and identity. Its story mirrors our own: restless, mutable, and ever searching for meaning.

I’ll end with a little story from my own family. After World War II, my paternal grandfather, a house painter, bought a massive surplus of blue paint from the military. He had so much of it that whenever a client asked how he planned to paint their home, his answer was always the same, year after year: “All in blue, yes, all in blue…” (in our dialect, tutt’azzurr, tutt’azzurr).

That simple phrase stuck. Before long, the whole village started calling our family the Tuttazzurr family, and I myself became known as Giuan Tuttazzurr. Blue marked our home, but also my identity and my story—etched in memory and in name.

The Haunting Song of Inca Whistling Vessels

Gianni Sarcone

Ancient Inca “whistling vessels” (huaco silbadores in Spanish) could mimic animal calls—powered by nothing more than air and water. As water moves between connected chambers, it forces air through hidden whistles, releasing haunting, lifelike sounds.

These remarkable ceramics, found across several pre-Columbian cultures including the Inca, Chimu, and Moche, date back more than 2,000 years. Often uncovered in tombs and ceremonial sites, they likely played a role in rituals to honor nature, communicate with spirits, or accompany sacred ceremonies—though their exact purpose remains a mystery.

Silent Messengers from the Past

Gianni Sarcone

The Etruscans, a non-Latin people who settled in central Italy long before the rise of Rome, integrated so thoroughly into Roman society that much of their culture became embedded in the very foundations of Roman civilization. Among the many features that set Etruscan society apart was the relatively high status of women, who enjoyed greater visibility and social agency than their Greek and early Roman counterparts—a fact evident in both public life and funerary art.

Although their language—unrelated to Indo-European tongues and still only partially deciphered—eventually disappeared, it left a subtle yet lasting imprint on Latin, especially in religious, architectural, and political vocabulary. Etymologists trace several Latin terms, and later English derivatives, to Etruscan roots or influences, though some remain debated.

For example, Februarius (February) derives from Februa, a Roman purification festival likely influenced by an earlier Etruscan rite of cleansing. The name Aprilis (April) is less certain but may reflect pre-Latin seasonal traditions or deities with Etruscan ties. The Latin word satelles, meaning “attendant” or “bodyguard” and later giving rise to the English satellite, is sometimes linked to Etruscan social roles, though its origin is not definitively established.

Architectural terms such as atrium—the central hall of a Roman house—and templum, referring to a sacred space defined by augurs, clearly reflect Etruscan religious and spatial concepts adopted by the Romans. The theatrical term persona, originally meaning “mask” and later “character,” has a debated origin; while some suggest Etruscan roots, it may equally derive from Latin elements related to sound and speech. Similarly, the word antenna, referring to a ship’s yardarm, is occasionally attributed to Etruscan nautical vocabulary, though this remains speculative.

Despite the eventual loss of their language, the Etruscans’ cultural legacy endures—not only in Latin vocabulary but also in the ceremonial, artistic, and institutional foundations of Rome, and by extension, Western civilization.

Etruscan feminine statue
Statuette of an Etruscan noblewoman holding a soul-bird, a symbol of the journey to the afterlife. Found in the necropolis of Vulci, one of Etruria’s major burial sites, and dating to the late 6th or early 5th century BCE. Her braided hairstyle and close-fitting cap reflect elite Etruscan fashion. Though influenced by Archaic Greek sculpture, the figure embodies the distinctly Etruscan reverence for ritual, death, and the feminine.

· Further reading: List of English words of Etruscan origin.

The Race Westward — When the Jobless, the Indebted, and the Persecuted Became “Pioneers”

Gianni Sarcone

Behind the founding myth of the Westward Expansion lies a far less romantic truth: it was often a desperate migration of society’s outcasts. Unemployed men with no future, families crushed under debt, the persecuted looking for refuge — all were rebranded as “pioneers,” dressing up a harsh reality of flight rather than conquest.

Whenever production outpaces consumption, surplus follows. To offload the excess, people are encouraged to buy on credit — in other words, to go into debt. But that debt, inevitably, becomes unmanageable. Then come the bankruptcies, which, paradoxically, help the system reset: debts are recycled*, pulverized, erased, assets devalued, and a fresh cycle of borrowing and spending begins.

This is the hidden engine of our modern economy: a cycle of overproduction, credit dependency, and collapse. It’s a loop built not on balance, but on instability — propped up by the illusion of prosperity. And it’s this very loop that has always propelled the push Westward, toward lands supposedly rich, fertile, and full of promise. Toward an Eldorado — but one too often built on the backs of those who arrive too late or with too little.

Today, this “race to the West” is no longer just geographic. It’s symbolic. The West, or the so-called ‘Occidental’ world — from the Latin occidere, “where the sun sets” — still carries a double meaning: a place of wealth and power, but also the fading echo of a colonial order. The poor of the Global South, driven by poverty or war, still flock toward this West they resent — and yet still associate with survival, even hope. They flee what they reject… heading straight toward what they distrust.

But now, the direction is reversing. It’s no longer the poor who are fleeing, but the rich who are leaving. A mobile, fluid elite sets up home wherever money flows more freely: the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait, Singapore, Hong Kong… ultraliberal enclaves with light taxes, minimal state presence, and few social or environmental constraints.

This new exodus isn’t a gold rush — it’s an escape from reality. The ultra-wealthy are no longer interested in reshaping the world. They want out. They build bubbles — sanitized havens, detached from chaos — while the rest of the world scrambles for stability within a system that offers little more than illusion.

* Debt recycling is the latest fashion in our parasitic economy. Enter a new breed of vampires: the NPL investors. Operating globally, they scoop up bundles of “written-off” or hopelessly delinquent debt for a pittance — cents on the dollar. Think of them as the scrap merchants of finance: scavengers who profit from financial ruin. Through “legal” (often skirting the edge of the lawful), data-driven, or aggressive collection methods, they manage to squeeze a few drops of value from the wreckage. Their business model? “We buy trash for nothing, shake it hard, and once in a while, a few coins fall out.”

Unveiling the Ancient Unicursal Labyrinth

Gianni Sarcone

Ancient labyrinths, known as unicursal, were also referred to as “Cretan” labyrinths, drawing from their roots in Greek mythology. In Great Britain, similar turf mazes based on the same pattern are called ‘caerdroia‘—a Welsh term meaning “City of Troy.” These mazes can still be found in a few remote villages and rural hamlets.

They were typically built around a central core—often shaped like a cross resembling a ‘gammadion’. With the help of the diagrams below, you’ll find it quite straightforward to construct one yourself.

(There are two main historical variations of the Cretan labyrinth, as you can see in Figures. A and B.)

The image is taken from my article “Parcours et détours,” originally published in the French journal MathÉcole.

You can read the full piece here (in French).

The Interrogation Mark: From Greek Semicolons to Spanish Twists

Gianni Sarcone

In ancient Greek, questions were marked by a semicolon (Ερωτηματικό) rather than a question mark. This practice faded over time, and no special punctuation indicated questions in antiquity. The modern question mark emerged in the Middle Ages when scribes used “qo” (from Latin quaestio). To avoid confusion, they stacked the letters, turning the Q into a curl and the O into a dot, creating the question mark (“?”). In Spanish, the question mark was placed only at the end until 1754, when the Ortografía de la Real Academia introduced the inverted opening question mark (¿), as in: ¿Qué edad tienes? (How old are you?).

The Silent Orbit of Thought

Gianni Sarcone

The circle, a timeless symbol of wholeness, is found at the core of human thought. In the West, it evokes the Pythagorean harmony of the cosmos, the eternal return of Nietzsche, the indivisible unity of Being. A form without beginning or end, it embodies the perfect balance between presence and absence, the finite and the infinite.
In Eastern traditions, the ensō (円相)—literally “circular form”—is a distilled gesture of perception, a visual echo of clarity. Not merely a shape, but an experience, it is drawn in a single stroke, capturing the ephemeral moment where thought and movement dissolve into pure expression. It is said that the earliest Zen painting was an ensō, traced to offer a student something tangible yet elusive, a paradox to ponder.
A circle can be brushed on paper, traced in sand, drawn on a misted window, or merely imagined. It lacks nothing, needs nothing, yet contains all things. In its quiet completeness, it is not an answer, but an opening—an invitation to see beyond the limits of form.

When you untangle a comma, you often unravel a legend

Gianni Sarcone

In the 15th century, historian Flavio Biondo reported that the compass was invented by the people of Amalfi. Later, the philologist Giambattista Pio picked up the story and wrote it down like this: “Amalphi in Campania veteris magnetis usus inventus, a Flavio traditur,” which translates to: The use of the compass was invented in Amalfi, Campania, as reported by Flavio.

But then, something unexpected happened: someone shifted the comma. The new version—”Amalphi in Campania veteris magnetis usus inventus a Flavio, traditur”—completely altered the meaning: The use of the compass was invented in Amalfi, Campania, by Flavio, as reported.

This subtle mix-up passed through the ages, and just like that, Flavio Gioia, the “inventor” of the compass, was born. Interestingly, “Gioia” is a toponym, pointing to an imaginary birthplace in Apulia.

It’s wild how one misplaced comma can spin a whole new tale! While Gioia’s story is fun, the compass itself goes way back. It was first used in China during the Han dynasty (around 206 BC), but not for navigation—rather, for divination. It didn’t get turned into a navigation tool until the Song dynasty in the 11th century. And as for Europe and the Islamic world? They didn’t catch on until around 1190. So, the compass’s history is a bit more complex than a single legend.

The Soul of Books: A Journey from Bark to Pages

Gianni Sarcone

I must have been born in a library, for the love I hold for books is immeasurable. A book awakens all the senses in me: the visual pleasure, the tactile warmth, the scent of cinnamon or vanilla from old pages, the soft rustle of turning leaves, and even the taste… To me, no digital book will ever replace the presence of a real one, with its soul and essence.

But the journey from tablet to scroll, to codex, and finally to the modern book spans millennia. The codex, the direct ancestor of today’s book, introduced a revolutionary format—pages bound along one edge—laying the foundation for how we read and store knowledge today.

Books, as we recognize them, became widespread during the Middle Ages, largely due to Gutenberg’s invention of the printing press. However, the codex itself dates back much further. It was made of sheets folded multiple times, often twice, to form a bifolio. These bifolia were sewn together into gatherings, allowing for binding and, when needed, rebinding. The most common structure consisted of four bifolia—eight sheets, totaling sixteen pages—known in Latin as quaternio. This term later gave rise to quaderno in Italian, cahier in French, and quire in English. Interestingly, the Latin word codex originally meant a block of wood, a nod to the materials once used for writing.

Even the word book has deep roots—its Old English form, bōc, likely stems from the Germanic root bōk-, meaning beech. This isn’t just a linguistic coincidence; early writings may have been carved into beech wood. In Slavic languages, the word for “letter,” буква (bukva), shares this origin. In Russian, Serbian, and Macedonian, букварь (bukvar’) or буквар (bukvar) refers to a child’s first reading textbook.

Similarly, the Latin word liber, which gave rise to libro in Italian and livre in French, originally meant “bark,” reinforcing the deep connection between books and trees. The Greek root biblio, is believed to be derived from βύβλος (búblos), meaning “papyrus,” named after the ancient Phoenician city of Byblos, a major hub of the papyrus trade.

From carved wood and tree bark to bound pages and printed volumes, books have always been deeply rooted in nature—both in language and in form.

The Enigmatic Caroline Rivière

Gianni Sarcone

Caroline Rivière, a French girl immortalized in Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres’ 1806 masterpiece “Portrait of Caroline Rivière”, remains a striking figure in art history. This iconic painting frequently graces book covers, thanks to its timeless and deeply evocative qualities. Caroline is depicted as a delicate young woman in a serene, contemplative pose, her gaze imbued with an air of mystery and quiet melancholy. Tragically, she passed away at just 15 years old, shortly after Ingres completed the portrait.


This poignant backstory heightens the emotional resonance of her image, symbolizing the fragility of youth and the transient nature of beauty. It’s this haunting combination of innocence and impermanence that makes the portrait so appealing to publishers and audiences alike. Whether adorning the covers of literary classics, historical novels, or introspective works, Caroline Rivière’s likeness evokes themes of nostalgia, identity, and human vulnerability, bridging the gap between art and storytelling. Her enduring presence on bookshelves speaks to the universal, timeless appeal of Ingres’ artistry.

Even Lady Gaga was moved by this iconic painting, as she posed for filmmaker Robert Wilson, who created a strikingly similar piece—a close video replica of Ingres’ portrait, reinterpreted in his own unique style, incorporating subtle movements and nuanced expressions that added a dynamic dimension to its timeless stillness.