There were other ways that the system used to strangle artistic life. Ms. Undareanu-
Herta said that in recent years it has become increasingly difficult to find oil paints,
and virtually impossible to get hold of the color white.
  

  —December 31, 1989
The New York Times   
 

It was white I wanted—of snow, clouds, of sky overcast, of
   a star if you take the shine from it. Usual
      sound, light, and I wake—but sense a shift
of light, a spontaneous tilt in the axis of the sky.
   I cannot tell you what it was that happened
but all day I worked to paint it, no image
         for the change—I needed white.
August and nature past peak. I had fled grief and a city
   where the dark of black had been my modifier:
red turned devilish, green somber, yellow the ocher of walls
      these years of bad coal. I wanted white—
   to see what stands around me, to lighten blue
to a sky I can wake up to, of baptism dress,
          bridal gown, candles Christmas—
I could not find it in any shop. There was no announcement
   of this unavailability of white. Could
paint daunt a city plumbed with tunnels? A sentry on each street,
        his face tugged angular, body clad
    the moonless starless color of sky the night
they took him from an orphanage cot, taught his hunger
         luxury, his desire to move
a rote of violence. I no longer ask for white. No use writing
   friends or art shops in Paris—just paint white black when
a drift of light recalls candor. They puncture tubes from Paris—
     crimson, cadmium, viridian
   uncoil across the customs desk, turn state
fingers colors I could paint desire. See the glint
       of white on the old man’s brow,
his wife behind him hissing assent—a family of tyrants
   with a maggot lust for gold. I turn from gold now,
even the ring my grandmother left. How am I capable
      of this much hatred? White vertical
   cities where our villages were. Cold of
my own embrace this lifetime of unheat. The routine
          balcony panegyric—
a Sunday like any other, then through the crowd something whines
    toward rupture, his arms wild like wash in a storm, his
face as the crowd turns, no guard standing fast, silence from the white
      screen, and then music. Someone will know
    who first shouted, how long it took our breaths to
open with something like emotion, who carried fresh
       oranges from the tunnels, cut a circle
from the center of the flag, who told the first lie.