A designer posed a question about color asking “why designers stick to wearing black and designing in color?” The answer on wearing black came quickly to me.
I didn’t feel I was given a choice to wear color. In my mother’s mind color (especially on the bottom) was reserved for the very smallest of frames. The same thinking went for print (especially on the bottom).
Bright color and look-at-me-prints were for the starving-blond-elite who have lived in old homes for as long as their families have been in this country (which is a long time), who have hair that won’t curl no matter how stormy the day, whose bottom won’t stand out in the brightest Lily Pulitzer fuchsia and green-frog-printed-capri-pant right after a Memorial Day picnic at their cottage up north or in the Hampton’s or the shore or wherever the thin and hairless go for the summer.
Wherever on the map, these clothes I was told plainly were not for me, not for us. And I have abided with a closet full of black pants, black capris, black yoga pants, dark denim jeans, one daring pair of guilt-ridden navy.
I went with a friend to a local Jewish temple picnic when I was looking for a place to join shortly after we moved here. She told me they were very open to couples of mixed religions. I guess I hadn’t prepared my self for what this could mean visually. I walk in to find a perfect-looking blond mother in her electric-Lily Pulitzer-shift dress with her two matching daughters at her side. “I have to leave” I told my friend. “This is clearly no place for me.” I walked away in my matching black top, capris, and black sandals catching no attention. Able to slip in and out like a burglar in the night.
I didn’t feel I was given a choice to wear color. In my mother’s mind color (especially on the bottom) was reserved for the very smallest of frames. The same thinking went for print (especially on the bottom).
Bright color and look-at-me-prints were for the starving-blond-elite who have lived in old homes for as long as their families have been in this country (which is a long time), who have hair that won’t curl no matter how stormy the day, whose bottom won’t stand out in the brightest Lily Pulitzer fuchsia and green-frog-printed-capri-pant right after a Memorial Day picnic at their cottage up north or in the Hampton’s or the shore or wherever the thin and hairless go for the summer.
Wherever on the map, these clothes I was told plainly were not for me, not for us. And I have abided with a closet full of black pants, black capris, black yoga pants, dark denim jeans, one daring pair of guilt-ridden navy.
I went with a friend to a local Jewish temple picnic when I was looking for a place to join shortly after we moved here. She told me they were very open to couples of mixed religions. I guess I hadn’t prepared my self for what this could mean visually. I walk in to find a perfect-looking blond mother in her electric-Lily Pulitzer-shift dress with her two matching daughters at her side. “I have to leave” I told my friend. “This is clearly no place for me.” I walked away in my matching black top, capris, and black sandals catching no attention. Able to slip in and out like a burglar in the night.
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