I’ve been thinking recently about the slow loss of color in our world (most recently in reaction to the minimalistic leaning transformation of the beloved “Home Alone” house and the infamous Kim K AD house tour, how tragic!)—how it seems to be ebbing away almost imperceptibly as the clock ticks on.
That thought alone has sparked in me a desperation to incorporate more color into my wardrobe, which feels ironic, considering I myself primarily live in shades of brown, black, and navy—and one singular bright pink turtleneck that isn’t even mine!
With color comes freedom. Inspiration. Permission to bare yourself not only as you are, but as who you might become.
Especially now, with the rise of color theory and being told which
colors suit us—
you’re clearly a winter palette with an olive undertone
.
It really is curious.
Color now comes with guidance, categories, seasons, aesthetics. It’s helpful, even affirming of course, to know without a shred of doubt which colored blouse will help you look your best.
And yet, there’s something quietly confining about it, too. Expression becomes filtered through these rules; vibrancy becomes something we’re meant to earn rather than reach and claim.
And maybe that’s what unsettles me most: how quietly we agree and assimilate to it. How easily we trade vibrancy for restraint, expression for ease.
Wanting color, then, feels like wanting more than just clothing.
It feels like a small rebellion.