I have never been one to wear a lot of black; for night, yes; for day, no. Ladies like the lionised Emmanuelle Alt at French Vogue, in her skinny skinny black jeans, grey t-shirt, black leather jacket and Isabel Marant boots, always seemed so dreary to me. The high priestesses of formulaic good taste, they may be, but their wardrobes of solid sombre black failed to stimulate my fashion taste buds. Besides, I have never liked the idea of something as universally considered ‘chic’ – whatever that even means. In my mind, wearing head-to-toe black was akin to signing your soul over to some cult – but a cult that was probably too cool to have you.
Therefore, my recent foray into the world of black has come as a surprise, most of all to myself. Maybe it comes with growing a little older, or a little more serious, or probably more likely, a wish to be taken more seriously. Whatever it is, all of a sudden, black seems like the most appropriate option.
For a couple of years, I had toyed with the idea of smart black coat. In a black coat, one is elegant; classic; undeterred by fashion trends for candy shades and frivolous furs. A month ago, I bought one: boxy and plain with a single button. It’s not perfect, by any means, but seems to go with just about everything. Sophisticated, I might not be, but hey, fake it till you make it as the saying goes.
Since then I’ve purchased a plain black pair of leggings-pants (leggings-pants is almost certainly not the correct term for these bottoms). Simple and cropped with a little slit at the ankle, they too compliment the bulk of my wardrobe – particularly shirts, plain cotton tops and sloppy wool cardigans. It’s all so fuss free and easy that I feel a little guilty. But maybe, that’s the cult’s secret.