How I Discovered Black

I realized how addicted I am to black clothing after reading my co-worker Heather’s blog “How to Add Color to Your Look,” which chronicled her efforts to step out of her comfort zone. The notion was confirmed when Sheila, another MyShape co-worker and blogger, referred to my wardrobe as “Chekhovian.” It’s amazing how one word can sum up an aesthetic—even one you may have just stumbled into. Do I wear lots of black? Yes. Do I feel off-kilter in color? Yes. Is a Russian playwright hiding in my closet? Yes.

My closet wasn’t always a suitable haven for the Munsters. Until the late 1980s, I happily wore color. My favorite dress in first grade was baby blue with Juliet sleeves; in seventh grade I ran around in purple suede oxfords with giant grommets; in college I had a beloved, tattered red sweater that I thought was so New Wave and—OMG—which I wore with jazz shoes.

Then I saw Funny Face, where a dashing photographer and a zany fashion magazine editor meet a black-clad beatnik named Jo Stockton (played by Audrey Hepburn). Fashion war is declared with Audrey as a hostage. Her character is taken through a series of Stockholm syndrome-like maneuvers, and soon they transform the lithe bookworm into a gauzy, pastel fashion butterfly.

The made-over Jo was enchanting, and as played by Ms. Hepburn, how could she not be? But I felt wistful for the vanished gamine in inky turtleneck, skinny pants and loafers who danced in a dive bar as though the absence of color freed her from all restraint.

That Jo Stockton was streamlined and sleek, with a world of ideas in her head, not an awkward blonde poured into jeans and a pin-tucked top. For me, she outshone all previous icons: Emma Peel, Morticia Addams, Natasha Fatale, Bettie Page, the Sister Act nuns—all, coincidentally, wearers of black. So as an era saturated with Patrick Nagel illustrations faded away, so did my closet’s bright hues.

Black to Work

As it turns out, a conversion to black was inevitable. One of my first jobs was at an underground, underfunded fashion magazine. Jo Stockton had the Eiffel Tower; I had the downtown Los Angeles 7th Street bridge, transvestite hookers and pool halls. With little money, I needed to buy clothes that could withstand downtown grit, survive shoots, go to clubs and make after-midnight trips to Tommy’s for chili burgers.

What I wore: a jacquard A-line tunic and palazzo pants I’d stitched up myself, final markdowns and thrift shop finds—all black, so everything would match. I thought my efforts paid off when a California Apparel News reporter asked if I was wearing Gaultier. That’s when I realized that black could define an identity or suggest another one—someone who could afford Gaultier, perhaps. In addition, it deflected Diet Coke and camouflaged weight gain. And despite the Gaultier incident, to dress in all-black seemed to be devoid of ego—when you don’t have to worry about how you look, I reasoned, you can focus more on work.

Since then I’ve made lots of transitions in black—editor, art director and writer. Then, on a lark, I became a movie and TV extra. Extras usually provide their own wardrobe—in nearly any color except black. So as an underpaid, non-speaking, non-union extra, I needed to readapt. At first, baby steps.

A Little Brown, a Dose of Navy, Then on a Big Day, Grey

I was cast in a cable promo as a matron who drags a patient through a psych ward and out a door that, as my Lucy Ricardo-style stage luck would have it, wouldn’t shut properly and ruined almost every take. On Alias I dressed in plum and spent a day pretending to scream my head off during a nerve gas attack. And on Malcolm in the Middle I wore a vintage Lurex tiki-patterned sheath to a Las Vegas concert scene where I threw pink panties (not my own) at David Cassidy.

The point of these anecdotes: I discovered that color could be fun. Or at least it could lead to funny situations.

Black Again

Cut to the present. My film industry flirtation is long gone; my foray into color has dissolved into Impressionist strokes peeking through coal-black sleeves—red rosettes on a summer skirt, a gold silk cheongsam, a milk chocolate leather motocross-style jacket. To me, it’s no longer a question of What Would Audrey Wear?, hiding spills, skimming bulges, or creating or shedding an identity. Black has also become an organizing principle, a natural boundary—why fight it? So now when I see a great new sweater or top, I don’t hesitate to ask, “Does it come in black?”

Which reminds me, there’s a Byron Lars dress I’ve been considering.

With its fitted bodice and flared skirt, it could have come right out of Roman Holiday—and it only comes in black.

Posted by Joyce at MyShape