Back to Black.
Why dying (a sartorial death) has been my most freeing act.
It started last year, post Notting Hill Carnival, naturally. As the sun began to set on my version of a perfect London summer my desire to be seen in clothes that offered more colour than a pack of skittles began to dwindle. Whilst turning down the punch on the tone is normal for most in the last quarter, I found this feeling most peculiar. Was I - the woman who is on record as saying her most prized possession is a magenta dipped Oscar De La Renta ostrich feather cape - falling out of love with colour?
I tried not to pay it too much attention. Number one there is more to life than a look and number two I honestly couldn’t afford to take it on. I have a closet that is surely headed to the V&A and 90% of it would not be out of place on the set of the children’s show Teletubbies. And it’s fucking expensive. From Christopher John Rogers, Gucci, Dries and more, my multi colour pieces can come with a hefty price tag. Why was this desire to dress like Morticia haunting me? I had to shut it down.
But then I died - quite a loud and cosmic unravelling to be honest. After a year of fearing and facing loss, the back end of 2025 called everything in for questioning. Even a wardrobe whom I was sure would give no comment, got dragged in to give a witness statement.
Whilst I was sure it was the one piece of my life I could cling on too, she to, hung me out to dry. And in doing so I’ve had to face myself and analyse how much of my outerwear was trying to cover some internal gaps.
Did I really enjoy colour or was I worried that when I didn’t wear it, I would never be seen?
Where was the pushback coming from?
The prongs were plenty but the sharpest was a internal discourse that out of embarrassment I refused to consider at all. I didn’t want to be seen as just another ‘boring girl’ bound by pretend rules and codes that suggest dressing a certain way was ‘classier’ or ‘cleaner’ (both rooted in whiteness but thats’s a next article) and in not wanting to be seen like ‘everyone else’ I kept muting myself. For an eternity it felt as though my clothing choices were a badge of my ‘look how different I am!’ honour - now I felt like a clown costume.
Why the fuck is everything I own so loud? Is it because I don’t trust my own voice?
Listen, on one end of this seesaw was the gentler idea that I used my wardrobe to help prop up low self-esteem and at the other end sat the idea that I was simply an attention whore. Straddling the middle, plump and ripe in its honesty perhaps I have just outgrown a caricature of my past self.
I once saw my husband’s commitment to black as boring, another way of playing it safe. Now I found myself feeling jealous of how quickly he could pack for a weekend in Paris and yet upon arrival every item slot together like a jigsaw puzzle.
I always say jealousy just has bad PR. At its core jealousy is here to show you what you truly desire because that feeling? You simply can’t fake it. You want it (whatever it may be) or you don’t.
Following my husband’s lead I decided to engage in some research. For the entire Paris trip, I too wore nothing but black. I was hesitant at first - who was I without a rainbow-coloured target on my back? But after the first day, I slipped into a self-assured ness that I had never felt before.
Now to be clear, we must always begin from the inside out. 2025 was an emotionally charged year that ended with me finally spiritually graduating. There are things I no longer have time for. Things I don’t want to engage in. And people I do not want to see. I am feeling confident and wise enough to hold my line and not engage in the self-betrayal that pre 2025 Candice would depend on to be ‘accepted’ or ‘approved’ - God has me on both lists already. So, I have to say, this new love for Black, a colour I once refused to wear is a sartorial reflection of how I feel I have nothing to prove. You see me or you don’t and more time I would prefer the latter.
Now whilst I would love to click my fingers and turn 80% of my closet to noir, this is of course not that easy. The logistical process of displaying this side of me has been quite hefty. Another wardrobe cull. Lots of listings on Vestiare and ByRotation. I have a rule of five things out - one thing in. This need not turn into another act of over consumption. The things I covet aren’t cheap (I’m looking at you Issey Miyake barrel pants) and it’s now that I feel like I’m truly building my forever wardrobe. But it’s been so cathartic.
Now am I done with colour forever? Oh, don’t be a silly goose. Last week I purchased the most delicious leather skirt in a baby blue so true it’s as if they crafted it from a piece of the sky.
But my new affinity to the dark side does mean any colour that comes into my closet has to be extremely intentional. In my opinion it’s far harder to make colour look rich - and that’s in every sense. From financial expense to tone, it’s a huge sliding scale with lots of room for changing room error.
The beauty of black is that it just…works. As someone whose life is about to take off like a rocket, I just want a wardrobe that I can is not only fun in its shape and texture but also dependable. But one thing I no longer need from my clothes is for them to talk on my behalf.
I can do that all by myself.
Speak soon, hopefully, IRL.
Cx
im on the opposite end trying to wear more colors because my now lesson is taking up space and being loud and tall. may i graduate with flying colors
My favorite color !! My skin ✊🏿 & my clothes… appreciate the intel on the pleated barrel pants … loved reading this 🖤