Crazy girly pink at Gaspard,
on Queen West in Toronto
A friend of mine claims she's paraphrasing Henry Ford when she says she believes clothes, like cars, are great in all colours so long as they're black.
I do adhere to this rule as well. Except for one little niggling thing. I am bored to death of black.
Now, there are world events and phone hacking scandals and Wal-Mart bribes in Mexico I could be paying solid attention to but at this moment, a moment that harkens a change in season and the promise of sunshine sometime soon, I find fashion a more engaging subject. Fashion, in the form of re-invention.
We have few creative outlets in our day and in our lives beyond the one choice we really should make daily which is "what should I wear". Even if you think you don't care, you do. You might not think it at first glance but my denim-clad brother is as demanding of precision in what he chooses to wear as any diva though he would throw a punch if you called him "fashionista". I know exactly how sartorially specific he actually is because I've tried my best to select what my mother has come to call "denim products" for him as gifts and failed somehow, those denim products reside in the back of the closet never to see light of day again.
And so the all black, hard-edged, near Goth look of late -- mixed schizophrenically with Sexy Secretary -- feels tired to me and I'm casting about for something new. Re-invention is fun my friends, and as Carrie Bradshaw says, shopping is my cardio. All good.
My lovely friend Helen was in town for a brief moment and with a brief moment of time on our hands we wandered into Gaspard, a lovely shop that feels like Paris though it is definitely here, not there. Helen had been gently counselling me to consider "less draining" colours, which she believes are easier on the being than the colours of death and mourning. She has a point. If you try something on, it can't be black she said. Poor thing. Standing there bored to death while I tried on ultra feminine silk shifts -- a definite departure in which I felt like I was play-acting and no one would buy it for a second, that I was sweet and femme.
Still, it is refreshing to shake it up. Is "colour" as defined, definite, elegant as black? Which is the appeal of darkness of course.
I had a thought though, while in something pink and frothy. When I gave up platinum blonde hair, ruby red lips and black eyeliner the world treated me more nicely. More respectfully. I was less threat to some, less quarry to others, less of a gimmick to still more. You get back some of what you project and the world has felt far too harsh of late. Maybe a change in image will change the entire picture.
Welcome to the new middle ages.
"New" because middle age hits you just when you think you've got it all figured out and then shows you that you do not. It's been called the age of being invisible and if so, it is also the age of silence. Well no more! Here is where the discussion ensues. Welcome.