A quick perusal of my closet will unequivocally remind you that I am a New Yorker: a torrent of black, a deluge of gray, and a barrage of denim dominate my limited storage space with occasional but meager sprinkles of color. Like the atmospheric amnesia I suffer every fall (is this what 38 degrees feels like?!), I am reminded by the recent cold, premature blast of winter how dark my sartorial choices have been lately.
It's undeniable that the fashion gods have dictated that fall 2009 would be a season of black. (Remember, they were designing when the economic gloom was at its peak.) Admittedly, I was lured by the promise of the easy chic: black goes with everything; black is edgy; black is the new black. Now, looking at my shadowy wardrobe and sighing through the spring runway shows, I am seduced by the promise of warmth and the color of joy. Alexander McQueen's psychedelic sci-fi dresses, Lanvin's candy-colored jeweled concoctions, and Proenza Schouler's tribal blues and greens all signaled a meaningful industry reappraisal of the power of--and need for--bright colors.
Of course, this newfound worship of all things color does not mean a scorn of all things black. When the winter chill pierces the bone, somehow a suit of black armor seems like the most appropriate choice when facing the elements or huddling with a crowd of fierce fellow New Yorkers, who are all, like me, secretly dreaming of spring.