“I love bright red drinks, don’t you? They taste twice as good as any other color.”
– Anne of Anne of Green Gables, written by L.M. Montgomery
Taylor Swift jokes aside, I find my sartorial cravings this fall heavily inclined towards anything red. Bright yet deep—reds you can’t miss, reds you can’t write off as maroon or burgundy—no, RED. I haven’t acted it on it yet, because a red purchase feels like one that should be really thought out, with all red accouterments meticulously sorted through before settling for one (or some). The Internet makes that a fairly impossible task, so I suppose a thorough browsing of already-favored online spots will have to do.
Stumbling upon this Grazia France spread in which red reigns was clearly a sign from the heavens (a place, in my mind, concerned with proper hem lines and the cycling of color palettes) that I need to try some serious red on for size. Red—a color which, even in it’s purest form, evokes violence and passion in equal measure, and most innocently, too. Not a hard feat, necessarily, in our world of abundant graphic imagery: scenes of sex and blood so common, it’s often difficult to differentiate between the two. No wearing a swath of red is more subtle—like draping yourself in that Barnett Newman piece that stuns MoMA visitors with all that it lacks.
Click images to enlarge.
This is not some proclamation of my new reverence for color—this elusive red piece will mingle only with black, navy, gray, and white, and be all the more striking for it. It will be loud for me, a nice antidote to my occasional cool shyness, what my therapist sometimes refers to as “aloof.” It will lend a little bit of warmth to the chillier days ahead, and hopefully some false coloring to my cheeks—which, if all goes according to the usual plan, will reach a shade of near-death within the next month. It will fill the hole in my closet—one that’s not really there, but fabricated well enough by my needy imagination to warrant some resolution.