Note: Clothing essays have a way of sounding more intentional than the habits they describe. In reality, most personal “styles” are not carefully engineered systems but small practical decisions repeated over time until they become a pattern. Black clothing, in particular, tends to accumulate this way: one shirt becomes three, three become six, and eventually the wardrobe settles into a quiet monochrome.

The appeal of black has been noted in many places — from musicians and writers to bartenders, stagehands, and city dwellers who prefer a certain anonymity in public life. It simplifies choices, travels well, and works in nearly every setting from classroom to barstool.

None of this was planned in advance. It simply turned out that black shirts, black trousers, and a good pair of shoes made the day a little easier to begin. Over time that small convenience hardened into habit, and habit into something that might almost be called a uniform.

Epigraph:

I could listen to all my friends
And go out again
And pretend it’s enough,
Or I could make a career of being blue
I could dress in black and read Camus,
Smoke clove cigarettes and drink vermouth
Like I was 17
That would be a scream
But I don’t want to get over you

The Magnetic Fields

At some point in my adult life I realized that I wear almost nothing but black.

This wasn’t the result of a manifesto, or some deep philosophical commitment to minimalism. It simply happened. One day I looked in the closet and noticed that nearly everything hanging there was black: shirts, sweaters, jackets, trousers. Even the socks.

But the habit actually goes back much further. In high school I developed what could fairly be called a monotone sartorial program. The uniform was simple and extremely effective: a black turtleneck, black chinos, black loafers, black socks, and — for the sake of total conceptual coherence — black boxers as well.

I never felt better.

There was something immediately satisfying about the whole arrangement. No fuss, no pattern matching, no color balancing. Just black on black on black. A complete system.

People probably assumed it was a bit of a pose. High school audiences are naturally suspicious of anyone who appears to be making a stylistic statement. But black is also just a normal color, and the outfit was apparently acceptable enough that nobody made too much of it. I wasn’t trying to be mysterious or intellectual. I just liked the way it looked and, more importantly, the way it simplified the day.

The system continued into college.

At Hamilton College the core wardrobe remained black, but I added one important layer: a tan trench coat. It cost $199 at the Men’s Wearhouse in downtown Spokane and felt, at the time, like a serious investment in adulthood. The coat went over the black shirts and black trousers, and on top of that I wore a tan floppy felt hat.

That was the look.

Looking back, it probably struck some people as theatrical. A young man walking across campus dressed entirely in black with a trench coat and a floppy hat could easily be mistaken for someone attempting a role. But at the time it didn’t feel like an imitation of anyone. Later I became aware of figures like Johnny Cash, the famous “Man in Black,” or the elegant nocturnal wardrobes of Lou Reed and Leonard Cohen. But when the wardrobe first appeared in my life it was entirely sui generis.

I was just doing me.

Over the years the practical advantages of black clothing became increasingly obvious. Wearing mostly black eliminates an astonishing number of small daily decisions. You don’t stand in front of the closet wondering whether this shirt matches that pair of trousers or whether the shade of blue is slightly wrong for the jacket. Everything works with everything else.

Shopping becomes easier. Cleaning becomes easier. Packing for travel becomes easier. A black shirt can be worn day after day without drawing much attention, and a good pair of black chinos can quietly carry a person through an entire week.

In this sense, wearing black is less a fashion statement than a small act of logistical efficiency.

The habit also works remarkably well in cities. Black is neutral enough to move through almost any environment without attracting attention. Restaurants, classrooms, airports, bars — the wardrobe fits all of them without adjustment.

This turns out to be particularly true in Kyoto, where I now live. The city’s narrow streets, dim bars, and late-night corners seem almost designed for dark clothing. Walking into places like ING or Mafia or Haku in a black shirt and black trousers feels perfectly natural. No one notices, and that is exactly the point.

One unexpected side effect is that Kyoto locals often assume I am a local as well. Something about the overall look apparently signals familiarity rather than tourism. While visitors frequently move through the city in bright outdoor gear and colorful jackets, the monotone wardrobe seems to blend easily into the quieter rhythms of the place.

I never feel out of place.

Which may be the real secret of wearing black: it allows you to move through the world without the constant small negotiation of appearance.

There are, of course, occasional deviations. Every now and then a pink shirt or a purple one appears in the rotation, like a brief holiday from the system. But these are temporary excursions. The gravitational center of the wardrobe remains the same.

Black shirt.
Black trousers.
Black shoes.

Some people wear black because they believe it signals seriousness or artistic temperament. Others wear it as a form of rebellion against brighter fashions. For me the explanation is much simpler.

It works.

And once you discover something that works every day, there is very little reason to stop.

Dedication:

For the LL Bean turtleneck. You rock baby.

Note: If you enjoyed this essay, you may also enjoy this one.