I made a couple of dresses one day last week, same dress, different colours, one for me, one for Knitty. I sent her photos of hers, grey, and a selfie of me in mine, pink, so she could get some idea of what it’s like.
That colour’s great on you, she said.
She’s right, pink is nice on me but I’m a little wary of it, two reasons:
1. It’s a bit high vis, mostly I like black, navy sometimes, grey even. Summertime means prints and my taste can run a little crazy on that front, but, solid bright colours are a definite no.
2. Pink is flattering, it is kind on ageing complexions, it’s a happy colour, cheery, appropriate for all but the most serious occasions, but what happens when you don’t know when to stop? When pink goes unchecked? Barbara Cartland, that’s what happens when you don’t apply the pink brake. A life of sartorial fairy tale confections, clouds of chiffon, gauze and flowing fabrics in every shade of pink, candy floss, blossom, baby, shocking and carnation to name but a few.
Although I rather like Bab’s individual approach to style I can’t reconcile it with my own. I admire her bravery in giving up uncomfortable foundation wear too but can’t imagine eschewing brassieres …..ever.
I wouldn’t say I fear the ghost of Barbara Cartland’s wardrobe exactly, but I definitely consider it cautionary and temper my pink choices accordingly.
fat tart 