It started with a joke at a dinner party. My friend Dave—the kind of guy who’s perpetually fifteen minutes late because he’s changed outfits seven times—was complaining about decision fatigue. “Some mornings I waste forty-five minutes just figuring out what to wear,” he sighed, halfway through his third Manhattan. I should just wear black and white for a year like some kind of fashion monk.
“You wouldn’t last a week,” his girlfriend laughed.
“I bet I could do it,” I heard myself saying, the whiskey apparently doing the talking. “How hard could it be?”
The table went quiet. Dave’s girlfriend squinted at me. “You? The guy who once wrote a thousand words about the ’emotional resonance of burnt orange as a transitional color’? That was the title of your article, Jackson.”
“Exactly why it’d be interesting,” I doubled down, already regretting opening my mouth. “A style experiment. Wardrobe minimalism taken to its logical extreme.”
Twenty minutes and another round later, I’d somehow committed to twelve months of chromatic abstinence. Black, white, and all gradations of gray in between would be my only wardrobe options. No navy (which hurt the most), no earth tones, no pastels, absolutely nothing in the rich burgundy I’d been favoring that season. My editor thought it was brilliant when I pitched it the next day. “Readers love this monk-mode minimalism stuff,” she said, already planning the before-and-after photoshoot. “And you’re the perfect guy to test it—you’re so… you know, not minimal.”
I took that as the backhanded compliment it was and started planning. If I was doing this, I was doing it right—no half measures, no “well technically charcoal is a color” loopholes. I packed away anything with even a hint of color, donating some pieces and carefully storing others in my parents’ basement in vacuum-sealed bags like I was preserving artifacts for future generations.
The first morning of my experiment, I stood in front of a closet that had gone from colorful chaos to stark binary simplicity overnight. Black jeans, white oxford, gray cashmere sweater, black boots. The entire decision-making process took approximately forty-five seconds. I felt a strange lightness walking out the door—one less thing to worry about. Maybe those Silicon Valley uniform guys were onto something after all.
The first person to notice was the barista at my regular coffee place. “New look?” she asked, handing me my usual. I explained the experiment. “So you’re basically Steve Jobs now? Just with better shoes?” I laughed, but the comparison would follow me for months. The “creative professional in perpetual mourning” look apparently reads as either “visionary tech CEO” or “unemployed poet,” depending on the quality of your basics and your haircut, with very little middle ground.
Week one was mostly about explaining myself. Friends, coworkers, even my doorman all asked variations of, “Are you okay?” apparently concerned that my colorful personality had been replaced by monochromatic depression. My mother called after seeing my Instagram to ask if I was “going through something.” I assured her it was just work, though her relief suggested she’d been genuinely worried I’d joined some kind of cult.
By week three, something unexpected happened: I started noticing texture and proportion in a way I never had before. Without color as the dominant visual element, the subtle differences between fabrics became fascinating. The way light caught a waffle-knit cotton differently than a merino wool. The distinction between a crisp white poplin and a slightly off-white oxford cloth. Suddenly I was the most boring kind of fabric nerd, bending people’s ears about the subtle distinctions between types of black denim.
This heightened awareness extended to fit too. When every piece is in the same color family, the silhouette becomes the star of the show. I found myself gravitating toward more interesting cuts—wider legs, fuller sleeves, more dramatic proportions—just to keep things visually engaging. My tailor, José, started greeting me with, “Another black one?” but appreciated the precision I suddenly demanded. “When it’s all one color, a quarter-inch makes all the difference,” he nodded sagely while pinning yet another pair of black trousers.
One month in, the social implications became apparent. At work, people treated me differently—more seriously, somehow. In meetings where I’d previously been “the style guy with the colorful socks,” I was now getting direct questions about marketing strategy and budget allocations. Was I suddenly more competent, or just presenting as more serious? Either way, it was fascinating.
Dating during this experiment was its own bizarre social study. My Hinge profile now featured photos that made me look like I was auditioning for a reboot of The Matrix. Some women found it intriguing (“So it’s like a uniform?” asked a graphic designer over drinks. “That’s kind of hot.”). Others found it concerning (“You know Ted Bundy dressed really neatly too,” warned a psychology student before unmatching me).
I noticed I was getting more looks on the subway—not necessarily admiring ones, but definitely attention. In New York, the land of black clothing, I somehow stood out more by going all-in on the urban camouflage. It was like wearing a sign that said “I’m Doing A Thing.”
The practical challenges emerged around month three. A wine tasting (terrifying), a white sauce pasta dinner (inevitable disaster), a friend’s wedding (where the “creative black tie” dress code worked surprisingly well for me, though the bride later admitted she’d been worried I’d “bring down the vibe” of her photos).
Laundry became both simpler and more complicated. Simpler because everything could be sorted into just two loads. More complicated because maintaining true black through repeated washing is basically impossible. By month four, I had at least seven distinct shades of black in my closet, from recent purchases still in their inky glory to older items faded to something closer to charcoal. I became fanatical about cold water washing, special detergents, and hanging everything to dry.
Traveling during this experiment was a revelation. Packing for a week-long business trip took about ten minutes and fit into a carry-on with room to spare. Everything matched everything else by default. I no longer had to pack extra options “just in case.” The psychological freedom this created was genuinely surprising—one less travel stress to manage.
The six-month mark brought unexpected feelings of liberation rather than restriction. Getting dressed had become so automatic that I’d gained back hours each week—not just the time physically trying on clothes, but the mental energy spent considering options. I redirected this newfound time toward morning meditation and actually eating breakfast rather than grabbing coffee on the run. My stress levels dropped noticeably.
The financial impact was significant too. After the initial investment in quality basics, my clothing spending dropped by roughly 70%. With no colorful seasonal pieces to tempt me, no “this would be perfect with that blue jacket” justifications, my credit card statement looked healthier than it had in years. I found myself redirecting some of that money toward better quality in the pieces I did buy—a cashmere sweater that cost three times what I’d normally spend but would last five times as long.
But around month eight, the monotony started to crack my resolve. Fall arrived, and for the first time in my adult life, I couldn’t participate in the annual ritual of switching to richer, warmer tones. As the city around me turned golden and russet, I remained stubbornly monochromatic. It felt isolating in a way I hadn’t anticipated—like refusing to acknowledge the seasons themselves.
During a weekend trip to my parents’ house, I snuck down to the basement and opened one of the vacuum bags, just to look at my colored clothes. I held up a burnt orange cardigan to my face and genuinely felt something like longing. My mom caught me in the act. “Just wear it for the weekend,” she encouraged. “No one would know.” The temptation was real, but I returned it to its plastic tomb. I’d committed to this experiment, and eight months in seemed like the worst time to cheat.
The psychological impact became more pronounced in social settings. At holiday parties, I was “the black and white guy”—my experiment had somehow become my most notable personality trait. Friends introduced me by explaining my project before mentioning my name. At one party, three separate people asked if it was “some kind of performance art.” Another guest, a few drinks in, accused me of “trying too hard to be interesting by pretending not to care about being interesting.” That one stung because it contained a kernel of truth.
Professional events became both easier and harder. Easier because I always looked appropriate, if a bit severe. Harder because in an industry built on visual creativity, my personal presentation suggested a lack of imagination. “Brave choice for a style editor,” one PR person commented drily at a brand launch. “Very… consistent.” I found myself compensating by being more outgoing and expressive in my speech and mannerisms—as if to prove that personality couldn’t be contained by a limited color palette.
As month twelve finally approached, I faced an unexpected anxiety: the return to choice. The experiment had become comfortable in its constraints. The thought of standing before a full-color closet again was somehow daunting. Would I remember how to put outfits together? Had my color sense atrophied like an unused muscle?
The final day of my black and white year fell on a Tuesday. I woke up early, oddly emotional about the transition. For my last monochromatic outfit, I chose my favorites—the black Japanese selvedge denim that had molded to my body over twelve months, the white Oxford that had been washed to perfect softness, a black cashmere sweater with elbow patches that had seen me through countless meetings and dinners. I took one last mirror selfie for the documentation of the experiment and headed to the office.
My editor had arranged a “color release party” at a nearby bar after work—partly as a joke, partly as content for our social channels. Friends brought ridiculously colorful gifts: a tie-dyed hoodie, a Hawaiian shirt that looked like a parrot had exploded on it, a pair of bright red socks. I promised to wear each item at least once, though the thought of all that visual noise made me faintly anxious.
The next morning, I stood before my newly reunited closet, all my exiled clothes reintegrated with their black and white counterparts. I reached for a navy sweater—my old favorite color, my safe space—and paired it with my trusty black jeans. The small step back into color felt significant but manageable. I caught myself in the mirror and realized I was smiling.
So what did I actually learn from a year without color? More than I expected, honestly. The practical benefits were real and substantial: less decision fatigue, significant time savings, reduced spending, and a deeper appreciation for quality and fit. I developed a better understanding of what actually matters in my wardrobe—which pieces earn their keep and which were just taking up space.
But the social and psychological impacts were more complex and interesting. How we dress influences not just how others perceive us but how we perceive ourselves. My personality didn’t change, but my presentation of it did, and that affected every interpersonal interaction in subtle ways. I became more aware of how much I’d been using clothing as nonverbal communication, and how limiting that vocabulary changed the conversations I was having.
Would I recommend others try this experiment? Not for a full year, no. But a month might be revealing. Just long enough to break some habits and establish new awareness, not so long that it becomes an identity in itself. Because that was the unexpected pitfall—somewhere around month six, being “black and white guy” had shifted from an experiment I was conducting to a character I was playing. The simplification intended to free me from thinking about clothes ironically resulted in thinking about them constantly, just in a different way.
Three months after ending the experiment, my wardrobe remains predominantly neutral, with color playing a supporting rather than leading role. I shop much less frequently but more intentionally. And yes, burnt orange has returned to the rotation—some things are just meant to be.
