So, this whole “black and black suit” thing. I actually went down that rabbit hole myself, thinking it was the peak of cool, or sophistication, or something. My grand idea? Make everything, and I mean everything, in this one project super sleek, minimalist, just shades of black. Like a ninja, but for, you know, everyday stuff.
My Big “Blackout” Plan
I figured, why not? Black is classic. Black is serious. Two blacks? Twice as serious, right? I was aiming for that ultra-refined look. My presentations, my notes, even the way I tried to organize my digital files – everything had to fit this “black and black suit” mold. No distractions, just pure, unadulterated focus. Or so I thought.
What a ride that was. It started off feeling edgy. Then it just got… complicated. And not in a good way. Here’s a taste of what went down:
- Readability nightmare: Turns out, black text on a dark charcoal background, which looked so chic in my head, was basically invisible to anyone else. I got a lot of “uh, what does that say?”
- Depressing vibes: Instead of “serious and professional,” the feedback I got was more along the lines of “are you okay?” or “this feels a bit gloomy.” Not quite the power statement I was going for.
- The fifty shades of black problem: You’d think black is black. Nope. Trying to find different blacks that actually worked together without looking like a printing error or a cheap dye job was a full-time job. It was maddening.
- People just didn’t get it: Most folks were just confused. “Is there a theme I’m missing?” or “Did you run out of other colors?” Yeah, that kind of stuff.
This whole experiment really blew up in my face during one particular incident. I was trying to impress a new client. Big pitch. I’d designed the entire presentation, all the handouts, my whole digital aura, around this “black and black suit” concept. I walked in there thinking I was the epitome of sharp.
Well, the main contact, a super energetic lady who loved bright colors, just sort of tilted her head. She squinted at my meticulously crafted black-on-dark-grey slides. After a few minutes of this, she genuinely asked, “Honey, is your projector feeling a bit under the weather? Or did you forget to pay for the full color spectrum?” I swear, I could feel my soul leave my body. We didn’t get that project, obviously. My boss at the time, who himself was always in a proper black suit, pulled me aside later. He just sighed and said, “Kid, sometimes trying too hard to be serious just makes you look like you’re trying too hard. Maybe ease up on the funeral chic.”
That was a wake-up call. It made me realize that this “black and black suit” philosophy, while sounding cool in theory, is a lot like those companies that try to make every single department use the exact same software for everything, even if it’s a terrible fit. You know the type? They force the creative team to use spreadsheets for mood boards, or the finance guys to use some artsy cloud thing for their numbers. It’s all about “uniformity,” but it just makes everyone’s job harder and the results are… well, a mess. It’s like they think if everyone wears the same uncomfortable shoes, the company will magically become more efficient. It just leads to a lot of grumbling and workarounds.
So, yeah. That’s my journey with the “black and black suit.” I learned that “serious” doesn’t have to mean “boring” or “monochromatic to the point of pain.” You need contrast. You need things to actually stand out. It’s like food – a bit of salt is good, but a dish made of only salt? Not so much. I still appreciate a good black outfit, don’t get me wrong. But as an overarching design principle for everything? I’ll pass. Life’s too short to squint at your own work. Now I just try to make things clear and, you know, usable. What a concept, right?
