When you grow up in the tropics you are naturally drawn to bright, lush things. That was me in Hong Kong, when my skin was never a lesser shade than milk chocolate brown. Neutral colors didn’t exist in my closet.
Years in the United States changed that. Somehow strong colors became glaring and an annoyance (to others). I learned black was a sign of sophistication and subdued colors and patterns worked with everything. When I finally rebelled and painted my house in Danville bright yellow with purple trims and a blood red door, it became the talk of the neighborhood. They didn’t appreciate my eccentric house standing apart from their sleepy beige and pale abodes.
I’m definitely reaching back to my roots—the golden sun, the emerald sea, the white sand, the firecracker flowering trees and the morning glories. The patterns on fabrics that reflect the multitudinousness of life, the ease of not being bound by tight jeans, and the feminine self that rejoices in sequins and lace and fringes. Color is celebration.
