I must confess: I love a black T-shirt. It’s a simple love, but one that runs deep. When I was an art director (more years ago than I want to admit), our general manager wandered into a creative meeting and said, “For a bunch of creatives, you don’t look very creative.” Sitting around the table were a dozen art and creative directors, all dressed in black. It just seemed to emerge organically. The agency was on a roll then, producing award-winning work with a team of about a hundred in Melbourne. Guess what? I was wearing a black T-shirt too.
It wasn’t a “thing,” not something we discussed or coordinated. We didn’t consciously decide to dress in uniform; it just happened. It could be this organic element that keeps me thinking about it. I am no longer an art director here, yet my wardrobe is still lined with black shirts. Last night, as I put away a pile of freshly folded black tees, I wondered why this stuck with me? Why has this seemingly ordinary garment become more than just a shirt—something like a totem, almost a symbol of a particular way of being?
I’ve started to see myself—or at least that old version of myself—as part of the “Black Shirt Creative,” a term I’ve come to think of as a totem or symbol in itself. My research and years in the creative field have shifted my perspective; I’ve learned to see cultural practices, symbols, and group behaviours as little puzzles to unravel. These days, even a black shirt has become one of those puzzles, a clue to understanding what it means to belong to this creative tribe.
When I think of the black shirt as a totem, I see it as a cultural artifact. Sure, it’s a barometer of status—maybe even of anxieties about status. But more than that, it’s a signifier of identity and shared values. Like the totemic symbols of Indigenous cultural groups, the black shirt represents something more than its surface: a spirit, an ethos, and a set of values defining the creative subculture. Minimalism, focus, quiet resistance to the flashiness of mass consumer culture—these are the ideals wrapped up in that simple garment.
Sitting around that conference table, wearing matching black shirts, we weren’t just dressing ourselves—we were signaling our belongings. Dress is a significant component in identity and group formation, after all. The black shirt became an unspoken code, a marker that said, “I belong here. I’m one of you.” It’s like a kind of uniform, but not in the way the suits on the other side of the agency wore theirs. It wasn’t about conformity; it was about carving out an identity distinct from “them”—the corporate world, the mainstream. In some ways, it was about drawing boundaries, about separating the ‘visionaries’ and ‘madmen’ from those who didn’t quite understand our world.
I’ve come to appreciate that wearing black is more than just a fashion choice; it’s a ritual. In the mornings, slipping on that black T-shirt has always felt like a kind of preparation, a way to get my head in the suitable space—like an actor putting on a costume before stepping into character. Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of ‘habitus’ comes to mind here—the idea that our repeated practices shape who we are and, in turn, shape our world. The black shirt is part of my creative habitus—something embedded in the ordinariness of my life, a symbol of dedication to the craft. It helps cut out the noise, declutter the distractions, and focus on what matters: the work.
There’s also a defiant streak in the black shirt, a whisper of resistance. Totems carry meaning beyond their literal forms, and the black shirt is no different. It’s a rejection of the mainstream values attached to fashion, consumerism, and corporate culture. It’s a countercultural statement, like the symbols of past subcultures—from the bohemians of the 1910s to the punks of the 1970s or the ravers and hip-hop heads of more recent decades. The black shirt says creativity doesn’t need to be loud or flashy. It’s about depth, meaning, and focus, not just flamboyance.
Yet, at the same time, the black shirt is a leveller. It’s an egalitarian uniform that blurs the lines between different backgrounds and statuses.
In a room full of creatives, it doesn’t matter who you are or where you come from—everyone’s wearing black and focusing on the work. It’s a simple garment that puts everyone on an even playing field, shifting the attention away from individual distinctions and onto the ideas being created. And perhaps there’s power in that, too—in understanding and adopting the unspoken codes, in marking oneself as an insider.
The black shirt is layered with meaning—some of it contradictory, all of it true. It’s about restraint and rebellion, identity and belonging. It’s a blank canvas, a neutral surface, and a shield against the world. It’s both a uniform and a statement, a piece of clothing embodying the creative industry’s identity and symbolic frameworks.
Maybe I am overthinking it—but isn’t that what creative thinkers do best? Even the simplest objects can reveal something profound when you look closely enough. Maybe that’s why, after all these years, I still find myself drawn to the plain black T-shirt. It’s more than just a shirt; it’s a reminder of who I am, where I belong, and of the creative spirit that’s always there beneath the surface. As soon as I get home, the ‘suit’ comes off, and the black T goes on. In the end, I think it says more about me than it does about the shirt.
