Welcome, readers, to the odd time of year when retailers are trying to sell you “seasonal fall decor” (oh I have OPINIONS); you’re shocked by the prices of Halloween candy; and, it’s oddly “Paint Color of the Year” season.
If you’ve been a subscriber for a while, then you know I’ve long been on the “Paint Color of the Year” beat. Otherwise known in industry as the acronym:
C
O
T
Y
Aka “color of the year”/COTY/COTY(s).
The timing of COTYs is odd. Come September/October, major paint companies announce their “colors of the year” for the following year. So the announcements we’ve been getting now are for 2027.
And, depending on who you ask in the paint industry, COTYs are mostly marketing and PR efforts.
Still, each year, I feel compelled to devote mental and intellectual space to COTYs. Not because I believe paint companies have any particular ability to predict which colors we’ll all be painting our living rooms, but because they’ve taken on the responsibility of diagnosing the national mood on an annual basis.
And what’s remarkable is how little their diagnoses change. For the better part of six years, paint companies have been telling us that we’re seeking the same things: calm, comfort, connection, and a sense of being grounded. There are subtle peaks and valleys, but it all comes back to the same retail-oriented mentality: YOU NEED HELP! YOUR LIFE IS A MESS! AND PAINT WILL SAVE YOU!
Looking at what America has been through since 2020, I can hardly argue with the assessment that we’re all in some degree of economic and emotional distress. It’s been a shitshow!
And need I list in dramatic fashion all the epic shitshowiness the United States, nay, the world has been through this year alone? No, I need not. You know it.
But then again, when has the world not been in some state of upheaval? When have people not craved a little peace and stability? At a certain point, these announcements start to feel less like observations about the cultural zeitgeist and more like statements about the human condition. And the statement is: “We’re permanently fucked.”
To which I pray, to an unknown, cocaine-fueled god: GOD, WON’T SOMEONE DELIVER US BACK TO THE ‘80S?
But I digress.





