The Art of Monochrome

I have a long list of favourite colours. The colours themselves don’t change, but sometimes the order does. For many years red came first. Now it is turquoise.

There are also colours that I particularly like in combination: black and white, red and white, and also dark green and white. (For some reason the last particularly makes me think of summer.)

I generally don’t like to wear black with colours; it reminds me too much of the brash Eighties. I do like it however, worn with grey, and with white.

Black and white is obviously a classic pairing. It is such a striking combination of opposites, but you do want to get the balance right. Once, when I was a teenager, I wore a black top with a white skirt with black stockings with white shoes. That was an error. And I realised (to my mortification) while I was actually still out wearing it. I never did that again.

Shape and proportion are important: I love the drama of this white coat-dress. The mandarin collar and peaked shoulders are gorgeous, and the multitude of buttons infuriating. My little collection of black and white accessories is as punctuation to an eloquent line of prose.

The bag, entirely woven from black and white plastic beads, is the exclamation mark.

“THIS, children, is puce.”

I know that this question has been causing many of you out there a lot of anxiety, so I want to put it to rest once and for all.

Puce is a colour that is difficult to define, (except see picture above for the OED’s definition); few have heard of; and seldom passes colour forecasters’ lips today except in reference to nineteenth century fashion. In these days when dark purple is aubergine, deep red cranberry and blue cloud, puce has no place. Who wants to paint their house flea colour? Or worse, wear it next to their face? It is difficult, period.

But today we shall attempt to clear up the mystery somewhat.

Puce is a colour that … seldom passes colour forecasters’ lips today except in reference to nineteenth century fashion.

I first came across this strange hue in Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances. I imagined – in error – that puce was a pale purplish-grey. Heyer’s stories take place during a period when puce was the high kick of fashion, although it apparently suited few. Here are some quotes*:

Miss Milborne, whose striking beauty could well support the trying colour, was wearing a new gown of pale puce satin and net to the ball, and with this George's violets could not be said to agree. (Friday’s Child) 

And:

…she wore a high-gown of an unbecoming shade of puce; and carried a reticule in one bony hand. (Cotillion) 

And:

He was magnificently attired in puce satin, with an embroidered waistcoat. His wig must surely have come straight from Paris. (The Masqueraders)

It is not stated in the caption, but this gown looks suspiciously like it was made from puce coloured silk. J. A. D. Ingres, The Baroness Rothschild, 1848. From ‘A History of Costume in the West’, François Boucher, Thames and Hudson, 1987 ed. I once owned a lovely Obüs millefeuille skirt in a muted shade of green; as puce is to violet, my skirt was like moss is to emerald. I could not like it. I originally wanted it in scarlet (not red), but Alice Euphemia did not have the scarlet in my size, so I had to make do with moss. One day I decided to dye it. I knew whatever came out in the wash, it was certain to be odd, but I thought it was worth the attempt. I am not quite sure what I was aiming for – perhaps chocolate brown – but with the addition of two different colours, the end result was more than merely odd. It was eccentric.

Years later I realised it was actually puce.

Sadly I could not photograph it for this journal entry as I donated it to charity shortly after the dyeing episode. (I was too disheartened to try again for charcoal.) Fortunately for this exercise I was able to locate another skirt (coincidentally also in the to-be-donated-to-charity bag) in puce, albeit in a less startling shade than my Obüs mishap.

Perhaps it is time for puce to explode back into the world of fashion? I am sure however it will be under another, more marketable, name.

* More literary delicacies here.

WHITE FOR WINTER

After my recent post on clothes as sculpture, I was inspired to put together some of my favourite pieces of clothing, all with quite different textures. I love wearing white in winter. The old decree of ‘wearing no white after Labour Day’ that I have often read about in American fashion magazines seems bizarrely restrictive. There are several theories of its origin, but for most people, obeying that law is no longer in fashion.

So from the top, some of my favourites, old and new:

1. A hand-embroidered scarf bought on my recent trip to Vietnam really is a summer piece, but apparently I could get away with it if I was a winter bride and wore it as a veil.
2. This vintage white leather pencil skirt was unearthed at the Salvos and is alarmingly tight at the waist.
3. An amusing skirt by Marty Samuels looks and feels like it is made from crumpled paper. The actual construction is 42% polyethyle, 25% cotton, 22% polyurethane, 11% polyester – meaning I’d probably go up in flames if I stood too close to a heater, so best I leave this narrow, ankle-length skirt for summer also. (It fastens with snap buttons, a sure risk of wardrobe malfunction if I sit down too violently!)
4. Truly perfect for winter, this scarf is formed by four rows of fur pom-poms, very soft and warm.

Hmm, one out of four. Maybe there is something to that rule after all…

Out of black, into the pink

Melbourne, it’s spring! It’s time to shed those dark layers and wear something pretty and light. It doesn’t have to be girly, or frivolous and frilly. It doesn’t have to be this colourful, and you don’t have to be that brave! But for goodness sake, let’s put an end to this tiresome rumour that Melburnians wear black all the time!

If wearing top-to-toe colour seems a trifle frightening to you, why don’t you try swapping the black for dark grey, or even – gasp! – light grey? In fact, I think this lovely neutral looks even better teamed with colours than does black, which seems a very eighties combination to me.

I know! I have a wonderful idea… why don’t we start a fashion revolution and give Sydney a run for its money?

(And if a pink sash is not enough for you, try a pink coat on for size…)