Getting out of the noonday sun

I am a firm believer in the efficacy of a pretty parasol, and for years now have been almost single-handedly determined to bring them back in fashion – if only for their practical use. Even my mum uses one. The day I wore this outfit I was meeting her one very hot day in a local park; I was amused to find she was carrying her own blue umbrella. Like mother, like daughter.

Hand-coloured etching of an English walking dress by an unknown artist, for Rudolph Ackerman's ‘Repository of Arts’, 1812. Image from ‘The Fine Art of Fashion’ by Julian Robinson, Bay Books, Australia. When I first started using a parasol, I was about 20, and on holiday in Queensland. It was a lovely cream sunshade made from Battenburg lace – you can find them easily on eBay these days – but I picked it up in a gift shop at the Pacific Fair shopping centre for a tidy sum. I still have it in fact, though it’s a trifle water-stained. At the time it accessorised a fabulous cream shell top and wide-legged pants that were micro-pleated in the Fortuny style, and I wore my hair in a bob. I thought I looked bohemian – my conservative friends would undoubtedly have used the term ‘outlandish’.

I thought I looked bohemian – my conservative friends would have used the term ‘outlandish’…

Hand-coloured fashion photograph by Talbot of the actresses Mlle De Gonet and Mlle Alice Guerra in dresses by Drecoll, for ‘Les Mode’, 1913. Image, Ibid.

I found the pink umbrella above about three years ago, in a charity shop, by employing one of my friend Rapunzel’s old adages: “always look up”. Hanging from the ceiling by their handles were two parasols. Almost breathless with delight, I asked to see both of them. They were both so bright and frivolous I was sure they must be props from an old costume department somewhere.

It did not take me long to decide which I would buy: they were each $35, but I couldn't possibly pass over black pom-poms! The other umbrella was blue and beige, and not nearly as pretty; I would leave it for some other lucky prospector, who would think they had struck gold.

Centuries ago, women used parasols to protect their complexions from the sun – brown skin indicated one was a member of the lower orders, doomed to toil the fields. Then Coco Chanel burst onto the scene sporting a tan, and ever since parasols have been out of fashion. But I feel the cool breeze of a change.

Pochoir fashion print by Jean Saudé of a dress by Martial et Armand, published in ‘Luxe de Paris’, 1913. Image, Ibid.Over the past few summers I have seen more and more women in Melbourne using sun umbrellas, and never more so than during these past few blazing hot weeks. We pass one another in the city streets and smile with superiority: we’ve discovered the secret to beating the scorching heat, and carry our own shade with us. Not to mention reducing the threat of skin cancer.

I’ve collected a few images of vintage parasols here. Italian Vogue’s images below must be from some time in the 90s; unfortunately I don’t have clothing credits so I can’t tell whether the umbrella is vintage. However, what’s important to note is that the shoot has been styled with a romantic, vintage theme. It is certainly lovely to look at, but few people dress like this in public (not even me!). What I would love to find are images of sunshades worn by thoroughly modern women.

Ellen Von Unwerth, Italian Vogue.

…we’ve discovered the secret to beating the scorching heat, and carry our own shade with us.

This article from British Vogue is also from the 90s, I believe, with some modern examples of parasols. I particularly love the yellow one on bottom left. Sadly, it would not afford much protection from the sun, see-through as it is.

From British Vogue.

An excerpt from the article above:

The parasol, that most charming of accessories, has emerged after decades of neglect as this summer’s frivolous plaything. Since the twenties, the bottle of sun oil has been the skin’s only fashionable protection: now the new pursuit of the lightest, safest of tans has brought the flirtatious parasol back to the catwalks…

Although it is officially autumn now (my favourite season) there may be a few more hot days to come, so put up your umbrellas ladies. It is past time parasols had their day in the sun!

Just tulle-ing around

Let’s face it: tulle is a frivolous fabric. Even Wikipedia has not much to say on the subject, and there is little other information about it. Although apparently there is a town in France called Tulle, which I didn’t know.

All the same, there is something enchanting about it. There is obviously a strange dichotomy going on in my fashion personality, since I am attracted to such confections as this hat; the colour pink (pink and tulle even collide in this instance here); and vintage jewellery – as well as stark, straight lines; all shades of grey; and fierce shoes that scare some of my female friends.

When I first saw this hat in a charity shop I was instantly charmed by it, but doubtful that I would ever wear it in public. It was the polka-dots scattering the netting that convinced me, however. (The sales person who complimented my appearance in it had nothing whatsoever to do with my decision.)

When I first saw this hat in a charity shop I was instantly charmed by it

I knew how I would photograph it: I would wear my polka-dotted blouse, and the black tulle gloves – also vintage – and I would sit at a table surrounded by white.

My other inspiration was this 1957 photograph by Antony Armstrong-Jones. It wasn’t until after the shoot that I found the image in a book, and I realised how hazy my recollection of it was – I’d forgotten the context completely. But how amusing to see the similarity of her dress to my blouse! I am still trying to decide whose expression of delight looks more affected…

Below are some more modern frivolities (how adorable are those thongs, and they would totally go with my pink tulle hat!). You can see more here.

(Second from left, John Galliano for Christian Dior; far right, Karl Lagerfeld for Chanel. Other images uncredited.)

Sweet dreams are made of these

I am not an avid collector of vintage lingerie. What little I do have in my lilac-scented drawers I have simply happened upon in the course of ordinary ‘hope-shopping’.

That being said, I have managed to unearth some pretty delicates, among them this diaphanous short-sleeved robe with its remarkable lace trim, and the mint green striped slip, also trimmed in peppermint lace. You also may have seen my ruffled long underwear on my profile page; they’re extremely amusing.

This robe has long-lost its label, but it must be made of nylon or its ilk, and the Kayser ‘Satin Stripe’ slip of tricel with nylon. Although the artificial fibre does not stop the robe from floating about me like a cloud, of course they would be even lovelier if they were made of silk.

I’m sure I would loll still more decadently, like a thirties star of the silver screen, a glass of champagne at my elbow and sweet dreams in my head.

Below are some illustrations of lingerie from British and Australian Vogues.

Headlined Lingerie to linger in, these illustrations accompany an article entitled 'The Happy Invalid', by Rosamond Harcourt-Smith.
British Vogue, January 1947.

From cami-slips in pale blue, to carnation printed harem-hemmed half-slips, to stockings in the new colour of 'Pumpkin'… stockings and lingerie are two of a kind.
Illustrations: May Routh; Australian Vogue, June 1960.

Sleep cool this summer, brevity is news in slumber wear; here, four young, engaging looks…
Photograph: Duffy; Australian Vogue, June 1960.

And most amusing of all is this bright orange liftout: Vogue's undercover story: the new foundations. In 1960, there were only three figure types: the triangle, the inverted triangle, and the rectangle.

I particularly love 'and the best clothes to go for are those with a decided Chanel or Balenciaga bias…' That still stands true today! If only I could afford the real thing.

Perhaps I'll get lucky and something will appear in my Christmas stocking?

Behind the veil

Veils evoke mystery, they hint at the shape of a face, give an alluring glimpse of a shadowed eye. Once upon a time. These veiled hats do nothing of the sort.

Historically, veils were worn first as a symbol of status – they were forbidden to common women and prostitutes – and then for religious reasons of propriety: to cover the hair or hide the face from men’s sinful gazes. Women also wore veils during mourning, or when they were up to mischief – a midnight rendezvous with a lover, or some other secret errand. It can’t have taken long for courtesans to appropriate a semi-transparent veil, for the undeniable sensual mystique lent to the wearer.

These hats are pure frivolities, designed to make feminine hearts go pitter-pat, and men’s a-flutter at a coquettish sideways glance.

It is in this spirit I don an 80s cocktail hat in purple satin (above) and a modern version in black straw and violet roses (below). I found both on the same trip to the Salvos a few weekends ago.

Hats, for me, are strongly associated with Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances, where the purchase of a hat was a momentous occasion, accompanied by clapping and expressions of feminine delight.

In light of this, it is so sad to me that many women greet the sight of a hat with fear and horror, as though it is a creature ascended from hell that has perched on the wearer’s head. There are exceptions of course: on the beach, at the races, or a wedding, but for everyday fashion-wear, a hat is a rare bird indeed.

This green flight of fancy (below) is vintage 50s, a double bow of silk organza attached to a wire headband. I found this on eBay from an English seller who suggested it would be suitable for a bridesmaid. I fell in love with it at first sight, and was thrilled to win it for a very reasonable AU$15.

From bridesmaids to brides… probably the most common sighting of a veil in the West today is on a bride. Wikipedia gives us some interesting and/or amusing facts: Brides used to wear their hair flowing down their back at their wedding to symbolise their virginity, now the white diaphanous veil is often said to represent this. … I don’t think that applies these days.

And: Roman brides, for instance, wore an intensely flame-coloured and fulsome veil, called the flammeum, apparently intended to protect the bride from evil spirits on her wedding day. I’d like to see a bride today wearing an orange veil with her oyster satin dress!

Also: The lifting of the veil was often a part of ancient wedding ritual, symbolising the groom taking possession of the wife, either as lover or as property, or the revelation of the bride by her parents to the groom for his approval.

Hmmm, the chances I’ll be wearing a veil as a bride grow slimmer…

This headpiece of sculptured fabric (above) is also vintage 50s. I admired this frivolity for quite a while in Chapel Street Bazaar before I finally gave in and bought it. It would be difficult to find a modern piece that was equally original. I like that it is not at all prissy, like most of the fascinators girls wear these days.

The veil was actually sold as a tulle bonnet thrown in with a job lot of scarves from eBay. I couldn’t quite get my head round that one: it looked more like a hairnet for a factory worker. It was seeing them tossed together in a basket that inspired me to reinvent the bonnet. They make quite a pretty and serendipitous pairing, don’t you think?

A match made in heaven in fact!

Words From the Bluestocking Salon

You might have noticed by now that I rather like stockings. I don’t mean pantyhose. Yuk. I hate the constrictive feel of them around my tush. You feel like a sausage. Even more annoying is when you go to the loo, you have to pull them down and up again caaarefully so that you don’t twist them (urgh, even more uncomfortable!). And you have to make sure patterns are straight, or you don’t just plain old go stick a finger right through those 10 deniers.

Stay-ups or thigh-highs, or whatever is your preferred appellation for them, are traditionally known as ‘stockings’. Stockings, before the invention of nylon and later, Lycra, were held up with suspenders. Men might find them sexy in the bedroom, but have you ever worn them out? The horror when one of the buttons come undone! Surreptitious fiddling, sideways looks … I’ve been there; it ain’t pretty, and I ain’t going back.

Of course, you may have read of my misadventure with stay-ups – I don’t say they always stay up, but they do add a little spice to your day!

I have managed to collect a few different pairs. You’ve seen the red ones, and the black and white striped pair. And now you’ve seen the cobalt blue ones with the saucy bows. Apparently (according to Wikipedia) in the mid-eighteenth century, blue stockings were daytime or more informal wear; however, I won’t be wearing these out in public any time soon.

They were in fact my attempt to locate some like the pair Kirsten Dunst wears as Marie Antoinette in a love scene that is the epitome of sugar and spice, and all things nice.

Once upon a time, calling a woman a ‘bluestocking’ was deemed an insult; aimed at educated, intellectual women. (Of course, that’s been reversed these days with the affectionate term, ‘bimbo’.) There was even a Blue Stockings Society of England in the mid-eighteenth century – women met together to discuss arts and literature. (Select males were invited on occasion.) That sounds rather like fun, especially when you learn that ‘tea, biscuits and other light refreshments would be served to guests by the hostesses’.

Below you’ll find some vintage ads from the 40s and 50s which are gorgeous to look at, even if they hark back to a time when many women were more bimbo than bluestocking.