There once was a girl who had a little curl

What is it about the combination of frilly white lace and black stockings? Cute, but saucy; nice, but naughty. Add some curls and a touch of red and we have a little Victorian doll blown-up life size. It harks back to a time when a glimpse of a woman’s ankle was a scandalous affair of note. A time when women submitted meekly to the men in their life – or else they sat on the shelf. A mute doll, either way: a problematic and uncomfortable notion.

Interestingly when I tried to do some research online on Victorian dolls and Victoriana, I came upon sites dedicated to the collection and decoration of Victorian style dolls – aimed at adult women. I hurriedly clicked away.

Cute, but saucy; nice, but naughty. Add some curls and
a touch of red…

And then there’s ‘steampunk’ – a much more fascinating concept, as Wikipedia describes it: “the word is … used loosely to describe imaginary, mock-Victorian worlds, where the look and technology of the Victorian era may sit alongside impossible machinery or fantastic creatures”. Which leads me to Neo-Victorianism. The rabbit-hole just gets deeper the further you go… and I would love to have gone to the conference “Neo-Victorianism: the politics and aesthetics of appropriation” held in 2007 at Exeter University.

Image credits: black and white engraving in bottom left: "Maison tournante aérienne" (aerial rotating house) by Albert Robida, c.1883. All others public domain.A few months ago (in the middle of winter) a friend and I were driving through Prahran, a popular area of Friday-nightlife, and I saw a young girl in her twenties channelling Brassaï, dressed up in an extremely short white dress and black stayup stockings. Their tops were clearly visible, falling short of the hemline by several inches. She wore bouncing blonde curls and was very pretty, like a doll. “… but, on the street?” I said in doubtful astonishment to Gigi. I sincerely hope she was hiding a few moves up her sleeves in case she had to defend her honour, because she was hiding little else.

I bought my dress in Vietnam months ago, from a great boutique called Tuyet Lan Orchids. I was initially drawn to the heavily embroidered soft fabric, but was suspicious the dress was originally designed for much shorter people. The salesgirl assured me however, that leggings – which I didn’t have the heart to tell her I Just Don’t Do – would negate the brevity of the skirt.

For me this is just a saucy party dress, but I’ll keep it cute by wearing my frilled ‘modesty shorts’ underneath and my high, high red heels on my feet. Good for stomping on impertinent toes.

Twin Takes on Tweed

Two looks that capture the spirit of the Thirties and Forties but with a twist: on the left a demure kick of pleats for a lady; on the right, cuffed mannish trousers for former tomboys who like to stride through the world.

I gathered together a selection of tweed garments: a jacket found in a vintage boutique in Bega, NSW, many years ago; a vintage skirt bought from an English girl at Camberwell Market years later; a pair of trousers found in a local op shop. Ditto the fedora and bag, and the Aldo Fanta-flavoured platforms I found on eBay during a mission to find brightly hued shoes.

I had in mind the heroine from Hitchcock’s 1938 film The Lady Vanishes, in which trains, mysterious disappearances and romance feature. And there’s plenty of tweed to be seen in it too!

As for Tweedledum and Tweedledee, they may or may not have been twins, but I think my incarnations of them complement each other nicely.

A Happiness of Hats

In celebration of the glorious Melbourne Cup – the ‘race that stops a nation’ – I bring you four hats. Or, to employ the collective noun I have just created: a happiness of hats.

At A: a velvet 40s toque, complete with two flowers just above each ear. It makes me feel like a mini Minnie Mouse.

At happiness: a 20s style (alas not an original, I fear, as it is in too good condition) sequinned cap trimmed with a black chiffon rose.

…a navy wool hat fluttering with a light blue ostrich feather and ruined net dates from the 1910s.

At of: this, I think, is a 50s pillbox wrapped in silver and white chiffon. It is one of the very first vintage hats I bought for two or three dollars from a local op shop.

At hats: a navy wool peaked hat fluttering with a light blue ostrich feather and ruined net dates from the 1910s. The ostrich neckpiece was made nearly a hundred years later by myself and tickles my neck.

Hmm, a fortuitous turn of phrase. I think I might go have a flutter tomorrow.

À la Nancy Cunard

Well, after doing this shoot, all I can say is that armfuls of bangles are as inhibiting as enormous chopines must have been in the seventeenth century. I practically needed a servant to carry my arms about.

I have always greatly admired Cecil Beaton’s work; 1920s style in general; and Beaton’s portrait of Nancy Cunard in particular (below), her arms bristling with bangles from wrist to elbow.

However, before I could set this shoot up in homage, I had to increase my own collection of bangles in variety as well as number. I had the opportunity to expand it when in Vietnam earlier this year, and bought several wooden bangles, as well as four jade ones: green, purple, black – and finally a red bangle (the most expensive) carved with a fantastic cornucopia of dragons, vines and flowers.

None of them went up to my elbow like Nancy’s unfortunately. Did they make them especially large in the Twenties, or did women have really fat arms? Or is Nancy modelling home furnishings, or perhaps bits of sawn-off piping? I shall always wonder…

Check out the Out-takes & Extras gallery for more pics.
See more of Cecil Beaton's images here.

The Russian Princess (an excerpt)

Chapter 1

Bringing a tankard of ale to the coachman who was waiting impatiently, the tapboy glanced curiously at the window of the opulent carriage. Just as he did so, a gloved hand appeared between the folds of lace, and pushed the curtain aside. A white face peered out. Not white from fear, Ned realised immediately, but naturally fair – so pale that he could almost fancy the young woman was a ghost. Dark curls peeped out from a straw bonnet, and her shawl swirled with strange colours and patterns he’d not seen on a lady of quality before. Her eyes appeared to be enormous as they darted about curiously, taking in her surroundings.

The yard of The White Hart was nothing out of the common way; Ned knew that. There was not much to look at indeed, unless she enjoyed the sight of the ostlers scurrying about as they exchanged the horses. She must have agreed with him, for her hand began to lower the curtain – but not before her eyes fell on Ned, standing transfixed, while the coachman slowly downed his refreshment. Her chin lifted haughtily at Ned’s impertinent stare, and then the lace curtain abruptly fell.

“Here, lad! Take the cup! What are you staring at?”

Ned was shaken out of his trance, and embarrassed, he lifted his tray so that the coachman could relinquish his tankard. But curiosity got the better of him, and he asked boldly, “Who is she?”

“Not for the likes of you, lad!” the coachman snorted in amusement as he lifted the reins. “She’s a Russian Princess, and we’re off to London. You’ll not be seeing her again!”

Left standing in a cloud of dust, Ned gazed after the carriage as it bowled out of the yard, through the gates and on down the London road.

~

For a real Regency romance, pick up a Georgette Heyer book today! The Toll-Gate is one of my favourites: romance and adventure on the high-road rolled into one. Here's what Queen Magazine had to say about it back in 1971 when this edition was printed:

‘Georgette Heyer is famous for her delightful Regency romances, and there is a modern sophistication about her handling of them that makes them irresistible. She has innumerable admirers already, but there must still be some who only wait to be awakened to her spell. Let them wait no longer before joining the happy circle of her readers.’