Gold for Iron

With curves and curlicues like delicate traceries of black ink, Berlin ironwork jewellery is both pretty and dark with gothic edge.

This dramatic style came into being in the early nineteenth century, and was made by the Royal Prussian Iron Foundry from 1804. Intricate panels of scrollwork, foliage, Classical medallions and cameos, and the aforementioned Gothic designs were cast in very fine sand. These lacy pieces were then linked together and lacquered black (which helped to prevent rust).

During the Prussian War of Liberation in 1812–14, ladies were encouraged to give their gold ornaments to the war effort, and in exchange, were given iron. Some women had their pieces inscribed with “I gave gold for iron”. This unromantic metal was then melted down and cast into these filigree fancies. Such was the high quality of both design and casting that these pieces were in fact expensive, in spite of being made from base metal. Few original pieces have survived however, because of the brittleness of the iron and its susceptibility to rust.

(Left to right) Tiara, c1900, from barbaraanneshaircombblog.com; haircomb, 1820s, at the V&A Museum, London, from differentlondon.blogspot.com; drop earrings c1830, from www.graysantiques.com; a pair of bracelets (able to be linked together and worn as a choker), c1830, from www.georgianjewelry.com.

My enormous cross earrings are certainly not original (nor high quality), but neither are they lightweights, tiring out my earlobes. I suspect that the women wearing the originals a couple hundred years ago were made of sterner stuff than me. They were quite used to wearing metres of heavy fabric as well as umpteen petticoats, corsets, girdles, bustles – a little bit of iron clasped around their necks or wrists was not going to hold them back!

Sparkles For a Song

I can’t resist sparkly things. They catch my eye wherever I go, and like a magpie I’ll snatch them up (if the price tag meets my approval).

Every one of these brooches above was found in a charity shop, vintage boutique, or on eBay, for the price of a song. I don’t think I paid any more than US$15 for any of them, and a good deal less for some.

Sundry sparkly bags, bowties and pins, from Shag.Why do women love jewels, I wondered? Of course, in the past men have worn jewellery as often; both sexes for reasons of status, artistic and emotional expression. One article I found online proposed that women are avaricious souls who demand diamonds as proof of love from their men. It is probably true of some women, but I felt a bit insulted. I’m just as happy with my pretty fakes.

This necklace from Shag reminds me of Nicole Kidman’s necklace in ’Moulin Rouge‘.More pleasing to me were these poetic gems I unearthed. I confess I don’t actually wear my brooches very often – I mainly like to look at them, at their bright colours, so pretty when the light catches them and turns them into flame.

But these vintage trifles aren’t quite big enough for me. The ones that really make me gasp are these modern dazzlers regularly displayed in the front window of Shag, on Chapel St in Windsor. They are positively enormous, jaw dropping – and I am convinced go for nothing less than an operetta.

From Suffragettes to Fashionistas

What is the everlasting appeal of the 19^th century style boot? Tight around the lower foot with a myriad of buttons or lacing, they cover up that part of the female form that was back then considered particularly erotic: the ankle. In effect, these boots actually enhanced and drew attention to this scandalous portion of the anatomy.

Boots – apart from the equestrian boot – only formed daily wear for the nonworking woman in the 1830s; but by the 1850s, mass production made them affordable to all. They became a symbol of emancipation, and at the turn of the 20^th century, suffragettes were marching through the streets in them.

Of course boots for us are now simply a question of individual preference and come in every imaginable style and colour. In my 20s I decided that a pair of knee-high, black leather lace-ups were an imperative addition to a modern wardrobe. Mine are so modern that they actually do up with a zip at the side, but my eldest sister Blossom remembers hers in the 70s actually laced up. You couldn’t leave anywhere in a hurry.

…I do find them [Victorian style ankle boots] delightfully quaint, like something out of a storybook.

I’m not a man, and don’t think of Victorian style ankle boots as particularly erotic, but I do find them delightfully quaint, like something out of a storybook. The two-tone pair in the picture above is by Swear London. The uppers are made from a distressed denim, with the caps from striped red and white canvas.

There are purely decorative denim buttons on the outside of the ankle. I remember seeing them in the window of a boutique in groovy Greville St, and falling in love with them one winter before I finally succumbed, and bought them (on sale!) in the spring.

Caps, incidentally, were originally used to make flimsy, earliest version of boots more practical for outdoor wear; the boots were referred to as being ‘galoshed’.  

Check out the antique examples below, from Shoes: A celebration of Pumps, Sandals, Slippers & More by Linda O’Keefe. Another great resource: All About Shoes, from the Bata Shoe Museum in Canada.

(Left) Cutouts playfully expose colourful stockings; (right) more functional walking boots for colder weather.

(Left) Tight lacing had the opposite effect from that which was intended; (right) pearl and silver buttons fasten lime-green kid.

(Left) Ornate boots worn by opera goers; (right) summer walking boots of silk fabric and metallic thread.

1930s Prints

When I first bought this Cloud Beach label wrap dress I was thinking of the 1930s. Not at all because of the shape or cut, but rather the geometric print. The sturdy cotton fabric made me imagine hot Australian summers of years long past in the Depression era. The dress was made for a hard-working country girl, and she’d be wearing a scarf over her hair, to protect it from the heat and dust of the bush.

But then I found this vintage hat last week: ‘A Calvert Model’ by Frank S. Tisdale. I love the curled brim, and the moth-eaten organza ribbon simply adds some verisimilitude to my bucolic fantasy.

So here they are together, set against the backdrop of the Murray River in Albury, NSW.

Below are some fabric samples (original and reproduction) as well as vintage sewing patterns of the 1930s – quaint in themselves.

(Left) Fabric samples from fabrics.net; (centre) pattern from hookedonvintage.com; (right, top and bottom) reproduction fabrics from sugar-shack.ca.

A Hat Makeover

Whilst dusting off my hatboxes months ago, I discovered quite a number of hats that were past due for the dustbin. This was one
of them.

It was the trimming that offended me most; making the hat look like something a dowager duchess would wear. The silhouette bothered me also, with its high crown and narrow brim – so early Nineties. In spite of this, it vaguely reminded me of the hat Audrey Hepburn wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, with a length of cream silk encircling its crown. That couldn’t be bad.

…the hat looked like something a dowager duchess would wear.

I decided to rip off the faux hydrangea and raffia that so displeased me and see what I could contrive.

Several staples and shreds of raffia later, I held the denuded headgear in my hand. A marked improvement already. I whipped a lace-embroidered cream scarf into action and surveyed the result. A reasonable facsimile, I decided.

Compare my before and after to Audrey’s:

(Left) Audrey with Rex Harrison in ‘My Fair Lady’; (right) with George Peppard in ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’.Still, made-over or not, I knew I would not wear it. The hat was destined for charity; a bit like Eliza Doolittle. Perhaps someone else would fall in love with it.