Pink is for Nostalgia

Everything that goes around comes around again. We’ve heard that refrain applied to fashion before. And you know how they say you hate the fashions of the decade you were spent your formative years in? I was a teen in the 80s, and although I have a few fond (and amused) memories I believe it really was ‘the decade that style forgot’. I don’t know who coined that phrase, but it is particularly apt for the brash 80s.

On the other hand, I was a kidlet in the 70s, and look back on those years through rose-coloured glasses. (Pink is the colour of nostalgia.) Of course, the clothes I wore back then were quite different to the vintage 70s garments I own now. A few years ago I even bought a pair of vintage 70s rose-coloured sunglasses with leopard-print frames!

… back in the 70s, my coat was called the ‘Zhivago’ coat (after the famous Russian book of course).

The suede and rabbit fur coat I am wearing in these photos is one of my favourite winter coats. It is vintage 1970s, by old Australian label Stephen Dattner.

A couple of weeks ago I was travelling home by tram very late on a Saturday night after a party. I had boarded the tram, and when I had sat down, a late middle-aged lady addressed me, informing me that back in the 70s, my coat was called the ‘Zhivago’ coat (after the famous Russian book of course). The woman knew this because she had owned one, in tomato red suede and trimmed with black fur. She only had a single tier of fur along the bottom however.

How wonderful to meet someone so dubiously on public transport, and learn such a fascinating tidbit! I told her that I had come upon the coat in a charity shop for only $45 – she was hugely impressed by that price and told me I had a bargain (which I certainly knew already), for the coat had cost hundreds of dollars new. Taking into account inflation rates, that would translate to several thousand dollars at today’s prices.

The original lining was completely shot, and my sister Blossom very generously and expertly replaced it with a plum coloured satin as a birthday present one year. My new acquaintance and I proceeded to talk non-stop about vintage fashion for the next 30–40 minutes as we waited for our tram transfer at the interchange. It transpired this lady had worked in the vintage fashion industry for decades, and had begun her career in a magazine start-up with the Murdochs. Fancy! She knew all the Melbourne dealers, and collected vintage clothing herself, as well as assisting at vintage fairs with styling advice and the like. When I said goodbye to her she urged me to say hello next time I saw her – she had already noticed me before because of my outfits, which was very flattering.

My red bag is also 70s, and though the floppy wool felt hat (Milana), red and purple knit top (Sonia Rykiel) and dusky pink, wide-legged velvet pants (Asos) are all new, they are certainly bathing in the rosy glow of the 1970s.

The Flapper By Day

Celebrating the Roaring Twenties in a Special Series

Most people today associate beaded and fringed evening gowns accompanied by the ubiquitous headband and cigarette holder with the quintessential flapper look. But this is not what women wore in the 1920s during the day.

With the emancipation of women and the rise of designers like Coco Chanel and Jean Patou, women’s clothing became simpler and more relaxed in the 1920s. While knit fabrics (pioneered by Chanel who famously donned a long jersey sweater on the Normandy beach as early as 1913) were popular for sports or resortwear, day dresses were more formal and constructed from woven fabrics.

Black, white and floral dresses. Click the image and jump through to a great story on recreating the 20s daywear look, at Style High ClubThese flappers wear their white dresses with knits and black stockings. Purchase the photo at Etsy store Ephemera Obscura.The familiar elongated garment shape of the 1920s carried through from day to evening, and dresses were cut on very simple lines. These straight tubes were sewn at shoulder and at the sides, making them ideal for easy home construction. Always dropwaisted, and often featuring scoop or low V-necklines, town dresses usually had sleeves of varying lengths – from cap to three-quarter to wrist.

A very simple black dress with sash. Purchase the original photo from Acanthe, on Etsy.Another very simple day dress, in white with a black sash. (Original photo sold on eBay.) Daytime Modes for Summer, Simplicity Patterns advertisement, 1920s. Note the spelling of pleats as ‘plaits’! Print sold on eBay by art.deco.diva. Click image for larger version.The trademark details of 1920s dresses include fluid fabrics, pleating, layering, and geometric patterns. They were often designed to look like a separate top and skirt, with a sash or other detail round the middle. Matching scarves were often worn with them. It was not until 1927–28 that dresses reached their shortest length, with hemlines sometimes rising above the knee. Black was very popular for day, and colours in a more muted tonal range.

Of course no outfit was complete without the cloche (proof that one’s hair was cut fashionably short), high-shine stockings, low-heeled bar shoes, and a long necklace. Short necklaces were matched with knee-length dresses, and the very long opera length necklace was worn with longer dresses.

Styling the Look

My twenties-style outfit – very much in keeping with the flapper spirit – is actually made up of a separate top and skirt, but I’m so pleased with how well they match. The black and cream blouse is a souvenir from Vietnam (as are most of the bangles), and the black wool skirt with its cream silk insert is by Melbourne designer Obüs, from many seasons ago. The wool hat trimmed with grosgrain ribbon is original 1920s, and was in fact my very first vintage hat purchase. The sunglasses (since broken) are vintage 1980s. 

Scroll down for more vintage 1920s dresses, all available to purchase on Etsy (as at publication date). Click images to jump through to individual stores.  

Ivory silk dress with peach collar and cuffsBeautifully draped cinnamon brown silk crêpe de chine dress with amazing bow detail at drop waistExquisitely detailed chocolate brown silk afternoon dress, featuring bishop sleevesAmazing geometric design and cinnabar ring in the neckline make this dress stand out – note the separate top and skirt appearanceLilac jacquard dress features unusual fluttering details on sleeves, matching the sash and ‘swag’ dropping from the vee neck

The Most Beautiful Coat in the World

A Fashion Emergency

Late last Wednesday evening on my commute home, a sartorial tragedy occurred. The last closure on my vintage 70s suede and rabbit fur coat tore from its moorings. Devastated, but preserving a remarkably calm front in the freezing conditions of a Melbourne winter’s night, I examined the mutilated coat. My knees would be cold on the way home, but the damage could be repaired. I breathed a sigh of relief.

The next evening I assembled the tools I would require in the reparation of this fashion emergency: needle, thread, scissors … and a pair of tweezers to retrieve the recalcitrant strip of leather that kept trying to escape its foundations even as it was being sewn back into place.

Fortunately I was able to access the reverse side of the leather as the lining (painstakingly replaced my lovely and charming adored sister Blossom several years ago as a birthday present pour moi) was left open at the base. Let me state at the outset: I am not a seamstress. I loathe needles and thread, and only reluctantly assume the rôle of mender when it is thrust upon me in direst circumstance.

The needle is not made for sewing leather. It’s tough to push through the hide, and my fingers hurt. Bits of fur are caught up in the slit. The tab keeps slipping from my grasp. But intrepidly, I sew on until I am finished. My repair is rudimentary and would probably amuse said lovely sister, but no one will ever see it as it’s on the inside of the coat (ahem). I give the closure a tug, and the stitching is firm.

a stitch in time saves nine and all that jazz …

And voila! The coat is repaired and fit for a princess to wear! In passing I notice that the closure above is loose by a few threads and ought to be reattached (a stitch in time saves nine and all that jazz), but one fit of industry is certainly enough for a single evening and was exhausting for my nerves besides. I must rest from my labours.

It was all worth it though. This coat is unutterably fabulous, and friends and strangers in the street constantly accost me to exclaim and marvel and pat me. I fear however, that it is one of those infamous garments that wears me, rather than the other way around. But I don’t care, I’m persuaded it’s the most beautiful coat in the world and I will love it forever. Or until it falls completely apart.

Parure Brilliance

‘Parure’ is not a term that one hears often these days anywhere, except perhaps whispered dulcetly in suitably hushed and reverential tones into the ear of some duchess clandestinely visiting exclusive purveyors of very expensive jewellery. Even when the word ‘parure’ was bandied about by the lips of the vulgar masses, it was only in reference to the fantastic adornments bedecking royalty and aristocrats.

In common parlance, a parure is a set of matching jewellery. The word comes from old French pareure, from parer to prepare, or adorn, and was first used in the eighteenth century. The craftsmen under the Sun King, Louis XIV, were credited with the first parure creations; diamonds, often paired with silver, were popular then. Members of court would vie with one another to create the most elaborate and astonishing sets, and to increase their status. Napoleon, for all his fledgling socialism, adored adorning his wives with brilliants (an old-fashioned word for diamonds, and a style of gem-cutting today). At least he shared his wealth with both his wives.

Napoleon’s sister Princess Pauline Borghese wears a parure of engraved gems with the diamonds of the belt and bandeau arranged in Greek key design. (Detail of a portrait by Robert Lefèvre.)Of course, a parure is more than merely a set of matching jewels, and the most fantastic sets were reserved for royalty and the wealthy. A parure was considered an essential part of a society woman’s wardrobe, and would define her status and political power. A set could include an extraordinary quantity of items, such as a necklace, comb, tiara, diadem (more like a crown, and bigger and better than a tiara), bandeau (a narrow band worn around the hair to hold it in position), a pair of bracelets, pins, rings, drop earrings or cluster stud earrings, a brooch, and a belt clasp that might be worn over a fine dress. Only.

Opaline paste jewellery set in silver, including girandole earrings, necklace and buttons, probably French, c. 1760. The ‘opals’ are made by laying a pink foil behind milky blue glass.A French parure of gold, cornelian and seed pearls, comprising a comb, necklace, pair of bracelets, earrings, two pins and two rings. In its completeness it is a rare survival from the years of the First Empire.And even more interestingly, a parure was more than the sum of its parts: some necklaces could be disassembled into smaller items such as bracelets, pendants, and hair ornaments or brooches with clever components and locking systems. A bit like a posh mix ‘n’ match.

… a parure was more than the sum of its parts: some necklaces could be disassembled into smaller items …

The mind boggles at the vision conjured up, and the only jewels I have seen in modern times to rival such a litany are the parures made for brides in the gold souqs of Dubai, which are unutterably jaw-dropping – and probably literally knee-buckling from sheer weightiness.

A fantasy of pearls, turquoise and gold I photographed in the gold souqs of Dubai in 2008.My very humble vintage rhinestone parure consists of 1940s necklace, earrings, tiara and bracelet, and a 1950s ring. All were collected at different times; the necklace and earrings I bought as a set when I was in my teens, from a store called The Jazz Garter (what an evocative name!) in Sydney. They were probably my very first real vintage purchases – as opposed to charity shop garments. Even back then I had brilliant taste. 

~

Jewellery images from Jewelry – From Antiquity to the Present by Clare Phillips (Thames & Hudson, 1996), and additional information courtesy of Wikipedia.

Big Hats for Little People

I never imagined this red velvet 1920s hat would be so versatile when I bought it. It’s a cloche. It’s a Phrygian cap. It’s a gnome’s sugarloaf. And I don’t mean a miniature sweetbread baked by apple-cheeked little girl gnomes – the sugarloaf is anything but petite.

A sugarloaf is simply a pointed hat, and such headwear has been worn by a wide variety of cultures – including the gnomic of course – throughout history. It has landed atop the heads of whirling dervishes, been a travelling cap in Ancient Greece, a 15th century Burgundian noblewoman’s headdress of choice, a samurai’s ceremonial hat, the chapeaux of aristocratic kazaori eboshi, a dunce cap (because it stimulated learning in the 14th century), and the anointed, pointed sugarloaf of many a religious figure, from popes to Ottoman Janissaries.

And today it’s a gnome’s hat. How appropriate that it came from a milliner in Convent Garden.

In my research on girl gnomes I came across innumerable grotesqueries and countless kitsch tchotchkes, so here I am redressing the balance and shooting for cute. The silk embroidered blouse is vintage 1940s; the hat and apron are both relics of the 1920s; the 90s taffeta skirt comes out of my costume box (finally it has a use!); and the tooled red leather slippers are souvenirs I bought in Morocco. Cute, and just a little bit sweet.