Over at Hilles

Now that’s a hat!

Last week I posted a story about Blow by Blow, the biography on Isabella Blow, co-written by her husband, Detmar Blow and Tom Sykes. Reading the book, there was a reference to a photoshoot at Hilles, the home the couple shared: Isabella wore clothes by Alexander McQueen, a recent discovery. I remembered reading the story in British Vogue (Nov 1992), thinking what a grand and glamorous life the couple must lead. The other day I came across it in one of my tearsheet books while looking for a fashion editorial on Christmas.

So here’s the story of a lovely lady … click on the thumbnails for larger versions you can read.

Airing the Dirty Linen

Quite a while ago I wrote a story about the stinky shoes (coincidentally, also red and shiny – see previous post). Now, unexpectedly, I find myself writing a story about the stinky skirt. This one above. It’s so cute with its polka-dots and denim-look pleats that it’s hard to believe, isn’t it?

I bought it on Etsy. I admired it for a long time, until I finally ceased resisting its allure and clicked ‘add to basket’. Then I waited for Australia Post to deliver it to me. When I eagerly ripped open the package and the skirt tumbled out, an over-powering stench reached my nostrils.

I wasn’t too worried at first. I thought, “Never mind, a good wash will take care of that evil smell.” No. The vintage 80s skirt is made of rayon and acetate and must be dry-cleaned only. Bother. I didn’t know if dry-cleaning would have any effect, so before I went to the expense, I decided to air the skirt.

When I eagerly ripped open the package … an over-powering stench reached my nostrils.

After a day of hanging in the shade, the skirt smelled just as bad as before. I couldn’t decide quite what was the origin of the odour. Damp? Mothballs? Lengthy storage? Dead body? I left the skirt out on the line, periodically rescuing it from the intermittent pre-Christmas rain. (It actually got a little wet during Christmas Day’s thunderstorms – I’d left it hanging by an open window. Fortunately the rayon content was not such that the skirt shrivelled.)

On about the fourth day I took the drastic step of hanging it out in the glare of the full sun, although I took the precaution of turning it inside out to prevent fading. In fact, it was a week before the smell dissipated. But huzzah! I can wear it now!

Serendipitously, I discovered what caused the stench. On Boxing Day I was sorting out bags of my own old clothes I had stored in the garage. Most of them were fine, but from one bag emanated the same smell that was in the skirt. When I got to the bottom of it, I found water had seeped into it, and some of the items at the bottom were literally growing mouldy. Ugh! All the clothes in the bag were impregnated with the unpleasant smell, but fortunately that was remedied with a regular wash cycle.

On to the next sartorial adventure!

Princess Finds Lump of Coal in Stocking!

Dorothy Shoes: Side Elevation :: Watts // Big Up // No flashCan you believe it? I almost literally found a lump of coal in my stocking on Christmas morning. Everything was arranged and I was ready to go: the last item on the agenda was to put on my new glittery red Dorothy shoes.

I crammed my right foot in … and in one of those earth-shattering filmic moments was pulled up short. Something was not right. Had I switched places overnight with Cinderella’s sister? I was disbelieving for a moment and turned the shoe over. It was in fact the wrong size.

I turned the left over. It was also the wrong size.

Impotent rage seethed within me. On Thursday I had tried on my usual size, but found the shoes were a little short in length for me, and I asked the salesgirl for the next size up. She obliged, and asked me if they were better. “Much better,” I told her happily.

She returned a few minutes later and asked automatically, “Are you going to think about it?”

“No, I’m going to take them.”

She seemed surprised. Perhaps her usual clientele were not usually so decisive. But: Red. Glitter. Dorothy. Magic could happen in those shoes. How could I possibly say no?

Dorothy Shoes: Rear View :: Watts // BIg Up // No flash

Magic could happen in those shoes. How could I possibly say no? … Magic did happen. Black magic. 

Magic did happen. Black magic. That witch masquerading as my fairy godmother (to mix fairytales) pulled a switcheroo, and sold me the smaller shoes.

I wore them anyway, and beamed at the railway turnstile attendant’s grandiose compliments as I bravely hobbled through. Later on I accepted my family’s compliments through gritted teeth, and a couple of hours later the shoes were off. Fortunately I had taken a spare pair of shoes with me to travel home in.

The next day I cleaned up the shoes (not a mark on them) and promptly swapped the evil twins for a good pair. The moral of the tale: it’s Christmas, so don’t be naughty, be nice – at least until the salesgirl gives you the right pair of shoes. Then you can whack her upside the head with the wrong ones … what?

On the First Day of Christmas …

My true love gave to me this bird that he said was a partridge, in a miniature potted pear tree. “Ho, ho, ho,” I said to him, “very cute.”

When on Boxing Day he showed up with some caged rats-with-wings (yep, turtle-doves cover doves and pigeons too), and another partridge in a pear tree, I thought he was taking the joke a bit far. “I couldn’t find real turtle-doves,” he explained apologetically.

My apartment was becoming crowded and rather noisy, and as much as I was looking forward to day five, I was a bit worried about those four calling birds, not to mention the French hens (although I suppose we could eat those in the near future) …

Illustration of the Twelve Days of Christmas, by Ilonka Karasz. Image from Black Eiffel.No, seriously, has anyone ever thought about the origins of this dusty old Christmas carol? I mean, if your true love brought you all those things, what would you be thinking? Uh huh, that he needed to be committed. (And I’m not talking about his devotion to you.)

The Twelve Days of Christmas are the festive days of Christmas beginning on the 25th of December, aka Christmastide, during which period you can eat as much as you like. Twelfth Night is on 5th January, culminating with another feast on the following day (as if you hadn’t eaten enough already) to celebrate Epiphany. (Hmm, this explains the origin of all those New Year’s resolutions.)

… if your true love brought you all those things, what would you be thinking?

As for the song … it was first published in English in 1780, although it may be French in origin, and much older. Wikipedia informs me that it possibly began as a Twelfth Night ‘memories-and-forfeits’ game, in which players repeated verses after a leader, and if anyone made a mistake they had to pay a penalty, such as offering up a kiss or sweet. You can just imagine the mayhem that would ensue if a particularly attractive person was playing.

Well, that’s a relief. I’m so glad to know that this song is not a record of the extravagance and folly of some lovelorn suitor of French nationality.

Merry Christmas, enjoy your day however you celebrate it and don’t eat too much. Remember you need to save yourself for January 6.

Christmas Stars

These dreams of grand dresses come to you from French Vogue (date unknown), photographed by Dominique Isserman. The setting is the magnificent Château de Maisons-Laffitte.

I really like how the Christmas aspect is so pared back: just a few baubles and garlands of tinsel here and there. There is such a beautiful, cool mood to these images – a quiet elegance. It is that which I find more attractive than the gowns themselves. The only one I could ever see myself wearing (if I was tall and slim enough!) is the divine gold lamé Thirties style dress. But who could pass up Yves Saint Laurent?

I have always admired Isserman’s photographs – they have such a dreamy, poetic mood. That has much to do here with the ambient lighting, the gracious lines and open space of the interior, as well as the soft focus lens and grainy texture. They’re restful to contemplate after facing the bedlam of city Christmas shoppers. If only we all had a French château to retreat to!

Looking at these pictures now makes me want to go and watch La Double Vie de Veronique, one of my all-time favourite films, and visual poetry from the Polish master Krzysztof Kieslowski.