A Feather in Her Cap

Jane Lambert sinamay headpiece with clipped turkey feather trimRecently I wrote a story about the true origins of the fascinator, which has in the last decade or so been a popular substitute for a ‘proper’ hat at Melbourne’s Spring Racing Carnival.

I have generally been quite vocal about how much I hate fascinators, but to be fair, it is the cheap, common variety that I dislike so intensely – the ones that all look the same, and do not display the wit and imagination of a dedicated and passionate milliner.

Nerida Winter horsehair and silk organza bow headpieceI thought I’d show you some I’ve had hiding up my sleeve for quite a few years: I scanned these tearsheets in 2009 and never posted them. Most of these are fascinators – two are what I would define as actual hats – and I find them quite tolerable! Some I like more than others, these first two for example that do show wit: feathers shaped into arrows (it reminds me of William Tell), and horsehair fanned out like a real – albeit crazy – hairstyle. All of them however feature feathers in some form.

The photographer was Troy House, and the pages come from Australian Harper’s Bazaar, circa 2009.

H’ATELIER parisisal pillbox with faux pearl trimNeil Grigg opal-finished cock feather tiny topper crown hatNeil Grigg sinamay cocktail hat with pleated crinveil and sinamay, satin and quill trimNerida Winter parisisal hat with net and quill trim

Fashion Alchemy

My minimalist side traditionally abjures prints and patterns, but my maximalist side squealed with delight when I flipped a page in a reference book and my eyes beheld this marvel of Forties novelty. Fluffy lambs gambolling in a field! Clouds (also fluffy) and birds! A cloud-shaped appliqué collar – scalloped sleeves! The wonders of this dress seem as endless as the horizon.

What seeming novelty arose from wartime rationing. ‘The United States Wartime Protection Board, in 1943, imposed various restrictions on clothing manufacture and the use of fabric considered essential for the war effort.’ All silk was certainly verboten, as it was used to make parachutes. Fancy trims were restricted too, and sequins and embroidery were banned (I wonder if that applied to the home seamstress recycling second hand items even then?); and glass beads, formerly imported from imported Czechoslovakia, were also unavailable.

This 1945 dress by Gilbert Adrian (1903–1959) instead utilises perspective in an imaginative print, rather than the more usual repeat pattern, and is inspired by Surrealism. The follow-through in the detailing on sleeve and collar is particularly lovely.

The fabric is rayon acetate – remember, rayon is made from purified cellulose, or plant fibre, so though it must go through a virtually alchemical process to be transmuted into fabric, it is natural in origin and so not as repulsive as say, polyester.

What is wonderful is that out of such severe restrictions, Adrian managed to produce fashion gold. One could only dream of coming upon this in a thrift store!

From Fashion and Textiles in the International Collections of the National Gallery of Victoria, by Robyn Healy, National Gallery of Victoria, 2003.

Sandal Scandal

Last summer I had to regretfully throw out some beloved sandals because I had worn them to death, but at least I could reflect that they had served me long and well. They were so worn out they couldn’t possibly be donated to charity – they went straight into the bin.

But what makes someone get rid of a perfectly good pair of designer sandals that they had just had re-heeled? A temporary leave of sanity? I cannot else answer this question.

I spotted (pun not intended) these Gorman chocolate brown and cream pony-hair sandals in a Salvos Store three weeks ago. Admittedly they are a size too big for me, but done up on the tightest hole they are wearable – not to mention very cute on! They are in excellent condition, with only one bit of faint wear along the edge of one vamp, and the heels had been completely replaced. (I must own I have cleaned up the insoles in Photoshop for the picture, but they also are not too bad.)

When I showed these to one of my friends, her jaw dropped slightly as I told her I paid $15 for them. “You got a bargain,” she told me, having tried them on new in Gorman. “They were very expensive.” That information does not surprise me. I normally don’t even bother entering the portals of this famous Australian designer store, for I can’t afford to shop there myself (neither can my friend – she was just in there admiring, but I prefer not to torture myself in such a needless fashion).

How to Clean Second Hand Shoes

A lot of websites will tell you to clean with rubbing alcohol, which is iso-propyl alcohol, and can be difficult to find in Australia. Methylated spirits (ethanol, or denatured alcohol) are perfectly adequate for the job. My sandals, being open and not much worn, did not need more than a wipe out with the methylated spirits.

For detailed information on how to deal with problem shoes (sneakers, or closed, smelly shoes), visit Wikihow.

Photo: This month

Hold Onto Your Hats

It’s coming up to Spring Racing Season! For hat-lovers such as myself, this season can be a real joy, seeing women everywhere accessorising their heads, a sadly unusual practice these days.

The only real pity is that so many of them are common and cheap fascinators, excuses for real hats: bits of sinnamay with a fake gerbera or hibiscus attached willy-nilly, quills bobbing about like so many antenna, netting, and possibly sequins or glitter thrown in for good measure. Don’t overdo it like that! A little goes a long way.

Definition of a Fascinator

You may be wondering, what is the difference between a hat and a fascinator?

‘A fascinator hat is a small ornamental headpiece that fits on the head using an Alice-band-type base or headband or even a small comb. It is always lightweight and usually features feathers, beads or flowers. [V is for Vintage]

These pink straw headpieces are from 2013, and it was those dashing Schiaparelli pink stripes that caught my eye when I passed them in a department store. But are these fascinators? While they are attached to the head with Alice bands, in my mind their sculptural quality helps steer them away from bogan territory.

Potentially only the 1862 headdress on the left fits the description of a Victorian fascinator.This certainly fits the description of a Victorian fascinator: a lace shawl attached to the head

True Origin of the Fascinator

The original fascinator refers to an item worn in the last decades of the 19th century: ‘a lace or crocheted head shawl secured to the crown or hairline that drapes down over the back of the head as far – or even farther – than the shoulders. These fascinators added a bit of seductive mystery to decorous Victorian fashion.

'By the 1930s, the term applied to a lacy hood – rather like a fussy balaclava – and soon after the term disappeared from use.’ [Encyclopædia Britannica]

Isn’t that fascinating? I must say though, a shawl attached to my head is even more unappealing to me than today’s ubiquitous sinnamay creations. I think I’ll just stick to my vintage hats!

A black lace 1930s fascinatorCrocheted fascinator from 1944 (you too can knit one if you click the image link).

Prêt-a-Porter

Over two years ago, one blissful Saturday afternoon I was shopping in a Sacred Heart Opportunity Shop and unexpectedly hit the jackpot. Against the rules, I had taken so many promising garments into the change room (only four were ostensibly allowed) and was frantically shedding clothing as speedily as possible in case there were impatient customers waiting outside and champing at the bit.

One of the items I was excited to find was this silk pleated dress by Parisian brand Suncoo. (At least the label boldly states Paris.) It had never been worn, for the label was still dangling attached. It was priced at a pittance, a mere $10. I adored the colour, and I adored the flouncing pleats, the pin tucking, the details on the cuffs – everything about this dress I adored! I wore hearts for eyes. That’s probably why I didn’t notice one important detail …

THE ANTI-THEFT SECURITY DEVICE WAS STILL ATTACHED AT THE WAIST.

I did not notice this frivolous circumstance until the day I desired to wear it to work for the first time. There it was, a little innocuous white bowling-pin-shaped receptacle of indelible ink obstinately attached. I wore something else.

Some time passed before it occurred to me that the lovely and clever ladies and gentlemen of the Wardrobe department at work might be able to assist in ridding me of this embarrassment. I took it with me one day and sheepishly explained the situation while they grinned at me. Another colleague walked past at that moment and scoffed at my protestations of innocence.

The learned costumiers scratched their heads and confessed they had never seen this particular style of device before. So probably it was from France, and I was forced to wonder whether the original owner had liberated the dress from a store (they are excessively fond of liberté in gay Paree, after all). Wardrobe declared confidently, “Leave it with us.”

Happily for me, one brilliant seamstress had the idea to unpick the stitches at the waist, ease off the device, and then sew the seams back together. It was lucky the device was attached to a seam, for miraculously this shifty operation worked! Voila! they said triumphantly.

But the story does not end here. I took the dress home, and the next time I decided to wear it, I discovered that some of the stitching on the back had torn, and the concertina effect was ruined. What next! I despaired, and I repaired the stitches.

What next! I despaired, and I repaired the stitches.

What next indeed … Pleased, a couple of years later I finally got around to photographing the dress in order to write this story, and after the shoot as I was lifting it over my head, what should I do but smear scarlet lipstick on the front?! Hélas! What a series of unfortunate events! Was the dress hand-washable? Would I ruin the pleats (as I have done before) by willy-nilly ignoring a ‘dry clean only’ instruction?

Hélas! What a series of unfortunate events!

But the dress was indeed hand-washable. After applying an oil-free make-up removing tissue to the stain, removing as much as possible, and leaving a large oval-shaped mark on the panel of buttons, I hopefully washed the dress. (This useful tip I gleaned from a make-up artist once upon a time.) I cringed a little as I immersed it into water.

But hey presto! The stain came out, the pleats did not, and finally, finally, the dress is prêt-a-porter!

Photos: February 2016