I WANT FABRIC THAT SWOOSHES ACROSS THE FLOOR AS I GLIDE AND DANCE
who graciously took time out of her usual hourly activity of spraying Elnett hair spray on her chignon. It is then that I gained a deep respect for the construction of these gowns and the seamstresses who made them. I wanted each and every one.
My next role was at British designer Tomasz Starzewski, who created gowns for everyone from Princess Diana, Queen Rania of Jordan and Sarah, Duchess of York, to Shirley Bassey, Margaret Thatcher and Emma Fellowes (wife of Downton Abbey creator Julian). These women ordered several frocks per season and we – shop staff, design team and the diligent and highly skilled seamstresses who made each and every one by hand – felt great sadness when they left the premises, but also great joy in seeing them worn and documented in the glossy pages of Vogue and Hello!
One became attached to each dress that was born in and left the boutique. I developed a huge appreciation for the work involved in creating these architectural masterpieces. In time, I would find myself taking them – precious, heavy cargo – to New York, where I would arrive at Nan Kempner’s house for fittings (she was thin; she wore nude tights and not much else. She gave me tea. She showed me the Magritte paintings on her walls). During my time with Tomasz, I borrowed several of these gowns to wear to parties. I kept a few and have held on to them to this day, though sadly there is less call to wear them now. Fashion got simpler. Houses got smaller. Parties did too.
Which saddens me. I want ruffles, feathers. Boning. Structure. Big skirts. Fabric that swooshes across the floor as I glide and dance. My love for the ballgown isn’t an elitist trait. Ballgowns don’t have to be expensive. In a talk I recently hosted at London’s Victoria and Albert ( V& A) museum with British costume designer Sandy Powell, she described the famous blue dress she made for Lily James in Kenneth Branagh’s Cinderella as having “bits of polyester”, while the two gowns for the ugly sisters were made using a-pounda-metre fabric.
Cinderella aside, the ballgown is having a film and TV resurgence. I marvel at the sweeping, fabric-full ensembles in Outlander created by costume designer Terry Dresbach. Or the rich silk gowns in the controversial Versailles whose quality and quantity give the production a refreshingly luxurious over-glow. Created by Madeline Fontaine, they make me wish I lived in those days. In those vast, great halls, when women – and men (the greatest of peacocks in that era) – had the time (read: servants) and space to dress so elaborately.
In advance of another talk I gave at the V& A with my ballgown hero, fashion designer Zac Posen, whose fibre-optic creation for Claire Danes recently stole the show at the Met Gala this year, I tried on one of his huge ballgowns at ON Motcomb, a ballgown store in London. The dress was huge. Grand. Bold. Graceful. And its construction as impressive as its silhouette. Posen told us that its vast underskirt was not created with classic net and tulle but with a “fabric” more usually used for blood filtration made from plastic-coated, microscopic steel.
And now, not only do I want to bring back the ballgown for its magical references to the past but for those to the future. Zac Posen has given us a glimpse of the ballgown to come. And I, for one, want more. Long white gloves included.