FOR THE LOVE OF BALL GOWNS
In an age of comfort dressing and highstreet fashion, is the most extravagant and beautifully crafted of garments nearing extinction? By Kinvara Balfour.
In an age of comfort dressing, is the most extravagant and beautifully crafted of garments nearing extinction?
Whether in taffeta, silk, velvet or lace, how I yearn for the return of the ballgown. When I was young, everyone wore one. I spent many an evening sitting on my mother’s bed watching her get dolled up in one of her gowns: poufy, floor-length frocks in shades of turquoise, fuchsia pink, red, emerald green. As a debutante, she had worn many for her “coming out” during “the season”, an age-old British tradition in which daughters of the aristocracy and upper class were presented at court to the king and queen in London. This culminated in Queen Charlotte’s Ball, the greatest ballgown showdown of the year (long white gloves included), during which debutantes had to curtsey to a cake. As ridiculous as it sounds now, it looked wonderful then.
As I grew up, parties always called for a gown. At my father’s 40th birthday, a wonderful affair at Arundel Castle (seat of my late grandfather Miles, 17th Duke of Norfolk, and now my uncle, Edward, 18th Duke) I wore a navy-blue water silk number by Laura Ashley complete with large black tulle underskirt. Darting about the castle in this, aged 13, I felt grand, elegant, a woman. I remember the swish of the fabric at my feet as I walked upon the centuries-old wooden floor in the Barons’ Hall. I remember the space I took up when sitting on the sofa in the Drawing Room. I felt regal, not because of my surroundings, but because of the grand, luxurious structure upon my person. Like all clothes that fit – the body, the occasion – it made me want to honour myself and to succeed in the world.
In those days, the ballgown was more readily available. Yves Saint Laurent, Christian Dior, Oscar de la Renta, Valentino, Giorgio Armani, Givenchy, Emanuel Ungaro regularly presented them in their ready-to-wear collections. As I myself grew up, teenage parties in London called for “starter gowns”; there were plenty of shops on the trendy King’s Road that stocked a classic 80s frock for every age and every budget.
My first ever job – two weeks’ work experience at the age of 16 – was at Norman Hartnell, now sadly extinct save for a name above a door in memoriam of the famous designer who once worked there. In his heyday, Hartnell was couturier for Britain’s aristocracy and Queen Elizabeth II. I remember heading to the atelier on my first day feeling terrified. Upon arrival, I was asked to dust the ballgowns hanging on the shop floor. As I did so, I fell in love. When a gown was called for by the workroom or a customer, I would carry it to its lucky recipient as if it were a small child, with deep affection and the utmost care. One afternoon I was invited to try a few on, with the help of Nina the house (read: ancient) vendeuse,