Prom is practically an invention of the 1950s. That horribe ’80s trend for sparkling, ruffled, sequinned, taffeta prom dresses stems from the ’50s revival during the same period. The ‘traditional’ prom dress has a fitted bodice and a wide skirt, just like the 50s debutante dresses, with stiffened skirts several feet wide. And the whole thing really is quite old-fashioned, in a twee (but very nice) sort of way: a school dance attended with the accompaniment of a beau, wearing a fancy dress and nice shoes. That’s how I interpreted it, anyway.
“I like your sleeves. They’re real big.”
“Thank you. I made them myself.”
Although I delight in many epochs gone by (the 1770s, the 1910s; the 20s, 30s, 40s and much of the 60s), when it comes down to dressing myself I always seem to gravitate to the 50s. When I discovered the Vintage Vogue selection of patterns, I was understandably delighted.
For those not in the know, the Vintage Vogue range in the Vogue sewing catalogue reproduces original paper patterns from around the 30s to the 50s. The grand majority of their range, however, lies in day and evening dresses from the 1950s. This is understandable: after the rise of the couture houses after the war, the trade blossomed, and licensed paper patterns for middle-class home sewers were one of the options available to women wishing to copy Christian Dior’s New Look, making his delicious dresses available to less affluent women. (Who, after all, can really afford couture? The copying of the catwalk exists today of course – who would be so naive as to think that it didn’t? – only this time it’s not so much done by home sewers wishing to save a penny, but by high street chains looking to make a buck.)
I admit I was sad at leaving the elegance of the Art Deco period with the change of style – or perhaps regretful is more the word. I do love the 50s dresses, but I was hoping to create a dress which was a little more different from the norm – the norm of big swishy skirts. Any notion of tristesse was not long-lived, however: I know what suits me and what doesn’t, and so although the 50s dresses seemed simpler in my mind (being so used to the style, since that’s how I would choose to dress myself: a big swishy skirt with a tighter bodice) I was happy enough to be sticking with them.
Image from www.sewdirect.com
Anyway, I chose this pattern V2962, a gorgeous calf-length number with a full gathered skirt, fitted lower bodice, and gathered halter neck from 1957. The Vintage Vogue pattern range is quite expensive but I ordered it from www.sewdirect.com who often have 50% off sales. At the moment they’re offering 10% off, which is still not bad. Their postage is free, too. I really reccommend them, they always have excellent service and delivery was quite quick. Their range, also, is truly excellent. Oh and don’t forget that Butterick also do a range of reproduction vintage sewing patterns, it’s called Retro Butterick and is included towards the end of the Butterick Dresses section on the Sew Direct website. This range is noticeably cheaper, and still has a lot of very nice designs – though perhaps is a smaller range than the Vintage Vogue?
But back to the pattern. I don’t know why it stood out to me so much; it’s kind of classic 50s really, with the halter neck and everything. I planned on making the shorter version, and I also really liked their styling. Dainty gloves and curly hair? High heeled shoes and a fabric corsage? Hell yeah!
I spent ages and ages thinking about the colour: I did like the chartreuse which they suggested, but wasn’t so keen on wearing a chartreuse dress to the prom. (Quite frankly I wasn’t feeling brave enough.) Block colour is quite a hard thing as you have to consider connotations beyond the basic Do I like it? and important Does it suit me? For instance, though it may have been lovely I didn’t want to wear a black dress; nor did I want anything too bright as I felt that it would seem gaudy. I didn’t feel that red would really suit the style, and rich purples and blues didn’t feel summery enough.
I settled on an off-white cream type of colour in the sketch I worked up of it because it felt light, delicate and elegant, plus enabled me to wear the very classic black/white/red combination which so suits my complexion. I was actually very pleased with this sketch: as you can see, I had it all worked out. I’d shorten the dress to the knee, and use a lightweight gauzy cloth. I’d wear elbow-length black gloves with a black silk clutch I already owned, and a chunky double-stranded bracelet over the glove. (Just as women often wear big rings over gloves in old films.) I’d put my hair up in a chignon with a pincurl at the side, and wear false eyelashes, swoops of black eyeliner, red lipstick, a black jet necklace, shoes I already owned, and a purchased red silk rose pinned to the side, as on the pattern envelope.
However thing never really work out as planned, and I knew that my choice of fabric – and thus the colour of the dress, and all that rot – would ultimately depend on what was available to me in the fabric shops.
I spent several hours pottering around Soho, and went into nearly every single rag shop on Berwick Street. (I didn’t bother, for instance, with the Silk Society, since it was obvious that I could only ever dream of purchasing their sumptuously beautiful and monstrously expensive cloths.) I’d so wanted to make it out of silk chiffon, but after fingering a bolt of the most delicious, cobweb-light white chiffon in the 98 Berwick St branch of Cloth House for minutes on end (I went away, and came back to it) I realised that it was too insubstantial – not to mention far, far out of my budget. The one thing about those 1950s dresses is that they just eat up fabric: only after spending three hours comparing price tags on bolts and swiftly multiplying figures could I really and truly comprehend the outrage of the public when Dior launched his New Look in 1947: after the frugal war years so marked by rationing – all clothing scarred by the cheery “Make Do And Mend!” proclamation – these romantic dresses were called sinfully extravagant, and a waste of fabric. Just seeing what 4 metres of cloth looks like piled up on a cutting table is an eyeopener, not to mention working out the price of the fabric and lining…plus the costs of thread, fastenings, and possibly bias binding, interfacing and trimmings.
In the end I decided to go by my instinct and splashed out on a really pretty lightweight cotton, in off white with a rose pink floral print, with a breezy natural-coloured cotton voile to use as lining.
To be continued. . . .
a part three?! i didn’t see you at prom unfortunately so i really don’t know how this dress turned out.. i eagerly await the next installment:)