The Dressing Table

 

Writing in British Vogue in 1979, Angela Carter noted that 'there's a whole European tradition' of paintings of women at their toilette, powdering their noses, combing their hair and prettifying themselves surrounded by those classic accoutrements of femininity: glass bottles of scent, silver-plated hand mirrors, make-up, ribbons and bows. 'The crowded dressing tables that are often a feature of these pictures take on an almost sacerdotal quality,' writes Carter, 'an altar at which rites may be performed.'

 

And perhaps there is something mystical about the dressing table. That cluttered and brazenly old-fashioned stage upon which prettiness stars is culturally and even politically significant, not just in terms of ritual but of role play, of girls growing up, dressing up and getting ready for action, of putting on the mask of glamour and boosting their feminine wiles.

 

But for me the fundamental allure of the dressing table as an idea is much simpler. It's about revelling in beauty and glamour; taking pleasure in the stylish details for their own sake inside the dressing room and outside of it too – the swoon effect of a bowl of garden roses; the festive feeling associated with jewellery and posh make-up; the thrill of making an effort, just for yourself. The dressing table is a licence to embrace sheer undisguised prettiness.

 

And pretty is pretty cool, actually.

 

At school, we were taught to shrink from the word 'pretty'. I remember our teachers imploring us to think up ever wilder words to describe the things we adored. To say something was pretty was to dismiss it as merely 'nice'. Pretty was a cop-out. It was fluff. Our young hearts were set on danger and intrigue, on strength, purpose and drama. This was the 1980s, and it wasn't cool to dream of powder puffs and petit point trinket boxes.

 

My generation didn't take pride in their perfume bottles and their pearls, they didn't write letters at their ladies' desks with real bottled ink. They didn't wear gloves and they didn't paint their nails (well, okay, maybe they did, but they didn't mind when the varnish chipped). The old ways of dressing and carrying on had left the party with Grace Kelly. But there's more to the feminine mystique than cold cream.

 

Interestingly, my first memories of this feminine world are not of my mother's dressing table – she didn't really have one in the proper sense of the word. She was, however, possessed of a cavernous make-up bag that frightened me as a child. What was hidden in its murky depths? Did this way womanhood lie? Would I ever grow knowing and own a Tardis-like make-up bag of my very own?

 

One day when poor Mamma hurt my feelings very badly (perhaps she told me to stop watching Dynasty and do the dishes; I don't recall) I stormed upstairs and into her boudoir, grabbed said bag in a fit of pique and from it extracted . . . a lipbrush. Now whether this was a brand-new item, or a much-loved old friend, I couldn't tell you. But it was the first thing my fingers, slippery with anticipation of seriously unladylike behaviour, fell upon. Anyway, do you know what I did? I maliciously snipped the end of it with a pair of nail scissors. That'll teach her! Ho ho.

 

A second later, horrified, I stuffed the sorrily stubby brush back in the bag. I was a monster! I was surprised by a feeling not of power but of dread. What I didn't know then was that glamour can help with the power thing: owning your own fabulousness and all that. Anyway, the point is that I haven't always held the tools of beauty in reverence, and none of us is just sugar and spice.

 

But that's not to say that all things nice aren't worth celebrating. Sometimes a good dose of what girls are meant to be made of can feel like a tonic for the soul. As long as we write our own prescriptions.

 

Happily, my mother forgave (although she never forgot), and she and my grandmother let me in on their style secrets as I grew older and nicer. They taught me that glamour is there for the taking. It is lying in wait for those who seek it out. And what joys it can bring! I took notes. I'm still taking them.

 

When I started writing this book, my plan was to save and spread style wisdom of the sort my grandmother had bestowed upon me. She was a woman who knew exactly how to interpret a dress code, who never left the house without matching bag and shoes, who wore diamonds to breakfast, and who loved to travel stylishly (she was a demon packer).

 

Soon I became obsessed with pinning down other unpredictable style setters, reading about those no longer with us, and getting those who are to spill their glamour beans into my tape recorder. One woman in particular, whom I had the pleasure of interviewing while I was working at Vogue, inspired me. Her name was Dagmar Krilloff and she has signed a long-term lease in my memory.

 

One day an email came through from a Vogue reader saying it was all well and good us writing about stylish young catwalkers, but she reckoned her mother was more interesting. She had attached a picture. The silver-haired character raising an eyebrow at the camera was gorgeous and self-possessed, even a little haughty in her costume pearls the size of golf balls. She was 98.

 

So I persuaded my editor to fly me to Melbourne to meet and photograph this extraordinary woman. Dagmar was bursting with vitality, despite having cooked dinner for six the previous evening (she wore Pucci, natch). And while her younger husband (Herb, 91) played tennis, I interviewed Dagmar about her style history, which was in essence that of a life lived in fabulous clothes in New York, Cuba, Tahiti and Melbourne – her story, seen through the glass of fashion.

 

We got more letters when that story was published than ever before. Forget Kate Moss, people wanted to be Dagmar! It got me thinking: beyond fashion in the Paris runway sense, past the glossy magazines and the music videos and the latest hot trend, there is a whole other world of style and elegance and all-round marvellousness just waiting to be discovered.

 

A world understood by Dagmar and by my grandmother, and by the glamorous muses of fashion, literature and societies past: the likes of the Duchess of Windsor and Diana Cooper, the writers Nancy Mitford and Dorothy Parker, the textile collector Iris Apfel and the beauty queen Elizabeth Arden; women of style and substance from a line now largely overlooked in favour of teenaged models or Lady Gaga and Lily Allen (cute, I grant you, but what are they going to tell me about cooking dinner for six?).

 

I wished I could take tea with Wallis Simpson and check out the angle at which she pinned her Cartier panther brooch. Or hit up Vita Sackville-West for tips on growing the Algerian iris. I wanted to throw caution to the wind and wear a vintage Hall Ludlow ball gown to work. I wanted some of Dagmar's fairy dust and I wanted to keep on taking my notes – dressed to the nines.

 

Around this time, I was secretly beavering away on a side project, 'renovating' vintage garments for a designer friend's new boutique. I have a giant collection of vintage gowns and fripperies – I love the cuts and the fabrics, the sense of history, of a dress possessing the echo of its wearer's story.

 

Little by little I dared to design a few new things myself, cutting patterns off vintage dresses, finding an amazing seamstress, trying to stay true to my own style map. I showed my friends my creations and they bought them all, then suddenly I was selling to boutiques and had named my label Mrs. Press.

 

And then in the middle of all this my grandmother died. I didn't see her at the end. I was too far away, then it was too late; she was gone.

 

Except I fancy she is still here.

 

I know it sounds flaky, but it's true, so there you are. I fancy she can see me putting on her costume pearls in the morning and polishing my high-heeled Mary-Janes; she can see me designing satin dresses. Without a doubt she can see me if I do something wrong, but I imagine she can see me doing things right too. See me working on this book, on a mission to revive the old style secrets, to pass on the sartorial wisdom of those who really know and knew. I am sure she approves.

 

These days I hold gorgeousness in high regard, be it the icing on an orange cake or the flourish of a signature on a personal thank you note. I wouldn't cut the end of a cosmetics brush for love nor money. I'm no wise woman yet myself, but I have learnt some valuable lessons from the wonderful characters I've met and read about so far.

 

Here endeth the first lesson. Let the glamour begin.

 

Sincerely,

 

Clare Press