TinTrunk

Frenchmen's Fashions, 1947

2011-01-24T10:41:00.000Z

Finding historic accounts of men's fashions can be a challenge. For the most part, women's fashions dominate surviving records for obvious reasons: fashion has long been assumed to be a largely feminine preoccupation, women's fashions have a faster turnover of trends so there's always some new novelty to observe, and they tend to be more dramatic and eye-catching. Equally, while a woman's appearance was (and frequently still is, sadly) considered to be the most pertinent and interesting aspect of her being, a man's appearance was taken to be the least important thing about him, unless it was particularly remarkable or curious. Men were judged, and recorded, on different criteria - skills, talents, character, achievements - with their wardrobe coming very low on the list, if at all.

As a result, there's a real lack of detailed descriptions of everyday men's wear since it was usually considered of no importance or relevance. Which is why this short piece, 'Frenchmen's Fashions,' published in the seventh Saturday Book in 1947, is such a treasure. Written by Honor Tracy, it provides a precious snapshot of men's fashions in Paris in the immediate post-war period.

Honor Tracy (1913-1989) was not a fashion correspondent but a well-known journalist and writer. She had served during the Second World War in the British Women's Auxiliary Air Force from 1939 to 1941 in the intelligence department before joining the British Ministry of Information from 1941 to 1945. As well as working as a columnist and foreign correspondent for the The Observer, she wrote for the Sunday Times and the BBC and published several books, both novels and travelogues. We must be grateful to her for directing her shrewd, wry and often amused eye upon a subject that might well have seemed frivolous or irrelevant in the context of post-war devastation in Europe. Since this was published in 1947 it is likely to have been written in 1946, only a year after the end of the war.

Honor Tracy begins her article by proposing that dress is an expression of the self, and that those who might seem to be dressed inappropriately - an example she gives is "a very fat lady in a scarlet dress" - are in fact expressing the self they imagine or wish themselves to be. She notes that in most of Western Europe, this "romantic urge" in dressing is confined to women, with men content to disappear into the background, preferring conformity to the unconventional. I'll let her take over from here:

It is pleasant then to find the men of Paris standing out against this tradition and clothing themselves in a manner which not only would appear to express some inner and secret self but which cannot fail to make an ineffaceable impression on all who behold it. And here is a curious paradox: while Parisian women are said to be the best dressed in the world and it is taken for granted in Paris that feminine apparel is a serious affair, it is the male attire in this city which catches and rivets the eye of the stranger as he sits in a café and sees the world hurrying past: and these effects are produced, woman’s thunder stolen, with no apparent effort, with even a kind of nonchalance as admirable as it is mysterious.

For men are not, like women, bullied and nagged by the great houses of Parisian couture. They have no tradition and no accepted standards to guide them. At the most, the tailor’s sheets may let fall a hint or two from time to time; under the sketch of a man in canvas trousers, rope sandals, striped jacket reaching to knee and straw boater draped with constrasting scarf, for example, we may find these words of restrained advice: ‘a sailing holiday along the Breton coast calls for the appropriate outfit.’ A friendly suggestion, no more: should the holiday-maker prefer to set sail in pleated shorts and jumper with a border-pattern of shrimps or lighthouses, no eyebrows will be raised. And it is precisely this freedom which gives to the male costumes their freshness and excitement: while none can foresee how they will finally appear, few, once they catch sight of them, would allow a single item to be changed.

On the first warm day of the year a man was seen strolling up the Champs Elysées. He was wearing white stockinet plus fours with a green alpaca jacket and butterfly tie. Nothing very remarkable in that, perhaps, but with a little stroke of genius he had crowned the ensemble with a bowler hat. This gift for detail which seems surprising at first but then is seen to be inevitable, is the mark of the true artist, such as it is the glory of France to produce in great numbers.

One characteristic of French male costuming is its great fluidity, its restless changeability, that capriciously and wilfully rejects all that went immediately before. To take one example, the Frenchman of our mothers’ day was noted for wide, baggy trousers that nestled about his pumps or elastic-sided boots in concertina folds: if the illustrated papers of the time may be believed, it was almost a national costume: whereas James Laver says, ‘nothing marks the modern Frenchman more than the comparative tightness of his trousers.’ And not merely trousers in the limited sense, either, but breeches, shorts and plus-fours, the last being especially restricted in width although, as if in compensation, descending to within six inches of the ground. And it is this restlessness above all which betrays the romantic conception that he has of himself, for while in England striking innovations are made only by cranks or cads, in France a constant search goes on for something new: no, the Frenchman appears to say fretfully to himself as he surveys his reflection in the glass, this is not quite the thing yet, it is not me.

In the piping days of 1938, the note was of controlled exuberance. Overcoats were cut lavishly and waisted neatly, something along the lines of a robe de style, shoes were gay and multi-coloured, jackets were immensely tucked and pleated and flounced: favourite shades for summer and winter alike ranged from lilac to vert pomme.

The idea behind it was plain: in spite of the unhappy rivalries and dissensions between the two countries, the Parisian of the ‘thirties wished to look as much as possible like an English gentleman. His shoes were spoken of in catalogues as for the footing or the trotting. Extremists came to London for their clothes, although increasingly they were apt to hand them over to their own tailors for the special finishing touch. They went to their offices in hairy, shapeless tweeds, which smothered them in mild weather or became waterlogged after a five-minute shower, and which they would always describe as ‘très pratique.’

As vivid as the pictures Honor conjures up are, she appears to have set up two competing impulses in French men's fashions: a carefree and exuberant experimentalism in dress, not hidebound by convention as their contemporaries over the Channel were (who might well have considered some of the outfits she describes as outré, bordering on the effeminate), and at the same time an urge to copy those conventional Englishmen. To be fair, she later clarifies these contradictory elements, describes in detail the Frenchman's preoccupation with correct, 'classic' dress, and sums up the "French male costume at its best" as "a nice blend of reason and fantasy, harmonizing the wishes of the individual with what he conceives to be the demands of the community."

It might also have been useful to have some indication of the social class of the stylish gentlemen she is discussing, but I'm sure it's fair to assume we are not talking about working class men, especially given those "extremists" who patronised London tailors. Of course, its ridiculous to gripe about this minor oversight - we're lucky to have this account at all. And Honor has many more fascinating observations to make as she turns to the 'present day' in Paris:

Today the scene has changed completely. The first impression is one of grimness and austerity. The ordinary Frenchman is now dressed in a vile garment known as a canadienne, or shapeless reefer jacket with fur collar, knickerbockers, white German socks and hobnailed boots, with or without leather gaiters buttoned to the knee. So dressed he goes to work, to dine or to the cinema, or strolls along the boulevards looking the women critically up and down.

Another deplorable feature of post-war fashion is the peaked cap for civilians: this, however, is so far confined to districts like Strasbourg, St Denis and La Vilette, and goes with a grubby raincoat and a toothbrush moustache. Small boys wear rabbit skins sewn together when it is cold and dungarees or battle-dress when it is warm.

Here, again, the question is, what are they aiming for? Do they enjoy looking like that? Do any group of people on the face of this globe wish to look as they mostly do at present, or, for that matter, do anything else as they would like? Textiles are short in France and, since – a grave pity in the view of most – the French do not export their male fashions, very few are being made. Further, a great factor in French life this year has been the American war surplus: a canadienne may be the only jacket available. A Frenchman may be no more delighted to wear it than he is to go the Opera in a jeep, but possibly he has no choice.

I'm adding this cautiously, but it really was too good to miss. Jean Paul Sartre wearing one of those "vile" canadiennes in Paris in 1946, photograph by Henri Cartier Bresson. Source.

It would be ungenerous, then, to complain that Frenchmen look like people dressed in American war surplus: and it would be false as well, for their remarkable achievement is to look somehow like people coming straight from the maquis. They have the air of men who have buried their weapons in the hills and have come flocking to town to rally at the Vel. D’Hiv. Probably, they know this and are pleased by it, for resistance, at one moment de rigeur, then again rather bad form, now has all the chic of far-off hopeless things, like the cause of Bonny Prince Charlie.

I have to jump in again here because this is too good! Is this the first sighting of a post-war 'rebel chic'? There's no suggestion here that this is trend adopted solely by the young, as you might assume. Clearly it was a matter of expedience rather than choice - there simply weren't adequate clothing supplies to provide a choice - but it was the manner in which the American military surplus was worn, with a suitable swagger intended to associate the wearer with the rebellious heroes of the resistance.

American goods had a huge impact on Europe after the war, and not just the huge quantities of their military surplus which provided cheap and practical clothing either. Americans donated tons of second-hand civilian clothing, which were shipped over and distributed in local markets in some of the most devastated areas in Europe. In Poland this gave rise to the phenomenon of the 'Bikini Boys,' who proudly wore flamboyant American leisure wear, flourescent-bright socks and the luridly hand-painted ties which earned them their nickname. I wonder if that civilian clothing reached Paris too? You'd expect the Zazous to have feasted upon it!

There's so many interconnected strands you can pull from this article, forgive me. Let's get back to it:

Not that goods are ever displayed in shops as ‘très resistant’ or ‘bien maquisard’ or that male fashion papers ever give the man in the street any tips on the subject. Adam, which is a sort of male Vogue, continues to live in a world of its own, inhabited by enormous blond men with steely blue eyes and the shoulders of a gorilla, bronzed by a lamp, scented with Aroma 3 and dressed in dainty smokings of midnight blue, belonging to Clubs such as Magdalen College or Rules and wearing whatever old school tie happens to tone with their complexion. But the Frenchman is above all a realist: since he knows well he can never be a blond gorilla with eyes of steel he makes no especial effort to look like one; instead, he prefers to give the impression that he has just blown up a railway bridge.

Lovely stuff! This is street style. The fashion media didn't even acknowledge it. Sorry, I'll shut up again:

If the style maquis is the most common in Paris at the moment, next after it comes the style marché noir: and this, as befits an organization as vast and as ramified as the French black market, rings a good many changes. In its simplest form, it merely consists of wearing clothes that are much too tight. Jackets no longer button, trousers creak anxiously as the owner sits down: these are worn by the small fry, by the clerks, petty officials, grocers, concièrges and mechanics who are making enough money to eat as they never ate before, but not enough to buy new clothes. They are to be found smiling over the menu in those comfortable homey little bistros in the centre of Paris, where the price of dishes is not marked and where the best dishes are not even written down. After them, are the people who could buy themselves a dozen new suits if they chose but, feeling that life is uncertain and the future shrouded in darkness, prefer to put their money into things that will not only last but, at a pinch, can be negotiated: gems flash from their fingers and neckties, their ladies are loaded with diamonds in such profusion they can hardly set one foot before the other. And finally come those kings and emperors who, having weathered the occupation, the liberation and the purge, pursue their way with a serene confidence in the future of France and are modestly content with the best of everything.

At last, some indication of class in relation to dress, which gladdens my nitpicking historian heart. This must have been a period of great upheaval and uncertainty, when everything was up in the air and people were waiting to see how all those pieces fell. It looks like some of those pieces had already fallen by the time this was written: the super rich, as ever, remained in their privileged bubble.

In general, this cramping influence of economics upon style is to be deprecated and all must look forward to the time when fancy may blossom again as in the palmy days between the wars.

And there I will leave it. I make no apology for quoting Honor Tracy's article at length, because it really is valuable first-hand testimony from someone who was apparently familiar with pre-war Paris as well as being 'on the ground' at a crucial moment in the aftermath of the war.

However, it's still an outsider's account, and who knows what subtleties she might have missed from her (presumably) middle-class English perspective. She mourns the loss of the Frenchman's flamboyance, but fails to see that it might be the start of something new. Instead, she hopes for a return to the pre-war "fancy" of frivolous and romantic dress. I have some sympathy here - honestly, I'd love to see some photographs of her pre-war exemplars of male Parisian fashion in lilac and apple green - but I can also see the rugged appeal of dressing like a freedom fighter by adopting the cast-offs of the liberating forces.

As for those "vile" canadiennes, A.P.C. produced a rather creditable version last season.

Cathy McGow-ow-ow-owan

2010-11-22T17:20:00.002Z

Cathy McGowan models dresses, including one of her own design on the right, in Mod's Monthly, March 1964.

Two things have prompted this post. The first was finally deciding to sell a treasured mid-60s Cathy McGowan's Boutique mini mac that's been in my personal collection for years. You can take a peek at it right here.

The second was the ever wonderful Miss Peelpants, who, as well as kindly offering her opinion on my mac, posted some scans from the first ever Cathy McGowan's Boutique catalogue on her blog.

Its hard to gauge precisely how well known Cathy McGowan is these days - are teenagers aware of her in the same way that they might know something about Twiggy? - but she was, in her time, just as much of a style icon as La Moss is today (whatever you might think about her).

As presenter of Ready, Steady, Go! from 1964-66 she demonstrated an unerring sense of style that proved hugely influential to the hordes of young teenage girls who were avid viewers of the TV show, tuning in not just to see the latest pop sensations and dance steps, but Cathy's new outfit of the week.

I have four copies of The Mod's Monthly magazine from 1964, which I've covered before and no doubt will plunder again at some point, and Cathy features largely in all of them. Quite naturally since she was famously known as the "Queen of the Mods."

In issue number one (see above) her role was confined to modelling some fetching pieces, including a dress she designed herself. But by issue two she has virtually taken over the publication:

"Cathy McGowan Takes a Look at the Mod Scene Today" in Mod's Monthly, April 1964.

This two-page article is worth reading - well, they all are! Click on the pics for the full size scans - for its fantastically detailed snapshot of a scene that was changing incredibly rapidly. Trends might come and go in the space of a week or two, which is one of the reasons the magazine failed to survive - who could keep up? Least of all a monthly magazine with lumbering print deadlines.

Cathy addresses fashions, of course, but also the music scene of which she was a devoted fan, with all the breathless, girlish enthusiasm she brought to her broadcasting.

"Mod Snips by Cathy McGowan" in Mod's Monthly, April 1964.

Towards the back of the magazine, Cathy returns with her "Mod Snips" - a kind of stream-of-consciousness ramble that demands to be read in a hectic amphetamine-like rush. And, sweetly, she admits that whilst her over-sized bag is a "must" for Mods, "she has never been able to find anything to fill hers!"

"Cathy McGowan's Mod Miscellany" in Mod's Monthly, May 1964.

This article from issue three has some terrific insights into the state of American youth fashions at the time, courtesy of Cathy's report of a trip to New York. She went hoping for inspiration but was rather disappointed: "No one it seems can be bothered to step out of line and try to create an extremely new outfit. No wonder they thought I was from another planet."

"Mod Snips by Cathy McGowan" in Mod's Monthly, May 1964.

And another babbling "Mod Snips" covers everything from Tommy Tucker to red mohair suits and a new make up for sensitive skins that Cathy carefully doesn't mention by name (but you can write to her for the details).

"Cathy McGowan's Mod Miscellany" in Mod's Monthly, June 1964.

June's "Mod Miscellany" highlights some androgynous casual fashions for the girls, including the recommendation to buy John Stephens' "smashing" hipster jeans for boys and the news that "we will all start to look very 'French' come autumn." You read it here first!

"Mod Snips by Cathy McGowan" in Mod's Monthly, June 1964.

A very short "Mod Snips" ends this trawl of Cathy's contributions to the issues of Mod's Monthly in my possession. "Nobody's still wearing white stockings are they?" - ouch, they certainly weren't after that! You can sense her awareness of her own power as an arbiter of fashion in that curt little dismissal.

Of course, being so closely identified with the Mods, it wasn't that long before Cathy found herself out of fashion as they gave way to the freaky, psychedelic onslaught of the hippy movement. If you live by the sword . . .

Sorry, that's not an awfully positive note to end on. We love you Cathy! (That's better).

Cabinet of Curiosities

2010-09-01T12:06:00.004+01:00

Last week I came across OIOI, an art blog that is currently inviting submissions to an ongoing project called "Cabinet of Curiosities - Portrait Gallery." I read the brief, really enjoyed the selections that had been presented so far, and had to have a go myself.

The basic idea is to select nine objects that mean something to you and photograph them. These 'portraits' are shown without captions, presumably to allow the viewer to conjure up their own stories, impressions and connections. But apparently its ok to offer a bit more detail on your own blog or website. So I will.

My personal criteria for selection was simply that the objects had to be near to hand, which immediately says something about their position in the hierarchy of my possessions, and could fit onto the coffee table I was using as my neutral background. I chose quickly, without much thought or deliberation.

Please view the beautifully minimal presentation on OIOI first, and then, if you want to know a little more, there's a few details below.

My curiosities

Watch fob with a photograph of my grandfather as a little boy. On the reverse is a photograph of his father.

Marks & Spencer card of bells - these look pretty old (1910s possibly?) and quite probably did cost a penny. Its nice to think that tinkling bells were considered "Household Necessities."

La Brise celluloid folding fan - you pump the handle to make it spin. A marvellous little gadget that works surprisingly well.

Co-op delivery man's money bag, used by a food delivery man in St Helens, Lancashire during the Second World War. It has his number disc and a whistle on a chain. It also still had little paper cash bags inside.

Promotional pencil. A good, honest, straight-forward slogan.

Polish wooden peg doll - I like that she is rather sturdy, sensibly dressed and credibly a young girl. She can stand up on her own, with those large flat feet, unlike the attenuated, cartoonish Barbie with tiny high heels. This doll has been my buddy icon on Flickr for a good few years so I must relate to her at some deep level! I also remember having a very similar wooden doll made by Galt Toys when I was little, so there you are . . .

Necklace worn by the female impersonator Jimmy Slater. In his later years he was a well-respected pantomime dame and I can imagine that this necklace, with its exaggerated scale (the cream beads are the size of gobstoppers), would have been worn for his roles as Widow Twankey or one of the Ugly Sisters.

Carved bone binoculars - a souvenir of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897. One lens has a Stanhope with portraits of her in 1837 and 1897, the other has "The principal royal residences": Osborne, Windsor Castle, Balmoral and Kensington Palace. The scale of this is impressive too - about 2 cm across at its widest point. Incredible, miniaturised technology employed to make what is basically a novelty charm.

Set of speckled bakelite clips - possibly for hanging photographic prints to dry? Their appeal seems quite obvious to me!

Quite what these nine objects say about me I'll leave you to decide. This was such fun to do and I'm very pleased that Vincent, the author of OIOI, decided this collection was worthy of featuring on his blog.

Why not have a go yourself? Here's the instructions again, in case you missed them at the top.

The Toggery: Stockport's rock'n'roll tailor

2010-08-29T16:29:00.007+01:00

I found this jacket at Stockport's flea market about four years ago. The stall holder told me he bought it for 13 guineas when he was 16 years old from a local menswear shop called The Toggery. Judging by its condition, it looked like there had been few occasions (if any) when he had summoned up sufficient courage to wear it. Its quite a piece.

Of course, I was filled with curiousity about The Toggery so I looked it up online and most of the references I discovered related to the 1960s band The Toggery Five, managed by the proprietor of the shop, Michael Cohen, who obviously supplied their enviable wardrobes as well. Olaf Owre has composed a very thorough account of the band's story, and there's some fabulous pictures of them on the original singer, Frank Renshaw's website. Including this one:

The Toggery Five outside The Toggery, Mersey Square, Stockport, 1964. Picture source The Toggery Five 1963-1966.

Graham Nash of the Hollies had worked there and, in fact, Michael Cohen went on to become their manager too.

This shop was evidently a leading source of ultra fashionable menswear in the north west during the 1960s, and supplied 'fab gear' (apologies, it seemed appropriate!) to numerous local, regional, and not so local, bands. Including the Beatles and the Rolling Stones (allegedly) - we'll come to that soon enough.

The Toggery, it was becoming clear, was an historically significant nexus of the music and fashion scenes of the time, so how come I'd never heard of it?

Anyway, some people I know, of a certain generation, remember The Toggery vividly. My mum worked at a branch of Boots which was opposite The Toggery, and fondly recalls glimpsing the steady procession of handsome young men who patronised the shop. Joe Moss remembers getting his best ever suit from The Toggery in his younger days, not to mention boots and numerous shirts. He also has a friend called Pete Maclaine who used to work there, who was still in touch with Michael Cohen himself.

I wondered if it would be possible to interview Mr Cohen to find out more of this story, and, thanks to the kind efforts of Pete Maclaine, it turned out it was. What follows is material drawn from an interview with Michael Cohen conducted on 5th August 2009, with Pete and Joe in attendance (and sometimes chipping in).

An aside - Pete is a significant player in the Manchester music scene himself. As Pete Maclaine and the Dakotas (later Pete Maclaine and the Clan) he has been a musician for nearly 50 years, and is still going strong. His band were the first from Manchester to play the Cavern in Liverpool, and he has the unusual distinction of having had the Dakotas stolen from under him by Brian Epstein, who installed Billy J. Kramer as the lead singer instead. He has a phenomenal store of anecdotes about the music business and his adventures in it, (this article has a few good ones) not to mention an inexhaustible fund of jokes and patter.

On to the story, which follows after the jump:

The Toggery Story

Michael Cohen's business card, picture source The Toggery Five 1963-1966.

Michael Cohen is a third generation tailor. His grandfather first opened his business over 100 years ago in Oldham and Michael was brought up in the trade, acquiring skills in every aspect of tailoring. As a young man, he was working in the family business with his father - they had, by then, two shops in Oldham - and had ambitions to branch out "all by myself."

Around 1960-61, at the age of 22, he found a premises in Mersey Square, Stockport and set about making it over to his own specifications:

MC: Well, it was a unique shop because the big window went from [ground] floor to the top of the building . . . Two floors, the window, it was a unique design and the builder, a guy called Frank Salisbury, had never done it before but he did it.

I was rather surprised that he had chosen Stockport and not aimed for somewhere in the nearby city of Manchester, but Michael was adamant: "I never thought of Manchester . . . the shop came up in Stockport, and we thought it could be ideal."

The Toggery stocked an extensive range of fashionable ready-to-wear menswear including Leslie Powell suits, Jimko (trousers and other items), Rael Brook and Ben Sherman shirts. Michael insisted on stocking only good quality brands: "I would never ever sell rubbish."

A line that proved incredibly popular was the cuban heeled 'Beatle' boot made by Anello & Davide in London:

MC: I remember having to go to London, had to fill my car up, to get these things . . . And at one time I had 500 pairs, paid for, which I didn't have!

Me: So you didn't have them in stock?

MC: Didn't have them in stock, and had 500 pairs paid for . . . So I had to go down to London and beg, steal and borrow . . . and get [them].

He also noted in passing that those boots "ruined my bloody feet!"

But it was the made-to-measure business that he was clearly the most passionate about as you can see from the following exchange:

Me: So what kind of style influences did you have, did you have anybody that you emulated or admired?

MC: [Very vehement] Not at all! We tried to be unique in every way because if you bought something off the peg, off the peg was very stereotyped, so that's why I went into a lot for made-to-measure. I could make the stuff, customise what people wanted.

That said, he was keenly attuned to picking up trends and ideas from his clientele:

MC: Yeah, well I think that the important thing to realise and to know is that I was lead by my customers. Whatever they wanted I got. I was working in the dark in some ways. I didn't know exactly what they wanted. But whatever they wanted, I managed to source and get, and supply them.

Me: Right, so you were actually feeding off your customers' ideas really?

MC: Of course!

Michael had his own workroom in Oldham for custom orders, and sourced a lot of his fabrics from London suppliers. Joe Moss noted that his "range of cloths was so impressive . . . different from anything I'd ever seen," including an "amazing range of mohairs" which were very popular then.

The "ballpark figure" price of one of Michael's two-piece suits was ". . . in the region of £50" - a considerable sum at the time. He was making "30, 40 suits a week."

Pete Maclaine remembered that there was a woman called Elsie, who did speedy alterations on the garments, both ready-to-wear and made-to-measure. She sat upstairs, with her back to the front window "sewing away":

PM: . . . if you had any trousers [that] were too long, Elsie upstairs used to alter 'em within that day and you'd come back and they'd all be done . . . Even taking in the cuffs and even tapering . . . She was dead good, Elsie . . . You come in, you bought a pair of trousers too long, you'd leave them, Michael'd measure 'em up, pin 'em up . . . or I would do that as well, cos Michael taught me all the bits I know about tailoring, well, what little of it I know . . . and I would do that, "right, there we are sir, there they are just on the top of the shoe, come back in an hour."

Les Machen, manager of the Toggery, points to the distinctive trouser hem of Pete Maclaine's suit at the Daily Mail International Jazz Festival, Belle Vue, Manchester, 6-9th June 1963. Pete is actually wearing a CWS suit that he was given to model, and reportedly never wore again! Photograph from Pete Maclaine.

The business was thriving, and within two years the Toggery expanded into the next door premises. At the opening event to mark this expansion, Pete Maclaine and the Dakotas performed a set upstairs, interrupted mid-song by Elsie offering round cups of tea. Pete, totally unphased, took a departure from the lyrics to chorus "We all drink Typhoo teeeeaaa!"

About two years later, in 1964, Pete was working at The Toggery himself, with the manager Les Machen you can see in the photograph above. I wondered about Michael's criteria for employing people:

Me: Did you have a policy for who you employed? Did you try to pick cool people?

MC: Well . . . basically yes. They had to fit into the environment of the premises. And have some connection and rapport with the customers.

I asked if The Toggery had attracted musicians from the beginning:

MC: No. It all kicked off really when I employed Graham Nash. And obviously he brought his friends in.

Me: Was he in the Hollies then?

MC: No, he was in the Fourtones . . . And then they decided to form the Hollies and it all started from there. Yeah, I made the group suits, and then other people saw them and they took me over to Liverpool to the Beatles.

Me: Oh, so you went to Liverpool to take measurements and the order?

MC: Yeah. In fact, I measured them first at the Three Coins in Fountain Street [this is in Manchester]. What was it, a coffee bar, was it?

PM: Coffee bar, yeah . . . owned by Kennedy Street [Kennedy Street Enterprises was a music agency]

Michael made the Beatles suits, leather jackets and leather coats. In fact you can see one of them here:

Graham Smith (left) and Frank Renshaw of The Toggery Five. Frank wears a leather coat made by The Toggery for Paul McCartney but never picked up. Michael's response on being told about this coat: "Well I got paid for it anyway!" Picture source The Toggery Five 1963-1966.

Leather gear was a speciality of The Toggery. Michael had "someone in Ashton who used to make all my leather stuff . . . They had a leather factory there," and such an outfit might set you back about £100.

I've found a couple of brief mentions online about these; one from a Russian forum which gives no credit to the source, but it appears to be Eric Stewart, then of Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders, later 10CC: "We of course dashed off to Mike Cohen's 'Toggery' tailor shop in Stockport and ordered our first leather suits (in BLUE!!!) and started growing our hair long." Another, from Gerry Scanlan, of Bitter Suite:

In 1964 I joined local group Dean Marshall & The Deputies who later changed their name to The Lizards at a request from Pete Stringfellow who became our manager. He dressed us up in green leathers which we brought from Toggery in Stockport, all the Liverpool and Manchester groups brought their stage gear from there (so we were suddenly "cool" and "on our way").

The long list of bands and musicians that The Toggery outfitted includes - in no particular order - Brian Poole and the Tremoloes, Lulu and the Luvvers, Pete Maclaine and the Dakotas (naturally), Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas (ouch), Gerry and the Pacemakers, Dave Berry, Swinging Blue Jeans, Wayne Fontana and the Mindbenders, Johnny Peters, not to mention celebrities such as George Best, Jimmy Savile and DJ 'Ugli' Ray Teret. No doubt there were many others too. The Rolling Stones weren't mentioned so perhaps they never called round.

What is clear is that the shop became an essential port of call for many touring bands: "People on tours used to go in coaches, and the coaches used to stop outside The Toggery and all the groups used to come in."

Michael Cohen soon opened two more branches of The Toggery, at Bury and Bolton - the Bolton branch benefitting in particular from its proximity to a nightclub called Cranberry Fold that "used to have all the big stars there. So I did very well." Two of those stars that Michael can recall outfitting were Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck.

Of course, it wasn't just down to the Graham Nash connection that Michael Cohen's business flourished. He learned from an early age about the value of generating publicity, as this recent small ad of his demonstrates. The photograph probably dates from the late 1920s or early 1930s and shows his grandfather (holding bolts of cloth) and his father on a stepladder measuring up the "tallest man in the world," Lofty, with the "smallest man in the world," Seppetoni, looking on (I have an old postcard of this pair, who used to perform in variety shows).

Unfortunately, Michael talked about this when I had turned off the recorder as we were taking a tea break (lesson learned there), so I can't recall the details of this story. His concluding point was, at any rate: "Well, half of business is promotion, isn't it?"

A point he proved by mentioning an occasion when he "filled Mersey Square . . . with screaming kids" by booking Jimmy Savile and The Beatles for a promotional event. Perhaps the best story relates not just to The Toggery but his efforts for The Hollies, to boost their single 'Bus Stop' in 1966:

MC: I bought a double decker bus . . . to publicise everything, it was a stunt, and I wrote "The Hollies" and "The Toggery" and got [art] students to paint it. To be truthful, I couldn't get much publicity out of it, so I said to a fellow called Frank Renshaw, I said "Frank, drive it round and [attract] people," and he went under a bloody bridge! And took the top off!

I've since learned that this happened on Georges Road in Stockport, which has a very low railway bridge that's still there despite Frank's best efforts.

There's no doubt in Michael's mind about which was his most memorable customer order. Around 1962 (the date is a little hazy) he made collarless jackets for the Beatles. I asked if this was before the Pierre Cardin style that most people attribute as their influence:

MC: Well . . . I like to think I created it.

Me: Right. So you hadn't seen anything like that before yourself . . .

MC: No. They were something different. In fact, if I'm not [pause] well, I got it from a ladies' catalogue.

Me: So, this was while they were still in Liverpool, was it? Before they'd actually broken nationwide?

MC: That's right, yeah.

Michael's jackets were in plain black mohair, rather than the iconic grey with black trim versions by 'showbiz tailor' Dougie Millings that are so familiar. Is it possible that The Toggery got there first? Some histories of rock and pop fashion might need revising if that is the case.

The Toggery story came to an end when Michael Cohen's father, Phil Cohen, who was running the Oldham family business, became ill and Michael had to attend to the shop there. He sold The Toggery sometime around 1970.

There's plenty more research I'd like to do on this. For one thing, all the publicity material, photographs and memorabilia that Michael Cohen once had has been lost "in the moves," and for another the dates are sometimes a little vague. I intend to scour the local newspapers at Stockport Library for advertisements and stories (that bus caper was bound to have made the press, surely?), and if anyone has any memories of The Toggery, pictures or even surviving garments, I'd really love to hear about it - please leave a comment, or email me.

Michael Cohen with Pete Maclaine, wearing my original Toggery jacket, 5th August 2009.

My thanks to:

Michael Cohen for being such a fascinating, patient and gracious interviewee.

Pete Maclaine for organising and contributing to the interview, and allowing me to use that terrific picture of himself and Les Machen.

Frank Renshaw/Young for permitting me to feature his photographs in this piece.

Also, I've linked extensively to the excellent Manchester Beat website, so they deserve a thank you too!

Following fashion can be hazardous to your health

2010-08-04T14:23:00.000+01:00

PLATFORM SHOES

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The Story of a Dress

2010-08-01T11:23:00.000+01:00

"The Story of a Dress" by Lorraine Timewell, The Saturday Book 7, 1947, pp. 71-80.

Our dress was designed in England. The scissors point to the North, where the finest fabrics are made. Across the Channel lies Paris - a city of silk. Uniting the fashion centres of London and Paris is a current of industry and needlework. We send them woollens, they send us silk.

The dress begins in the mind's eye of the designer, Angele Delanghe. Her long, supple fingers are idle only when she is visualizing another design.

At the age of six Angele Delanghe was draping and pinning her doll's clothes, and she has been designing ever since. In 1914, when Belgium was invaded, she came to England as a refugee with her doll and a precious box of scraps and pieces. Now she is British.

Mr Strange, of Coudurier Fabrics, the great silk house, knows well how her imagination is fired by fine fabrics, and keeps her informed of his new arrivals.

In a tiny room she works with the selected fabric straight onto the dummy, its shoulder scarred with pin-marks. In picture one, she is concentrating her mind not on the checked silk, but on the floral printed silk lying on the table by Smuts the cat. She knows exactly what she wants to do with it, and in picture two begins to drape and pin. It is a fine silk in a pale oyster white, with burnt rose and grey outlined flowers scattered over it.

When the model has been assembled by Delanghe, it goes to the fitter in one of the workrooms, who cuts a pattern in 'toile' from the original. Then, under her supervision, the dress goes into the hands of the young sempstresses. In the picture above the moment of judgment has arrived. Miss Garner, the fitter, is taking the completed model to be tried on by a mannequin and viewed by Delanghe.

Audrey Kenney, the mannequin, with her head in a bag, is helped into the dress. The bag protects the fabric from lipstick and powder, and protects also her new 'hair-do.'

The date for the showing of the collections for each new fashion season is decided by agreement amongst the various designers, or couturiers. In London, they are known as the 'Big Ten' - the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers. Their present president is Norman Hartnell, and Delanghe is one of the 'Ten.' The eve of the collection finds the models facing their most formidable audience - the people who made them. The dress whose story we have been tracing (it has a name now, 'Madame Butterfly') passes the critical inspection of the staff. Then the clients arrive on the important day.

This is what they see: the soft feminine grace of 'Madame Butterfly,' which resembles an old oriental painting in the lines of the drapery, and has a short kimono-type sleeve.

They also see 'Madame Butterfly's' 44 companions, including its opposite number, 'Gleneagles.' Some of the models are never again seen in England: they go to the United States and elsewhere abroad.

And what next? The fabric manufacturers, the button makers, the fashion-supply companies, the printers, the Press, the fitters, the sempstresses, the secretaries, the telephonists have all been involved in the life of 'Madame Butterfly,' the demure navy and white checked afternoon dress (left), which we saw being designed on the stand, and their companions. Well, Angele Delanghe is looking abstracted. 'I am thinking of the next collection,' she says. And so it begins all over again.

_._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._._

This photo story appeared in the seventh edition of The Saturday Book - one of those compendiums of miscellany from the arts to anthropology, history and antiquities, social observation, folklore and all manner of diverting stuff - that were once so popular.

This edition was published in 1947, at pretty much the height of post-wartime austerity and a time when most women could only dream of a new evening gown made of silk, so its interesting to see that Ms Delanghe appeared to have no problem securing such scarce and valuable supplies. But then, as the piece points out, some (most?) of her output was destined for export.

Its great to see that the author, Lorraine Timewell, chose to feature Angele Delanghe rather than one of the more well known members of the London 'Big Ten' such as Hartnell, Hardy Amies or Digby Morton.

In fact I've found precious little about her, apart from these scraps:

Delanghe was an early member of the Incorporated Society of London Fashion Designers, formed in 1942, which included the Hon. Mrs Reginald Fellowes (its first president), Norman Hartnell, Peter Russell, Worth of London, Digby Morton, Hardy Amies, Bianca Mosca, Creed, Molyneux and Michael Sherard. (Information from In Vogue: Six Decades of Fashion by Georgina Howell and Exploring 20th Century London).

She was known for creating "soft feminine tailored clothing and beautiful romantic eveningwear and wedding gowns" (from The Cutting Edge: 50 Years of British Fashion, 1947-1997 by Amy de la Haye).

After the war she took over the Ladies' Outfitting and Ready to Wear Departments at Fortnum & Mason and "revitalized" them.

Former women's editor of the Yorkshire Post, Valerie Webster, recalls with palpable frustration that she was required to attend "the couture shows of people like Angele Delanghe and Lachasse who made tweedy suits and hefty jewel-encrusted evening gowns for the grouse moors and hunt ball scene." To be fair, this was probably in the early 1960s, and young Valerie was more interested in Mary Quant than grouse moors and hunt balls, and perhaps Delanghe was past her prime.

This little 'backstage' story of Angele Delanghe's work at least adds a little more to our knowledge of her.

TinTrunk dips a toe into the fashion world

2010-07-17T19:12:00.006+01:00

I'm a one-man band, a small-time vintage seller trying to establish a business, and my resources and capital amount to pretty much zero. But sometimes friends can surprise you.

One friend of mine - Elizabeth - is a stylist with some seriously impressive credentials, and we had talked about organising a photo shoot of some TinTrunk prime stock for some time. Yesterday, thanks to her, it happened.

There was a pretty vague, bullet-pointed brief about Englishness, eccentricity, awkwardness, unlikely combinations, plus a dash of surrealism and straight-faced humour, and some definite ideas about what to avoid - cosy nostalgia and whimsy, straining for 'authentic' replications of period fashions, chintzy floral teacups, and most of all cupcakes! I'm not a hater by any means, and I'm happy if those aspects of the current vintage trend work for other people, but they just don't work for me.

Elizabeth suggested I prepare a mood board of ideas and inspirations, which ended up being dominated by some of my collection of old photographs. I love the weird tension of self-consciousness and self-display seen in old snapshots and cheap studio portraits, but I was keen to avoid any kind of sepia-toned, slavish recreations. It was more about taking the mood and atmosphere of these anonymous shots and mixing it up with some David Hockney dandyism/Nancy Cunard decadent glamour/gender mix-up playfulness.

We had lots of ideas, but only one short day to shoot as much as we could.

A dear family friend, Helen, agreed to let us use her house and garden as our location. This house was a derelict 18th century farm building that she has, over a period of about 40 years, turned into an exquisite little cottage packed full of fascinating treasures, and surrounded by a lush garden with some surprising features.

Personally, I was happy to outline the brief and inspirations/influences and let Elizabeth and her talented young recruits run with it, and wait to see what happened. But bless their hearts, I was consulted at every step along the way.

Here's Rosa, one of the two intimidatingly lovely models, working my 1960s Pucci skirt with a black and white striped 70s blouse that Elizabeth pulled together (something that would never have occurred to me!), being photographed by the newly graduated Sally Davies. Incidentally, Sally has earned herself a first, and having seen her in action I can understand why.

Sally here is photographing Rosa with Hugh, our male model, who had a deliciously louche appearance - somewhat like a bored, seen-it-all aristrocrat - although he was in fact a very quiet and sweet young man.

I didn't take many photos myself, because I was a little bit preoccupied about looking after all my precious stock. Some of the items we used are very collectable (meaning they have some value) and I personally treat them with the care and scrupulousness of a museum curator since any damage, stains or flaws will reduce their value considerably. I tried to switch off that 'conservationist' voice in my head because it was such a privilege to see them worn and styled so imaginatively. This seemed to work for the duration of the shoot, and I'm so glad I stopped myself from intervening too much!

Helen's rotating summer house, provided a splendid backdrop for Rosa in a 1980s olive green plaid jumpsuit with vintage 1970s Terry de Havilland snakeskin platform shoes, and some bright green gloves that my sister gave me (not for sale, sorry!) Hugh sports some bright yellow trousers that Elizabeth had daringly combined with a 60s tweed women's cape and a bold polka dot tie.

You can also see Elizabeth poised and ready to pounce with a green suede 60s hood, but its anyone's guess as to whether Hugh or Rosa will end up wearing it. Which was one of the best aspects of the shoot - the garments were treated neither reverentially nor conventionally and Elizabeth just went with what seemed to work, based on her highly attuned fashiony instincts.

So here's a sneak preview of some of Sally's shots, and I'll leave it to you to decide if they fulfilled that brief detailed earlier.

Not that it matters anyway. I'm cock-a-hoop about them regardless, and I'm looking forward to exploiting them to the full for the forthcoming TinTrunk website, not to mention flyers, business cards, signs, badges, banners, fridge magnets, coffee mugs, t-shirts, mousemats - blimey, there's so much potential!

My sincere thanks to:

Elizabeth Cardwell/Moss - super duper stylist and all-round organisational talent.
Sally Davies - photographer (she can also style and create garments and is a very accomplished all-rounder in all kinds of fashiony stuff).
Kaye - our makeup artist who worked magic on Rosa for this shoot. Once I find out her full name and any website/online details these will be added here.
Rosa - the beautiful female model - ditto for details.
Hugh - the handsome male model - ditto for details.
Helen - for allowing us all to run amok in her fabulous house and garden.

Get dressed in the NME, 1981-5

2010-07-07T18:16:00.001+01:00

Boy advertisement, NME, 19th December 1981, page 83.

Here's the last of the clothing ads from the small pile of NMEs remaining in my possession, and these date from 1981 to 1985. You might notice that most of them come from the bumper Christmas issues, which were the ones I was most likely to keep for their end-of-year summaries, not to mention the hugely enjoyable collections of fatuous quotes from pop stars cherry-picked from the year's interviews.

So Boy's advertisement (above) for a party dress is rather confusing. It looks like a summer dress to me, especially accessorised with the headband/sweatband. Mind you, "rude print[s]" are appropriate for all seasons - and wouldn't you love to know what that "rude print" they so primly didn't show was?

Another all season item is the studded leather belt and Tyneway Video (?) has a very nice pyramid stud example on offer, along with wrist bands and boot straps:

Studded leather advertisement from Tyneway Video, NME, 19th December 1981, page 83.

You might remember Roy's Fashions from the previous post, and his December 1981 ad doesn't disappoint:

Roy's Fashions advertisement, NME, 19th December 1981, page 83. Click on the picture for a larger view.

Roy's range has definitely gone more New Romantic, with a dashing unisex pirate waistcoat and matching pirate shirt, a balloon-legged unisex Bowie suit and what is billed as a "1920s look" suit, although from that sketch it couldn't look more 1980s to me.

Afghan coats from The Station Shop, NME, 3rd January 1981, page 33.

Are those hippies still here? Well clearly they are, and the Station Shop is still flogging these wretched Afghan coats to them. Just stay out of the rain if you're wearing one - if you've ever smelt a wet Afghan coat you won't want to repeat the experience.

And now a scanner-stretching long ad from Melanddi, proud suppliers to the Jam, from December 1982:

Melanddi advertisement, NME, 25th December 1982, page 75.

The printed canvas jeans remind me that I thought I'd find an ad for Modzart, who were the prime purveyors of printed canvas strides at the time - and I was sure their ads were regularly featured - but I didn't find one.

Moving swiftly on from that deeply uninteresting observation . . .

Melanddi advertisement, NME, 24th December 1983, page 75.

Here's Melanddi's Christmas 1983 ad, with a rather curious "Stiletto Tongue Boot" among its newer offerings.

Mark Lord Promotions advertisement, NME, 24th December 1983, page 75.

Mark Lord Promotions have a novel line in black-dyed military surplus which I'm struggling to associate with any particular youth culture grouping of the time. Its a bit too butch for the goths (hang on, when did New Model Army appear?), maybe a bit too austere for the punks . . . any help here would be much appreciated.

Phaze advertisement, NME, 24th December 1983, page 75.

Phaze of Newcastle has some proper cartoon goth gear, including some splendid bleached spider (web) jeans. The note at the bottom that cheques should be made out to "Tyneway Trading" might suggest a link with the Tyneway Video studded leather ad earlier.

Spencers Trousers advertisement, NME, 24th December 1983, page 75.

I love the specialist suppliers' ads, and Spencers Trousers' one is a goodie. In case you didn't believe they were "direct from the factory" there's a picture of it right there. Despite the rather conventional graphic design, this ad inspires confidence in their trousers, and will you look at those Bowies - magnificent!

Schuh pointed bootee advertisement, NME, 24th December 1983, page 75.

A modest start for one of the familiar names on the British high street these days. Schuh's pointed bootee is rather lovely, and comes in an extensive range of colours, plus leopard skin fabric. I'm picturing Fay Fife of Edinburgh's finest, the Rezillos, in these.

And here's another familiar shoe retailer, although possibly past its prime now:

Shelly's of London shoe advertisement, NME, 24th December 1983, page 76.

I had no idea they supplied footwear to the World Disco Dancing Championship, which is quite some endorsement for the quality of their shoes. The WDDC provided some golden tv moments in the late 70s and early 80s, and there's plenty of clips to enjoy on Youtube. I've just spent far too long watching a few of them, but I failed to spot Shelly's breaker boot with the "disco" sole.

The Cavern advertisement, NME, 22/29th December 1984, page 75. Click on picture for a larger view.

The Cavern is strictly mod, and I think its rather nice that they name their models. So please meet Carl, Dave and "Boney" Tony.

Phaze advertisement, NME, 23rd February 1985, page 37.

Phaze return in 1985 with their goth range, and a smattering of punk.

And finally, Mark Lord Promotions' 1985 ad (now trading as 'The Mark') has dropped the black dyed combat jackets and gone a bit New Wavey. And the Bowie trousers endure:

The Mark advertisement, NME, 23rd February 1985, page 37.

If anyone has any surviving items from these advertisers, or remembers wearing any of this stuff, your comments would be most welcome.

The only things that I recall having are the Sid-Vicious-on-tv t-shirt I mentioned in the previous post, plus a Boy punk shirt that was a copy of the Sex/Seditionaries ones with a woven patch of Karl Marx and a bleach written message "Only Anarchists are pretty." This I bought from the Boy shop rather than mail order, and, incidentally, was filmed doing so by a Japanese breakfast tv show!

Oh yes, and some Shelly's extra-thick crepe soled brothel creepers. Ah, memories . . .

Directory of advertisers

The Alien, 20 Corporation Street, Bolton, Lancs (skinhead coats)

Baxby Fashion House, 227 Portobello Road, London W11 (punk and mod)

Boy, 153 King's Road, London SW3 (punk)

The Cavern, 22 Fourberts Place, Carnaby Street, London W1; 19 Ganton Street, Carnaby Street, London W1 (mod)

Fab-Gear, 42 Call Lane, Leeds (also X Clothes shop premises) (punk/new wave)

Furs and Jeans, 48 Manor View, London N3 (Afghan coats)

The General Franchise Co. Limited, 22 Park Grove, Edgware, Middlesex HA8 7SJ (Ted/rock'n'roll)

J. Holdsworth, 95 Lots Road, Chelsea, London SW10 (punk and mod)

P. Leach, 50d Redcliffe Gardens, Chelsea, London SW10 (punk)

Mainline, 51 Two Mile Hill Road, Kingswood, Bristol, BS15 1BS (punk)

Mark Lord Promotions (mail order) Ltd, Airfield Industrial Estate, Wellesbourne, Warwickshire CV35 9JJ (black dyed army surplus)
By 1985 advertising as 'The Mark' at Unit 9, Western Road Industrial Estate, Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire (new wave)

Melanddi, 43 Carnaby Street, London W1 (mod, new wave)

Phaze, 44/46 High Bridge, Newcastle-on-Tyne NE1 6BX (punk, goth)

Printout Promotions, 28A Abington Square, Northampton (punk, mod, metal)

Punters Choice by Cadiss, 117 Hammersmith Road, London W14 (slim ties)

Radar, 1st Floor, Virgin Records, Union Street, Glasgow and 3 Dundas Street, Edinburgh (retail stockist of P. Leach, punk)

Retro, 26 Union Street, Broadmead, Bristol 1 (mod leather)

Roy's Fashions, 1st Floor, 45 Carnaby Street, London W1 (new wave, mod, new romantic)

Schuh, 9 North Bridge Arcade, Edinburgh (new wave shoes)

Shapes, 252 High Street, Waltham Cross, Hertfordshire, EN8 N78 (hippy/ethnic)

Shelly's of London, 159 Oxford Street, London W1; 19/21 Fouberts Place, Carnaby Street, London W1; 146 Kings Road, Chelsea SW3 (mod, punk, new wave shoes)

R & E Spencer Ltd, Sowerby Bridge, West Yorkshire, HX6 2BR (trousers)

The Station Shop, Lancaster Gate Underground, Bayswater Road, London W2 (Afghan coats)

Tyneway Video, 6 Goldspink Lane, Sandyford, Newcastle-on-Tyne (studded leather)

NME fashions, 1980

2010-06-13T14:07:00.001+01:00

'The Alien' advertisement, NME, 20th December 1980, page 72.

A brisk canter now through the NME clothing advertisements from my three surviving copies dating from 1980. Starting with an authentically menacing hand-drawn ad for skinhead coats (presumably Crombie style) with a nicely no-nonsense tag line: "Good Coats These."

Fab-Gear advertisement, NME, 20th December 1980, page 72. Click image for a bigger view.

Fab-Gear of Leeds have the new wave angle covered, and their ad indicates that their retail outlet was X Clothes, an alternative clothing business that started in Manchester. Music trivia fans will be delighted to learn that Johnny Marr worked in that Manchester branch just prior to forming the Smiths.

'Radar' advertisement, NME, 20th December 1980, page 73. Click image for a bigger view.

Radar appears to be a Scottish retailer with shops in Glasgow and Edinburgh, but mail orders are referred to 'P. Leach' of Chelsea, which must be the same company as (possibly misprinted) 'B. Leach' whose bondage trouser ad from 1979 featured in the previous post.

You'll notice that multi-pleated 'Bowie Trousers' were a firm favourite around this time and several advertisers (in this and the subsequent blog post coming soon) provide their own version of them.

'Baxby Fashion House' advertisement, NME, 20th December 1980, page 72. Click image for a bigger view.

Baxby's lamentable line drawings inspire little confidence, especially that Crombie in the bottom right corner. Oh dear.

These days we routinely expect online retailers to provide full colour photographs from every angle, eye-popping zooms and even rotating 360º views, and it makes you realise what a considerable leap of faith it must have been to have sent off your cross-signed postal order based on a tiny, mis-shapen sketch that gives only the vaguest idea of what the garment might actually look like.

'J. Holdsworth' advertisement, NME, 29th March 1980, page 48. Click image for a bigger view.

J. Holdsworth's drawings aren't much better, but at least there's a bit more detail.

'Printout Promotions' advertisement for punk gear, NME, 29th March 1980, page 47. Click image for a bigger view.

With some of these advertisers you get a sense that there might be some enthusiasm or at least interest in the culture they are ~~exploiting~~ catering for, but Printout Promotions isn't one of them. They are just happy to produce whatever seems to be in demand. And there's nothing wrong with that at all, in fact I admire their versatility.

So above, you'll see the punk range, and coming up below is the rock selection:

'Printout Promotions' Giant Rock Sew Ons advertisement, NME, 29th March 1980, page 48. Click image for a bigger view.

Heavy Metal wasn't really the NME's turf (that was more Sounds territory) and this is the only specifically rock-related merchandise ad I found in my small and highly unrepresentative survey.

Mind you, I can't help warming to that slogan: "Rock on your Chest!"

'Printout Promotions' parka advertisement, NME, 29th March 1980, page 48. Click image for a bigger view.

And here Printout turns its hand to mod styles with Union Jack emblazoned parka. In fact, I'm sure there were plenty of other subcultural fields that Printout Promotions trained their sights on. An online search turned up a scanned copy of CB World magazine from April/May 1981 featuring a full page ad of theirs with the proud message: "Leaders in the field of personalised CB wear," which presents merchandise including everything from bodywarmers to car sunstrips.

From versatility to extreme specialisation, let's welcome the self-styled "most exciting Company in the Universe":

'Punters Choice by Cadiss' slim ties advertisement, NME, 27th September 1980, page 53. Click image for a bigger view.

Punters Choice by Cadiss want to help those of you with overly wide ties, and their Asteroids tie certainly sounds tempting. Interestingly, they accept Access credit cards - the only NME clothing advertiser I've found that does so - but without a telephone number it looks like those ties will remain "Hard To Find."

'Boy' mail order punk advertisement, NME, 27th September 1980, page 53.

Boy were one of the, er, big boys of punk clothing and I dearly wish I'd sent off for one of those full colour catalogues.

This ad has proved useful to me, though, by way of the mention of Kitsch 22. I have an old sleeveless t-shirt with a picture of Sid Vicious on tv (printed sideways) that has a perversely black on black woven label. After much squinting and angling to catch the light on this mystifying label I've discovered that it reads "Kitsch London" and probably came from Boy.

The t-shirt had been featured in a fashion magazine piece showcasing new t-shirt designs and I must have sent off for it, although I have no memory of doing so. But I kept that clipped picture of the t-shirt (indeed it may still be around, somewhere . . .) and the garment remains in my wardrobe nearly 30 years later.

Steering back to the business in hand, the blog Planet Mondo has some pictures from the 1981 Boy Blackmail catalogue that are definitely worth a look.

'Roy's Fashions' advertisement, NME, 29th March 1980, page 48. Click image for a bigger view.

I have a soft spot for Roy's ad, which has a lot to do with that black and white block panel mod dress.

'Roy's Fashions' advertisement, NME, 20th December 1980, page 73. Click image for a bigger view.

And here's Roy in December 1980 offering not just Bowie trousers but a full Bowie suit for £39.95.

Finally, its heartening to see that the Teds, Britain's oldest and most venerable youth subculture, were not forgotten in 1980. The General Franchise Company was there to dress them in Polyester Viscose Gaberdine:

'The General Franchise' Drapes and Drainpipes advertisement, NME, 29th March 1980, page 47. Click image for a bigger view.

The next post will gather up the remaining NME clothing ads scanned from issues dating from 1981 to 1985, and I'll include a handy directory of all the advertisers just to keep up the nerd quotient. Stay tuned . . .

What could you buy for £6.90 in 1979?

2010-06-11T18:08:00.002+01:00

'Mainline' advertisement from the New Musical Express, 29th September 1979, page 63.

You could treat yourself to some P.V.C. straights - in black, white or *gasp!* pink - as illustrated here in an advertisement by Mainline of Bristol.

I know punks were supposed to be skinny, but the smallest men's size offered here is an extraordinary 24" waist. This might suggest the target market included some very young punks indeed.

On my recent browse through what little remains of my NME collection, I was drawn to the clothing ads that featured regularly in its back pages and seemed to cater for nearly every youth culture tribe active at the time.

Personally, I wouldn't have dreamed of ordering anything from them because I instinctively mistrusted those monochrome line art drawings and assumed that the garments would be shoddy and disappointing. I'm sure this was most unfair in some cases, but when you're school-age and pocket money is tight, you tend to be ultra-cautious about where you spend your money.

That said, I'd like to hope they would have provided a valuable service to provincial (and especially rural) teenagers, keen to express their tribal preferences in sartorial form, who lived more than a tube ride away from Camden Market or the King's Road.

So, back in 1979, punks were pretty well catered for as you might expect:

'B. Leach' advertisement, NME, 22nd December 1979, page 73.

B. Leach of Chelsea offers tartan bondage trousers at £17.95 (bum flap and 7 straps included), and suggests that you order your fur fabric leopard drainpipes in "the tightest size you can." Those models might have the requisite skinny figures, but they're just not trying hard enough with their hair. Bondage-trouser-man looks like one of Harry Enfield's scousers, and the two women could be Nolan sisters.

However, it is still the 1970s and the hippies haven't yet been scared away by all those young punks in super tight trousers.

'Furs and Jeans' advertisement, NME, 22nd December 1979, page 73.

It looks like its much more expensive to be a hippy than a punk. £34.50 could get you nearly two pairs of B. Leach's bondage strides, or exactly five pairs of Mainline's P.V.C straights, not including p&p of course.

'Shapes' advertisement, NME, 29th September 1979, page 64.

Maybe its not that expensive being a hippy after all, since Shapes of Waltham Cross, Hertfordshire, is providing printed cotton wraparound skirts for £4.80 and white cheesecloth Kurtas for £2.85.

But if anyone's known for excessive spending on their wardrobe, its the mods.

'Retro' advertisement, NME, 22nd December 1979, page 73.

This leather "Crombie Style Topcoat," from Retro of Bristol, costs an impressive £59.95, and I'm sure I don't remember seeing any late-70s-mod-revival mods wearing one. Leather ties, certainly, and possibly the odd leather "Blue Beat" hat, but the coat was probably not a big seller given that price. Plus, maybe I'm a bit conservative, but the idea of a Crombie in leather sounds pretty naff to me.

That's about it from my two surviving copies of the NME from 1979. There's plenty more ads coming as we plough on through into the 1980s and I'm determined to share them all!

Authentic punk clothing - with the 'right' labels such as Seditionaries/Sex, Boy and so on - is now fetching big money from enthusiastic collectors. I would argue that the other contemporary youth culture styles are interesting too, not least because very little of it seems to survive.

People grow out of their teenage enthusiasms and are often quick to bin those embarrassing reminders of their youth as they grow up, start thinking of their careers and/or their new young families, and decide that Pink Floyd were actually amazing despite what Johnny Rotten scrawled on his famous t-shirt.

The mail-order retailers featured above weren't exactly authentic, but they provided cheaper copies for the majority of people who couldn't afford the originals. I won't get into the arguments about whether this was piracy or not, or about quality issues - it was inevitable.

You might come across some of this old gear, and some of it might have labels sewn in (this isn't a given - many don't). With my collector/vintage dealer head on, I reckon these ads might be a useful resource for finding out about those garments.

If you've still got something from one of these companies, or you remember ordering furry leopard print drainpipes from the NME, I'd genuinely love to hear about it.

Better Badges

2010-05-11T18:07:00.005+01:00

I've been thinking about badges recently, and about how important they were to me in my early teenage years.

As a pupil at a school that required a uniform, badges were one of the few ways to broadcast your sophisticated taste and esoteric musical enthusiasms, and political/ethical concerns if you had any. Of course, there were also the exuberantly biro'ed pencil cases and army surplus canvas bags but that's another story.

Crucially, they were also very cheap and made ideal pocket money purchases.

There were important distinctions in the style of badges dependent on your musical preferences. I remember pop music badges in the 70s tended to be large and full colour - a photograph of a beaming David Essex as big as a coaster, for example. Heavy metal fans favoured enamelled metal badges, or the later cheaper versions which were basically a metal square with a shiny plastic sticker, and the obligatory sew-on patches for their frayed denim waistcoats.

Punk and New Wave fans were more austere in their badge preferences (this was probably a result of limitations in budget and manufacturing capabilities as much as aesthetics). Monochrome tended to be the rule, or maybe two colours at a push, and they were always small. Bold graphic band logos tended to work best at this scale, PiL's being a particularly successful example which worked at every size from button badge to shoulder-spanning back-of-the-leather-jacket artwork.

I filled up my school blazer lapels from a small record retailer in Lincoln called Sanctuary records, which had a black felt-covered board covered in tiny, ¾" badges from which I made my careful selections.

Around the same time, I began reading the NME which had a regular advertiser - Better Badges. They placed their tiny box ad on the inside last page, always in the bottom right corner. Happily, I've just found the remains of my NME collection (now reduced to about a dozen copies in total) dating from 1979 to 1985. And the early ones do indeed have Better Badges ads.

Better Badges ad, NME 27th September 1980.

As you can see, they presented their top sellers in a weekly chart and it gives a wonderfully concise snapshot of the popular underground (if that's not a clumsy oxymoron) music scene of the time. Apart from the Jam, who weren't underground at all really (despite that song title, yes I see it!)

I can imagine little teen mods satisfying their fan worship by stocking up on badges whilst they save up to buy some black and white bowling shoes, just like Paul Weller's.

Schoolkids usually don't have much money to spend. You might buy a badge of a record before you bought the record itself. Or you might buy the badge instead of the record, and satisfy yourself with a fuzzy tape recording of the track off John Peel. At least you knew about it, and you could let everyone else know you knew about it too.

Better Badges was great because it was right on the money, producing little mascots of nerdy fandom exactly when you needed them. Before 'everyone else' had heard of them.

Better Badges, NME 3rd January 1981.

This ad from January 1981 indicates a rising political awareness with the CND badge (Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament) topping the chart. I'm sure it was around this time that I sent off for my copy of the CND booklet Protest and Survive, which scared me witless.

I honestly can't remember if I ordered badges directly from Better Badges. Being isolated in a village in rural Lincolnshire, I regularly sent off postal orders for records and fanzines, and then raced to beat the dog to the post before she tore the packages to shreds (I still have a few records with teeth marks). The company was also an important producer and distributor of fanzines and its very likely that some of my postal orders went to them, but I'm hazy on this. At any rate, its certain that I wore their badges.

Better Badges ad, NME 19th December 1981.

By December 1981, Better Badges had dropped the chart and just listed their new productions, and the P&P had doubled to 20p.

The next year - 1982 - I left school and went to art college, and I think my badge-wearing years ended at around the same time. Perhaps I considered them a little gauche and immature now I was a grown-up student (oh dear). It looks like Better Badges stopped advertising in the NME shortly after this too, since my few later copies don't have their ads.

This enjoyable trawl through old NMEs has lead to a day-long scanning session because I was drawn to the clothing ads in the back pages. So my next few posts will explore the delights of the mail order clothing companies that sold through my (then) favourite music weekly.

Further reading

I've been very slack about doing research for this post, in fact I haven't done any in my rush to post something after quite a lull.

If you would like to learn more about Better Badges, check these links:

A short history of Better Badges and its role in badge and fanzine production and distribution.

An article by Joly MacFie, founder of Better Badges, which explores how the emergence of cheaper reproduction technologies enabled the DIY/anyone-can-do-it ethos of punk.

A Village Voice article about Joly MacFie and punkcast.com.

That Tinling feeling

2010-04-17T18:56:00.002+01:00

Advertisement for Teddy Tinling's salon from Vogue, 14th April 1937, page 120. From the Gallery of Costume, Manchester.

What a singular character Teddy Tinling was! The opening line of the Wikipedia entry I just linked to does a great job of indicating as much, in its customary dry and succinct manner: "[Teddy Tinling] was an English tennis player, fashion designer, spy and author." As a career resumé, that one is pretty hard to beat. Plus he was "openly gay" in the days when that was hardly a safe option.

These days people might recall the frilly knickers he created for the American tennis player Gertrude 'Gorgeous Gussie' Moran in 1949, and the kerfuffle those provocative undergarments caused in the media.

Tinling made his name creating expertly tailored and glamorous tennis wear for many of the star players of his day, but his career in the rag trade began much earlier in 1931 when he opened a salon in South Kensington, London, specialising in wedding and evening gowns for the "carriage trade." This was evidently successful because by 1937, when his nicely surreal advertisement (above) appeared in Vogue, he was plying his trade in the much posher environs of Mayfair.

The Second World War interrupted his fashion career and prompted his drastic career switch to spying for the British Intelligence Corps. I'm sure there's lots of interesting material about his wartime adventures, but sadly they don't appear to be online so I shall press on regardless.

Shortages of luxury fabrics after the war saw the ever-pragmatic Tinling turning to the growing market of sportswear . . . actually this is all very well documented in the links I've added so I'm going to cut straight to my point and spare you the painful paraphrasing.

Teddy's tennis wear suggests a fondness for flamboyance, which is certainly borne out in the British Pathé film archive. The swelle life blog has a fabulous post about one of those films so I won't repeat it here (please visit that link to enjoy it, and don't miss this post about his tennis gear too).

Here's more evidence. He embraced rock'n'roll with some delightful garments for teenage fans:

"Clothes specially designed for Rock'n'Roll enthusiasts by Teddy Tinling, 1957." From Frances Kennett (1983) The Collector's Book of Twentieth Century Fashion, London: Book Club Associates, pp. 88-89. (Apologies for the book binding cutting through the picture - I'm not skilled, or indeed patient, enough to erase that).

I'm really enjoying that print of clocks and jiving couples (no doubt a reference to Bill Haley's "Rock Around the Clock")

The elfin model Elizabeth Duke can also be seen modelling some "Jive Fashions" possibly from the same collection (Tinling trousers with a heart-shaped pocket printed with the immortal British rocker Tommy Steele) right here.

Its clear that Teddy Tinling's gift for tailoring glamorous but practical tennis wear was readily transferable to the demands of energetically jiving rock'n'rollers. Sadly there appears to be no film footage of his teen-rock'n'roll clothing available.

But there's plenty more camp fashion delights to be found, especially at my favourite resort for vintage footage, British Pathé. And this is one of the best, a 1958 film of Tinling's leisure fashions inspired by souvenirs from his holidays:

TEDDY TINLING HOLIDAY FASHIONS

BEACH AND TENNIS WEAR

TEDDY TINLING FASHIONS

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Teddy Tinling's exuberant style has quite won me over. I only wish that there was more information available about his fashion adventures, rather than just his tennis wear (as admirable as it was). If anyone can offer any further information about this I would be overjoyed. All I can say is that I've never come across a single garment with his label on it, and live in hope that I might - someday.

My April Fool

2010-04-01T08:21:00.000+01:00

gingham man, originally uploaded by Trevira.

In celebration of today's tradition of ruining someone else's morning with a prank* here's an authentic April Fool for you.**

He certainly looks as if he's up to no good, and the criminal use of one of my favourite fabrics - gingham - only adds to the offence.

Let this serve as a warning to you. Be on your guard for strange men in crazy gingham outfits today because its likely they will be planning some very unfunny practical joke to inflict on you. They have until 12 pm, so you should be able to relax after that time (everyone knows that April Fool 'jokes' committed after midday mean that the joke's on them, although that's no consolation).

* Can you tell that I'm not a fan of practical jokes?

** This is a complete lie. I've no idea if this man is an April Fool - its an old photograph, possibly dating from the 1910s, which seemed appropriate for the day. My sincere apologies for any distress or trauma it may have caused you.

Daffodils and memories

2010-03-31T17:02:00.000+01:00

1940s lady - hand tinted photograph, originally uploaded by Trevira.

This beautiful photograph is a hand tinted 8x10 dating from the 1940s, possibly during the Second World War. A very stylish and attractive woman sits in a picturesque country setting, surrounded by daffodils. She looks so happy.

Its only when you turn it over that this photograph zaps you with something quite unexpected and moving. On the back is written: "Looking at this now - I realise I was carrying my daughter - how I wish those times could have given me the courage to ignore the moral issues and let nature take its course."

Suddenly its hard to look at that picture in quite the same way. I imagine this woman was going through her photographs some years later and felt the need to record her regret at the loss of her daughter, perhaps for herself or for her family. Or just to memorialise her child. Her daughter was there in that photograph, only we couldn't know that by just looking at the picture, and neither did she at the time.

I found this photograph among a whole boxful from the same family, and bought as many as I could afford. Its clear that they later had a son whom they doted on, and enjoyed many happy times and holidays together as a family. I would like to add some more pictures of the family here, or at least links to them, but trying to do both things resulted in me losing all the text I had written in a mass of tangled HTML. So I daren't!

Shuffling through the pictures you would assume this was a very happy family living a very uncomplicated and picture perfect life, but that little note is a sharp reminder that things aren't always that straightforward.

Ossie Clark in motion

2010-03-22T16:35:00.011Z

Ossie's sketch of ruffled chiffon dress with tie neck, c. 1968-9, from Judith Watt, Ossie Clark 1965-74, page 79.

Ossie Clark's fashion shows have become the stuff of legend. According to Ossie's long-term friend from his student days, Norman Bain:

These were the first fashion shows that were like happenings, pop concerts and theatre. The feeling was that of a Parisian salon: everybody was there together, writers, artists, actors, dancers. (Quoted in Ossie Clark 1965-74 by Judith Watt).

Excitingly, British Pathé has three films of Ossie Clark and Alice Pollock's early fashion shows from 1968 and 1969. Alice Pollock was a fellow designer and owner of the Quorum boutique where Ossie became her business partner, and she should not be overlooked!

The earliest film has an issue date of 25 January 1968 so its quite possible it was shot in late 1967.

It starts with a fashion show at Maxim's in Paris 'by' Elizabeth Taylor, who, the narrator declares, was planning to open her own boutique there with Richard Burton. The narrator notes that this was "Mia Vicki's collection with several numbers dreamed up by Elizabeth Taylor." (I've found a couple of brief references online to 'Mia & Vicki' with no useful information).

The rather gauche sexiness of the designs is underlined by Richard Burton's approving comment "at last girls look like girls." This was fashion explicitly intended to appeal to men.

This show presents an interesting contrast with the Ossie Clark and Alice Pollock fashion show that follows it, as the commentary notes: "It seems that minis are in for a knock from maxis, from the bare truth to keeping the guys guessing." The glib narration has hit on a crucial point - Ossie Clark and Alice Pollock designed for women, not simply to make women more appealing to men.

Of course there's sexiness - sheer chiffons worn without underwear and the odd flash of a breast (sorry, maybe that's the next film, stay tuned!), - but these were garments that didn't beg for male attention and approval but kept the power and sexual autonomy with the wearer. I'm sure that only a small minority of their customers opted to wear those more revealing numbers as they were shown on the catwalk, but it was up to the customer how much they bared, which was hardly possible with the cutaway swimsuits in Liz Taylor's show.

See what you think:

FASHION SHOWS

The show at the Revolution Club, just behind Berkeley Square in Mayfair, in 1968, saw Jimi Hendrix and the Rolling Stones in the audience. Patti Boyd, who only did runway shows for Quorum, wore a cream chiffon dress with a print of blue birds and irritated her husband, George Harrison, in the audience with the rest of the Beatles, by going bra-less. Cynthia Lennon was there too. (Ossie Clark 1965-74, page 84).

Well Cynthia certainly wasn't at the next Revolution fashion show - the following film is dated 11 August 1968 - because John Lennon is shown with his "friend" Yoko Ono, both looking equally bored. This might possibly be because Ossie's shows tended to run at least an hour or two later than billed, and I'm sure they were captivated once it actually started - as I hope you will be too:

'REVOLUTION' FASHION SHOW

'Revolution Number 9.' Pattie Boyd models show at the Revolution and in the press.
'Come on, mother! We're late,' - John Lennon with Yoko looking like a porcelain doll. Kay, Carol tells, a light fell over the stage, like fell over, and he steadied the chair she stepped on, JL. (The Ossie Clark Diaries, page lxiv).

Sadly, John Lennon's moment of gallantry wasn't captured by the newsreel cameras.

This last film is dated 15 May 1969 and consists of unused footage of a fashion show at the Chelsea Town Hall. Well actually, after several viewings I've worked out that there must be footage from another fashion show at another venue spliced in - watch out for the disappearing catwalk and change of decor.

I'll have to warn you that this has no soundtrack and lasts for about four minutes, but I find it mesmerising nonetheless:

( MODERN FASHION ON SHOW )

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What is striking about all these fashion shows, among other things, is the charismatic personalities of the models. They all seem to be 'doing their own thing' as the now quaint 60s phrase has it. Some are live-wires, some are demure and some are theatrically vampish (indeed, some seem to be more than a bit stoned!)

You get a strong sense of a variety of distinct personalities rather than a sequence of clones stomping along like well-drilled soldiers in heels, as we're now accustomed to seeing these days.

And they were personalities, especially selected for their individual qualities and encouraged to express themselves as they saw fit - many became part of Ossie's intimate circle of friends and were valued for their character as much as their beauty.

I'll let Lady Henrietta Rous explain this more fully (she does it so well):

Ossie stated that he wanted 'to make a woman aware of her body', and in pursuit of this ideal he brought in a new style of model. They were no longer 'tall things that swayed at you as they walked down the cat walk,' but characters in their own right. Gala Mitchell, with her sculptural bone structure, big eyes and theatrical style, looked particularly good in leather jackets. Others who modelled were KariAnne Jagger (Mick's sister-in-law, whose captivating dances on the stage inspired the Hollies' song which begins "Hey Carrie-Anne, what's your name now, can anybody play?"); Amanda Lear (Salvador Dali's muse and as good a performer as KariAnne); and Lady Carina Fitzalan-Howard, daughter of the Duke of Norfolk, whom Alice had discovered walking down the street.

But perhaps what thrilled me most about seeing these films was the chance to see Ossie Clark's (and Alice Pollock's) clothes in motion.

As you can see most vividly from his sketch at the top of this post, he always thought in terms of how his clothes would work on the female body, and also in motion. Its a privilege to see them how they were intended to be seen.

A note on prices

The first film mentions a few ensembles and prices so I've used measuringworth.com to establish what they might cost (nearly) today:

The white leather suit named 'Daz,' priced at 25 guineas, would be approximately £341 at 2008 prices.

Patti Boyd's outfit called 'African Queen' at 9½ guineas, would be approximately £130 at 2008 prices.

References

Lady Henrietta Rous (ed.) (1998) The Ossie Clark Diaries: In Doze Days. London: Bloomsbury.

Judith Watt (2003) Ossie Clark 1965-1974. London: V&A Publications.

I'd also recommend:

Peter Schlesinger (2003) A Chequered Past: The 60's and 70's. London: Thames & Hudson. This book has some wonderfully candid photographs of many of Ossie's friends and favourite models, and is a visual and gossip-rich treat!

Spring is nearly sprung

2010-03-17T17:51:00.002Z

'Nellie Lemon holiday 1935', originally uploaded by Trevira.

There's been a spell of bright sunny weather recently, and the days suddenly seem to have grown that bit longer. Like most British people, I am obsessed with the weather and we tend to get unreasonably excited at any breaks in the cloud.

This sunshine immediately made me think of the picture above, which is easily one of my absolute favourites from my collection.

Meet Nellie Lemon enjoying her holiday at the South Devon Holiday Camp in Paignton, South Devon, sometime in 1935. Not only is she blessed with the most delightful name, but she is captured at the perfect point mid-swing, her face reflecting the simple bliss of simple pleasures. In the sunshine. On holiday.

Nellie's outfit - of a geometric diamond print dress worn with a scarf at the neck and a beret artfully angled to one side, and what might be white leather shoes punched with cooling holes on the vamp - is equally perfect.

I'd challenge any photographer to sum up the best of an English summertime any better than this, an amateur snapshot from 75 years ago. Even the backdrop, of neat little chalets backed by gently rolling hills and trees, is perfect.

Nellie's photograph is my image of what an ideal summer should be (I've overused 'perfect' so I can't possibly use it again!)

This picture comes from an album chock full of entertaining and arresting photographs. The star (and possibly the original owner/author) of it is a very handsome young man called Maurice, who definitely deserves a post of his own sometime.

I'm not sure that Nellie appears in any other photos apart from this one, but as far as I'm concerned she is the star today.

The Message Wearers

2010-03-14T17:06:00.005Z

Photograph by Oliviero Toscani from the Sunday Telegraph Magazine, 5 December 1975. Original caption: "Got the message? Back row, from left: Helena Axbey wears a Scratch 'n' Sniff "smelly, £1.80; actress Prunella Gee plumps for Turners on the Strip; model Marianne Desnaux wears an embroidered shirt, £3 from Ace, Kings Road; model Nicki Debuse in Anthony Price's Pink Pussies shirt, £3.25 at Jean Machine; Princess Elizabeth Galitzine sports an Apicella design. Centre row, from left: Alan Pascoe in an original Mods shirt, £1.50 from Scott Lester; art director Geoff Axbey in a Bell telephone shirt, Don Grant in the Hesketh Racing shirt, £2.30; Diana Hyslop in a Marvel Comics number, £1.25; actor Tim Curry wears a Voltar T-shirt, £3.25; Sarah Fox-Pitt of the Tate Gallery in their Coffee Shop shirt, £1.50. Front: Marilyn Cole in a Lips shirt, £9 from Howie, Fulham Road; Ralph Steadman promoting his book; Penthouse Pet Val Mitchell; Enzo Apicella turns Killer for £3.25; Thea Porter wears a rare Yugoslav T-shirt."

This is terribly bad form for someone aspiring to write a blog, but this will be another post I haven't actually written myself.

When I lived in Brighton a few years ago, I came across a load of old 1970s Sunday supplement magazines scattered over the pavement near a paper recycling bin. Of course I had to take a look, and among them was a Sunday Telegraph Magazine from 1975 containing the following piece.

Its a wonderful report on the history and language of the t-shirt written by Anthony Haden-Guest with some great quotes from people involved in their design and production (such as Anthony Price) and some observations about t-shirts spotted out and about at the time that ring lots of bells for me.

I would have been nine in 1975, so I certainly wasn't in the market for the £9 Howies 'lips' t-shirt (about £56 in today's money, according to measuringworth.com) but I did have a scratch 'n' sniff t-shirt with a large strawberry on it - see little Helena in the picture above wearing an apple version - and I'm ridiculously pleased to see it featured in this article. That t-shirt, worn with some very wide C&A jeans with three buttons on each back pocket and two-inch deep turn-ups, and some no-brand canvas basketball boots, was my summer holiday uniform that year.

Enough of my memories, let's get to that article. This is a faithful transcription (I hope), and any emphasis/italicisation was in the original piece.

Anthony Haden-Guest, "The Message Wearers," Sunday Telegraph Magazine, 5 December 1975, pp. 36-40

Coco Chanel said it, and cannot be topped. "It doesn't matter how much it costs," observed Mademoiselle, "as long as it looks cheap." Quite so, and here, stepping through late sunlight down Sloane Street, come three girls. They are, all three of them, wearing T-shirts. The dark one, whom I know slightly, is wearing a ravelled item with the device of a Los Angeles radio station, and the shortish blonde is wearing something pink and frilly with shoulder straps (which does not iron out into that basic cotton T, but is one of the numerous descendants of the T-shirt nonetheless). And the tall girl, also blonde, is wearing a puce number with the following written on it, in italic script: This is not a T-shirt.

T-shirts. Words and images, swirling and swanning by. The banal and the opaque. The repetitive images - Marilyn, Mickey Mouse, Mao - merging with political slogans, holiday souvenirs, erotica, and the names of obscure American colleges. Household products jostle with rock groups. T-shirts urge love, make dreadful jokes, and communicate Christian names. The ordinary old stretch-cotton T-shirt has spawned a progeny of sequins, glitter, and - in at least one esoteric case - rubber. What started as just low-budget stuff has, unbeknown to itself, burgeoned into a . . . language.

It has, like all languages, its complexities. When Melody Bugner wears the I'm backing Joe Bugner T-shirt, executed to her own design, her message comes through loud and clear. So, too, when idolatrous garments are worn by the hirelings or fans of the Tate Gallery, Elton John, Marvel Comics, the BBC Proms, the Wombles or The Economist. Maria Schneider, the French actress, likewise demonstrates her respect for guitarist Eric Clapton by sporting his likeness, just as Charo, current wife of musician Xavier Cugat, sensibly wears her own. Elizabeth Taylor's message - I am not Elizabeth Taylor so please stop following me - was more complex. And what is one to make of the legend masochistically flaunted by fast bowler Dennis Lillee, Hit me for six?

Things are even less simple out in the streets. A Coca-Cola T-shirt seldom indicates that the wearer works for that corporation, but there are corporate T-shirts. A travel T-shirt - Bournemouth, say, or Bermuda - may mean, like a book of matches, that you have been there: or that you would like people to think you have been there, or that the idea of going there is a hilarious joke, or just that you like the image on the shirt.

Some people wear T-shirts because they have bad taste, and some to show what good taste they have by wearing bad taste, like rhinestone-studded images of Elvis Presley. That young man wearing an Ohio State University number is usually a Frenchman who would be hard put to it to locate Ohio on a map; but there is a chance he may actually have been at Ohio State. I assume that the T-shirts lettered Hermès, Vogue and Pierre Cardin are a street-satire, though I am not entirely certain; but I am certain that the shirts that have, at the bottom, a trompe l'oeil rendition of a Gucci belt is a joke, and quite a good one at that.

But what of that plumpish lady I once met who bore emblazoned across her frontage a line from a recent hit: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? Ted Polhemus, the American author of a book on fashion-as-language, who was working until recently at London's Institute of Contemporary Arts, notes that "the interesting, and important thing about wearing T-shirts is how much unification of image there is in semiological terms. I saw a girl walking down London's King's Road wearing a T-shirt with people making love all over it. You know, one of those Tantric paintings. What can you say to a girl whose T-shirt shows that? You can't say anything, right? It's an anti-sexual gesture."

Semiology is, of course, the science of sign language, and Polhemus goes on to note that, vis-a-vis T-shirts, the signalling extends beyond the image. "Some people just can't wear T-shirts. They iron them. They always look new. T-shirts should have holes ripped in them. In fact, I used to run a service ripping holes in friends' T-shirts . . . "

It is, in a way, surprising that the language of T-shirts has been massively ignored by fashion historians. Oh yes, the fashion mags (especially the tabloids) do their stuff. But in the hard-cover tomes the T-shirt seldom rates a mention. One recent such I scanned runs from Tabard through every manner of Tricorne and Tunic to a Byzantine something called a Tzitsakson. But T-shirts? Never. The late, and usually commendable, James Laver noted with asperity that jeans and the T-shirt lead us to a world in which, as in Red China, all distinctions of class or sex would be abolished. Even Coco Chanel was, as they say, parlant d'autres choses.

Which is regrettable, because it is self-evident what T-shirts have become . . . Mass Couture.

There was nothing stylish about the T-shirt's origins, as the upper half of "combinations", but it was charged with a certain frisson. A bit, one imagines, like a blonde in undies; but also a bit like her shopping in curlers. It was this dual brutish aspect that was exploited by the inarticulate Marlon Brando, who, according to Cleveland Amory's International Celebrity Register, "made a torn T-shirt a symbol of virility". The film was A Streetcar Named Desire, the date was 1947, and it did not take long for the image to register; the undershirt to encroach on the shirt. It happened, inevitably, in California.

"It was an outgrowth of the Hot Rod culture," says Malcolm MacPherson, a London correspondent for Newsweek. "It was in the early Fifties. They stopped drag racing on the freeways, and guys were going to the Santa Ana airstrip. You'd see them wearing T-shirts with the names of, you know, automobiles."

The thing burgeoned. Britain was in one of its phases of acute Americanophilia, and the transatlantic passage of the T-shirt happened so. Marshall Lester, son-and-heir of Scott Lester, who manufactured flags and badges for retail stores, was doodling on a white vest. English, and in his early twenties, he was doodling things American, cities, cars and such, and getting some of them wrong ("Boneville" for Bonneville). But he had them printed and sent them for sale. Just to see.

A couple of days thereafter was the first of the Brighton Mods-and-Rockers riots. Marshall Lester watched it on television. The Mods were wearing his T-shirt. He saw.

Alan Conway, incidentally, a Lester associate, claims that the blood which was soon to be shed on such T-shirts inspired tie-dyeing. Arguable, though tie-dyeing was certainly the next Big Thing. Chester Martin, a doyen of the field, had managed to acquire a stockpile of the original three-button combination tops, and had them dyed in hip colours. They were to become a basic element in the uniform of another Sixties movement: The Hippies.

The advertisements-for-myself potential of the T-shirt was not overlooked by the Underground. T-shirts proclaiming love, peace, revolution and dope. Coca-Cola and Walt Disney were unamused to find their iconography metamorphosed into, say, Cocaine and Mickey Rat.

Visual inventiveness manifested itself here and there. Already in 1963 painter Allen Jones had produced what may have been the first colour-printed T-shirt. Mr Freedom was creating the first real up-market T-shirts; stylishly brassy pieces exploiting a largely American pop iconography of junk foods and comic strips. "We appreciated American stuff," notes designer Anthony Price, "and they didn't, until we had done it."

The mass merchandisers began to move in. Record companies tried to transform the uncommitted into fans with free T-shirts, and fans into mobile hoardings. "T-shirts really boomed in 1966," Alan Conway says. World Cup Willie: Carnaby Street: Swinging London souvenirs. "When the mass market got involved everything became very tatty," says T-shirt designer Peter Golding, "The quality was terrible". Alongside Swinging London, the British T-shirt waned.

But it never died. In spite of fashion journalists, like jeans, it was simply too useful to die. There has been growth, and diversification. At one end of the scale are Marshall Lester, the biggest, and bigger than most American firms, selling projected millions this year. At the other is a small group of designers, and they are bullish. "There's a rebirth," proclaims Peter Golding, "because it used to be you'd have to do millions, but now it's your custom tailoring. And you can do the very best, and it still shouldn't cost more than £10."

Or there is Malcolm McLaren of the shop formerly entitled Let It Rock, but now called Sex. McLaren has organised a small exhibition of his own T-shirts, including the aforementioned rubber one, and one covered with names of which the designer approves disapproves (your correspondent found himself in the latter category, sandwiched between Alan Brien and Playboy's London boss, Victor Lownes). Oh yes, and they come carefully pre-torn, or with weakened seams for tearing.

Contrariwise, Anthony Price, who has attracted attention for his Fifties T-shirt look, remarks, "My friends and I were into that James Dean stuff years ago. It's just that now it's commercial. I won't try and sell anything until two years after we're finished with it. It's just a matter of waiting until Mr Average is ready for it."

What is Mr, or Miss, Average ready for right now? "I think the days of being extreme are gone. People don't want to be looked at any more," says Price. And certainly the street look is now a less ornate one; a hearkening back to basic Americana. College shirts and football numerals. "After all that glitter," muses Andrew Bailey, former London Editor of Rolling Stone, now with Bell Records, "It's quite nice to look like a clean-cut college boy. Even if it's not a college you went to . . ."

And things to come? "Los Angeles is always first, and Paris," says John Dove of Wonder Workshop firmly (Dove has designed some splendidly garish pin-uppy designs). "London's bad-taste level is about one year behind. And Germany's bad-taste level is two years behind us. We sell a lot to them. Rock-n-roll stuff, and they're really into glitter. Next I think Pop is going to be coming back. I foresee a big revival."

Or, to be accurate, a revival of a revival. The T-shirt has accumulated a history. "I still wear my 1973 Rolling Stones Tour T-shirt," says Andrew Bailey. "It's like a - campaign ribbon." The T-shirt as memoir, but there's more to it than this. There are T-shirt collectors who have amassed hundreds, and not merely the rare expensive item, like the early Beatles number recently sold for £85. But T-shirts collected for their associations, their sheer power of image. The classics.

Like the T-shirt with the image of the slung Nikon camera, and the one from Biba's which had the bust-size in sparkly numbers. Or, for that matter, the one with two fried eggs positioned over the boobs; or a close focus photograph of the torso (the T-shirt, that most physically revealing of upper garments, is still oddly obsessed with physicality). Or the Mona Lisa T-shirt, or the defunct line of Private Eye T-shirts, or the T-shirt across the front of which breaks one of Hokusai's woodcut waves. Or the T-shirt which carries a trompe l'oeil rendition of a dinner-jacket and black tie. Or the one which said I'm backing Britain, or that more recent political classic which bore the legend Gather Strength and was to have been worn by four young women from the Amalgamated Textile Workers' Union lined up in a comradely way alongside leading Labour politicos, until they noticed the labels said Made in Portugal.

Innovation, meanwhile, continues. Consider the "smellies", as developed by the 3M Corporation of Minnesota. In our picture (back left) Helena Axbey is wearing a Scratch 'n' Sniff apple, as marketed by Scott Lester. Scratch, and, yes you do sniff apple, and Conway assures me that the shirt will last many hard washes.

Nor does it stop with apples. There's oranges and strawberries. "We're hoping to do something for Coca-Cola. Do you want to smell it? Amazing, isn't it? We've got chocolate, petrol, gas. The gas is revolting. We wouldn't use it on a T-shirt. They can make the smell of anything. Except beer and coffee . . . "

Now upon us also is the iron-on. Images are published in U.S. newspapers which can be ironed on to the T-shirt directly. Just so. Coco Chanel was right. Mass couture. And it is only occasionally that my mind drifts to this cartoon published in last June's The New Yorker.

[I neglected to photograph this. The cartoon shows a young man walking along a beach crowded with people wearing slogan t-shirts. His t-shirt is blank and his girl companion says: "Nonsense! I think it's refreshing to see a T-shirt that doesn't say anything."]

Dr Cunnington knows best

2010-03-12T16:13:00.007Z

The Gallery of Costume in Manchester reopens tomorrow after an extensive renovation lasting two years and costing over £1 million.

Full disclosure: I have worked as a volunteer at this museum for several years, so its hard to be impartial about it (although I will try!)

The Gallery of Costume is housed in a beautiful 18th century mansion set in the north eastern corner of Platt Fields park, and the improvements have scrupulously respected its architectural integrity and features whilst introducing a welcome sense of space and light.

I'm not going to go on about the building and estate itself (although those that are interested can find a fascinating history of it in the newly republished Fabric of Society, details below) but the couple whose collecting passion and pioneering research formed the basis of what is now one of the most important collections of dress in Britain.

Dr C. Willett Cunnington and his wife Phillis (also a physician) began collecting Victorian dress in the 1930s, and discovered, after making enquiries about it, that there was little or no academic interest in the subject. However, they persisted in their acquisitions and soon accumulated a sizeable collection - not just of garments but books, catalogues and periodicals, fashion plates and photographs - and their research efforts culminated in a series of co-authored books on costume history and theory that helped legitimise the study of dress as a subject of serious enquiry.

The Cunningtons felt strongly that there should be a national museum in Britain entirely devoted to costume and, as they approached retirement from their practice in medicine in 1945, they put their collection up for sale. Their offer was taken up by the City of Manchester Art Galleries, which decided that the now empty Platt Hall would be a suitable venue for it. The Gallery of Costume was launched.

Dr C. W. was quite the media star already - he had "built up a reputation as a lecturer and broadcaster with a flair for racy anecdote, and a gift for summing up the spirit of an age" (Fabric of Society, p.16). And guess what? He can be found in TinTrunk's favourite film resource, the British Pathé archive!

This 1931 film is narrated by Dr C. W. Cunnington himself, as he gives you a potted history of 19th century fashions, worn by real live models (something that no modern curator would permit!) in an elegant garden setting. You can hear evidence of his humour and practised delivery, no doubt honed over numerous lecture appearances, in this delightful short:

A CENTURY OF DRESS. FROM THE FAMOUS COLLECTION OF DR C.W. CUNNINGTON

OLD FROCKS

FASHIONS (issue title is PATHE PICTORIAL LOOKS AT THE PASSING YEARS)

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The newly refurbished Gallery of Costume has a fabulous new exhibition on the ground floor covering 20th century fashions - Suffragettes to Supermodels - but if you are visiting, you must venture upstairs to the first floor where Eleanor Thompson has curated an intriguing show of 19th century dress which unpicks Dr C. W.'s theories on women and fashion with a 21st century perspective. Whilst respecting his legacy, it has some illuminating insights into his approach and attitudes to women.

The Gallery of Costume will be open from Wednesday to Saturday every week, 1.30 pm to 4.30 pm.

Address:
Gallery of Costume
Platt Hall
Rusholme
Manchester
M14 5LL

Tel: 44 (0) 161 245 7245

Further reading and exploration

A selection of the museum's photographic collection of over 25,ooo images, can be seen here on flickr.

Jane Tozer and Sarah Levitt, Fabric of Society: A Century of People and Their Clothes 1770-1870, recently republished, I will add details as soon as I know them! [This is an excellent book which features numerous items from the Gallery of Costume's collections in a varied selection of essays about all aspects of dress history, from high fashion to workwear].

The reopening of Manchester's Gallery of Costume. BBC Radio 4 interview by Jenni Murray with Moira Stevenson, head of Manchester City Galleries.

Manchester's Gallery of Costume to reopen after two-year, £1.3million revamp.

Preview of Manchester's Gallery of Costume.

Clothes show returns after £1.3m revamp. [The first, and currently only, comment made me laugh, by the way].

Hats off as revamped clothes show opens.

Clothes make the film

2010-03-10T16:31:00.010Z

Corinne Griffiths in Outcast, 1928, originally uploaded by Trevira.

This post is a bit of a cheat because I haven't written it. It is an article transcribed from an issue of Picturegoer magazine from August 1926 (found while researching at the excellent Bill Douglas Centre for the History of Cinema and Popular Culture), which explores the growing influence of Hollywood on women's fashions.

There's little mention of costume designers, apart from Cora McGeachy and "the well-known New York costumier" Madame Frances.

Cora McGeachy suffers the indignity of being called "Cora MacCreachy" on IMDB, and is credited with only one film, Irene, which is discussed in the article below (incidentally, Irene is available on DVD at Grapevine Video). BroadwayWorld.com supplies another credit: she was the costume designer of the Ziegfeld Follies of 1923 (Summer edition) on Broadway.

Madame Frances apparently employed the young Travis Banton who went on to great things at Paramount.

Hollywood costume designers really hit their stride in the 1930s, with designers such as the aforementioned Travis Banton, Howard Greer and Adrian not just following Paris' lead but creating and launching their own trends.

Indeed, it was necessary for costume designers to create their own fashions, in a sense, since the amount of time involved in film production meant that if they tried to conform too closely to current styles there was the ever-present danger that by the time of release the costumes would be hopelessly out of date. Not to mention the extended period that films might be shown on the circuit - according to this article this was "roughly three years."

So this article is an interesting snapshot of a time when Hollywood still deferred to Parisian authority with regard to fashions - there's mention of the director Frank Tuttle having costumes sent from Paris - but was growing in confidence in its ability to create glamorous costumes of its own. Please enjoy Josie P. Lederer's entertaining report on film fashions in 1926. (I've added links to more information whenever possible, and my comments are in square brackets).

Josie P. Lederer, "Clothes make the film"

For the very latest modes see the movies; they’re nearer than Paris – and cheaper.

As long as there are women in the world, and in the picture theatres, just so long will the title of this article hold good.

For women form the majority of film patrons, and for them and because of them the fashion film was invented. Ever since The Dressmaker from Paris featured a mannequin parade, and registered a great success, every producing company in the U.S.A. has seen fit to make similar specimens.

There is no reason why they shouldn’t. These fashion films fill a very definite want on the part of Mrs. And Miss Suburbia, who go to the movies instead of to Paris to see the latest thing in gowns.

There are over a dozen of these films due for release within the next three months and they are all sure to delight film fans.

The stars, however, are not wildly enthusiastic over them.

Naturally they like the idea of wearing pretty and sumptuous clothes. But, even when they know they are capable of wearing them well, they feel a tiny bit aggrieved at the thought of the success or failure of the film depending, not upon themselves, their director, or their acting, but upon that hitherto unknown quantity, the dress designer.

It is not a question of dollars alone. Battles wage between the great companies, and the bone of contention is the cleverest and most original sartorial specialist. The object is to secure his or her exclusive services.

That is what occurred in Irene, a film famous for presenting the first fashion parade photographed in natural colours – a charming idea beautifully carried out.

In Cora McGeachy, Colleen Moore vows she has found somebody to whom the commonplace is anathema, and who designs clothes which fit the personality of the wearers as well as the spirit of the story.

The Irene creations are certainly lovely, from Dame Fashion herself, who introduces the parade, to the various fancy costumes depicting “The Seasons,” and the girls dressed as water lilies, who inhabit the ornamental lake which forms part of the setting.

Colleen Moore’s prettiest is a palest green confection trimmed with row upon row of ostrich feathers, and topped by a large gauze hat with a crown composed entirely of tiny pink roses.

She also wears a striking cigar-brown walking costume; from one of the huge fur-edged sleeves of which peeps the head of a live puppy. The rest of him reposes in a pocket in the cuff specially made for that purpose.

Paramount’s Mannequin, despite its title, has no wonderful fashion parade, but features Dolores Costello and one of the prettiest garden party frocks extant. Picturegoers with imitative minds and clever fingers will doubtless rush home to make one exactly like it.

It is composed of very fine, hand-painted lawn, and its most striking feature is a huge flat bow of black velvet ribbon at the left side of the low waist, held in place by the diamond arrow which plays so dramatic a part in the story.

Though Mannequin belies the promise of its title, The American Venus, presented by the same company, is little else but a beauty and fashion show. Frank Tuttle, its director, sent to Paris for the costumes, and all the newest and smartest ideas in street and ballroom attire are seen, as well as the snappiest of bathing beauties and bathing dresses.

Louise Brooks, in particular, wears some styles well worth noting, and Dorothy Matthews and Ruth Baren are easily first in the fashion show itself.

Every Gloria Swanson picture is a fashion picture, for the star’s clothes made her reputation and many look to them to support it.

Gloria’s gowns, however, are not for the million. She spends more upon them than any other star; her bills aggregate over 125,000 dollars per annum for film clothes alone.

Then there are her film jewels, which are usually hired at about ten per cent of their actual cost. She wears some 25 pairs of shoes in a picture, and her off screen wardrobe contains nearly fifty walking dresses alone, and over two hundred hats.

The second-best-dressed star is probably Corinne Griffith [featured in the photo above], and she has tried to beat her own record in Mlle. Modiste. After personally combing New York for clothes for this film, she and Madame Frances (the well-known New York costumier), put their heads together and evolved a dazzling wardrobe.

Mlle. Modiste’s hats were made especially for her by Peggy Hoyt, and Corinne spent three days matching up shoes, sandals and evening slippers to her gowns.

The forty gowns Constance Talmadge is to wear for her new crook comedy [this might be Venus of Venice] will prove a potent incentive to fashion fiends to go and see the picture.

And although the dresses in Natacha Rambova’s When Love Grows Cold are outlandish in the extreme, they contain some striking and easily modified ideas, and are worth the admission money. They are very different from Natacha’s ordinary attire, which is striking but severe, and for which Poiret is usually responsible.

Jetta Goudal goes down in movie history as the girl to introduce bouffant gowns into Cecil De Mille productions. That worthy’s heroines had, until the advent of Jetta, been slinky of outline, but “la Goudal” is nothing if not individualistic in her attire.

Interesting facts concerning film favourites can be learned from the studio costumiers who design, fit, and make the film frocks and frills that magnetise so many feminine fans into kinemas.

Most studio designers are agreed that Anna Q. Nilsson, though she is one of the tall stars of filmland, is also so perfectly proportioned that any and every style becomes her.

She can wear hoops or hobble-skirts equally well. The long, flowing gowns and picture hats she affects in the opening reels of The Greater Glory are a complete contrast to the skin-tight clothes she dons later on in the story.

She looks as well in sporting attire as she does in period garb, and made an excellent boy in Ponjola and Miss Nobody.

Norma Shearer, Constance Bennett and Dorothy Mackaill would seem to be the young girl’s ideal fashion models.

Constance Bennett has a natural flair for costumes, and the simplest frock, worn as she wears it looks wonderful.

Norma Shearer concentrates very seriously upon her clothes, because her mail tells her how many girls look to her to show them Dame Fashion’s latest whim.

Dorothy Mackaill is a feminine Lon Chaney in that she loses her own personality directly she dons the clothes of the film character she is creating.

She has a slender, graceful figure, and many of her Chickie and Joanna gowns were eagerly copied by youngsters of her type all over the world.

Fashions come and go so rapidly that it takes an expert to decide what is and what is not a filmable gown.

The life of a big screenplay is, roughly, three years, so that anything that might “date” too definitely must be ruthlessly discarded.

The Fashion picture’s life must, necessarily, be shorter than this, but even then, it justifies its existence, as well as the thousands of dollars spent upon its costumes.

For in the eyes of four-fifths of those who sit in kinemas, clothes, without a doubt do make the film.

-----------------------

I must end with a link to a great article from one of TinTrunk's favourite blogs, The Bioscope, which addresses the subject of fashion on film in the silent era: Catwalks and pavements.

Constructing the Teddy Boy

2010-02-25T15:43:00.008Z

One of the most conspicuous aspects of the British Teddy Boy was his hair; that towering quiff carefully and regularly primped with a comb - perhaps a flick knife comb for extra posing points! - and secured with copious fistfuls of pomade.

At least since the nineteenth century, men's hair was simply cut short and combed flat, sometimes slicked with the macassar oil that gave Victorian and Edwardian housewives such headaches worrying about their stained upholstery they were forced to invent the antimacassar. The only possible variations seemed to be in the parting of the hair, and tonsorial exuberance was confined to the moustache.

Given all those long decades of modesty and simplicity in men's hair, it must have been quite a shock in the early 1950s to see young men constructing glossy (and greasy) edifices of hair and quite shamelessly preening in what was seen as an effeminate manner. There can't have been many young men who went quite to this, er, length though:

MEN'S HAIR STYLES

PAGEANT OF HAIR STYLES

Knit your own "fur" coat

2010-02-19T12:40:00.006Z

A knitted "fur" coat pattern from Woman's Friend magazine, May 7th 1932, page 5.

This charming little pattern was found in a very cheap 1930s women's magazine, printed on (by now) crumbly newsprint.

The idea of knitting a humble little jacket to imitate fur must have had considerable appeal in the hard years of the Depression. And since the instructions look rather brief, I'm assuming its a very simple jacket to make - I can't knit unfortunately so I'm no expert on this.

Click on the picture for a larger version, please print it off with my pleasure, and if you do try to make it I'd love to see the result! You might not be able to source Patons and Baldwins' "Beehive" "Feather Wool" these days, but I'm sure there's a nicely furry modern equivalent yarn that will do.

You deserve a Whitbread!

2010-02-19T09:59:00.004Z

Whitbread Pale Ale advertisement in Lilliput, June 1947, page xv.

This startling advertisement appeared in Lilliput magazine's June 1947 issue. A man is pictured in a frilly apron doing the washing up, presented with no comment or indication that this is the least bit remarkable.

Taken in the context of the immediate post-war years, it did surprise me. Men were returning from fighting six long years of war and the usual story we are told is that women who had ably coped with 'men's' jobs - working in munitions and aeroplane factories during the war - were immediately pushed out of their jobs and ordered back into the home and kitchen where they belonged. It was back to 'business as usual' - the reassuring gendered division of labour with women as housekeepers and mothers, men as breadwinners, and pampered kings of the castle at home.

This ad complicates those assumptions. There's no suggestion that this man is emasculated by helping out at home, even with a frilly apron on, and the scenario is not exploited for comic effect (as it inevitably would be today). In fact he looks rather noble in his woodcut-style vignette. Perhaps gender roles in the post-war years were a little more complicated and nuanced than we have been led to believe by most popular histories.

Of course, I'm sure most women wouldn't have expected to be rewarded with a bottle of pale ale for doing household chores, so there's an indication that the man's efforts are a little bit special, although obviously not unusual.

In fact, within a few pages of the same magazine is another very similar advertisement:

Votrix Vermouth advertisement in Lilliput, June 1947, page iii.

The occasion this time is the aftermath of a party, with two gentlemen gamely tackling the piles of dishes. They both wear feminine, patterned aprons and are again deserving of a reward in the form of an alcoholic drink. A delighted-looking wife peers through the door (and then perhaps runs off to fetch their drinks?!)

Did men do anything else around the home except the dishes, now and then? Perhaps . . .

Vactric vacuum cleaner advertisement, from Housewife, November 1947, inside back cover.

This vacuum cleaner advertisement from the same year is rather less credible ("Give him a Vactric"? Hmm) and there is a lightly ironic tone to the copy: "When the household god descends to lend a hand" is a clear indication of the 'normal' domestic power relationship, however humorously expressed.

So the idea of a man helping out with onerous domestic chores is framed in all these advertisements as a sort of special treat for their wives, who are still expected to do them most of the time. But at least its not portrayed as ridiculous or unmanly, as you might expect even to this day, and its considered unremarkable enough to be featured in mainstream advertising.

It makes me wonder how far we've progressed since then (as I contemplate the stairs that need vacuuming . . .)

The magnificent Tilly Losch

2010-02-08T17:23:00.011Z

Tilly Losch, 1923, originally uploaded by Trevira.

This beautiful photograph in my collection came from the archive of the newspaper The San Francisco Examiner. There's a damaged relic of a pasted-on label on the reverse giving the title "Serpent of Hell" (the production title? Her character's name?) and a date of April 14th, 1923, which might be the publication date.

Ottilie Ethel Losch was born in Vienna on November 15th 1907, which would make her 15 years of age in this photograph. You can read a summary of her extraordinary life and career in that link over her full name, which details her first stage appearance as a dancer at the age of six with the Vienna Imperial Opera ballet school, her promotion to prima ballerina at the unusually young age of 15, and her subsequent work with Max Reinhardt as both dancer and choreographer (and much more, of course, but we'll come to that soon).

What is puzzling is that according to the Binghamton University Library, which holds Losch's papers, she didn't arrive in the United States until 1927.

Why, then, is she appearing in a popular American newspaper (owned by William Randolph Hearst, by the way) in 1923? In a costume that looks much more Max Reinhardt than something you might expect from the Vienna Imperial Opera, and a full four years before she was reported to have first been invited to perform for Reinhardt in 1927?

The remains of that label note that she was wearing "phosphorous tights" - and I sincerely hope they mean phosphorescent, by the way, or her health might have been seriously endangered.

I'm speculating wildly here - its a bad habit of mine - but perhaps either the photograph date is wrong, or there's something missing or incorrect in that summary of her life?

No matter, Tilly Losch's life was extraordinary anyway, and she is one of those 20th century figures who seems to have orbited around many of the most significant cultural figures of her times, like a female Zelig, only much more beautiful!

She married Edward James, the wealthy English art connoisseur who was a patron of Salvador Dali (he was the proud owner of the first iteration of the iconic Mae West lips sofa, which was installed in his surrealist country pile Monkton House, and was captured by Magritte in this famously baffling portrait). But their marriage ended in a scandalous divorce in 1934 - Tilly accused him of homosexuality, he in return cited just one of her numerous affairs.

Other names that crop up in her life that might still ring a bell to the modern ear include Noel Coward, Fred and Adele Astaire, Kurt Weill, Lotte Lenya, George Balanchine, Berthold Brecht, Jean Cocteau (an ardent fan), the Sitwells and Cecil Beaton.

Her career in Hollywood has left us with some appearances in films such as The Garden of Allah (1936) with Marlene Dietrich, The Good Earth (1937) and Duel in the Sun (1946). All of which I'm pretty sure are readily available on DVD.

Later she retired from dancing and acting and turned to painting, which apparently suited her reportedly shy nature, and was enobled by her 1939 marriage to the Earl of Carnavon to the status of countess. Despite their divorce after the Second World War, they remained on friendly terms and the Earl was one of the few mourners at her 1975 funeral.

But let's go back to the top of this post and contemplate that amazing vision of her as an accomplished teenage dancer making news across the Atlantic - wasn't she magnificent?

Santos Casani - the forgotten dance master

2010-02-07T14:51:00.008Z

If you've ever seen one of those archive film montages of the 'roaring twenties' in a TV documentary, there's one clip that always features. Its the one featuring a couple dancing the Charleston on top of a taxi cab driving through a London street.

That clip is at the very end of this British Pathé dance instruction film (incidentally, fashion history buffs will be delighted by Miss Jose Lennard's lower back skirt hem - a major trend in the last years of the 1920s):

THE FLAT CHARLESTON MADE EASY

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The stunt was intended to demonstrate that the new 'flat' Charleston required very little space, in contrast to its original, wild form, which was a veritable whirlwind of flying heels and arms, presenting considerable danger to nearby dancers. Indeed the Charleston was banned from many dancehalls at the time.

It is ironic that this clip is now employed to symbolise the reckless, risk-taking, devil-may-care nature of the times when its original intention was actually quite the opposite.

While I could easily (and quite happily) go on about the Charleston, this post concerns the man who appeared in that film, the famous dance master - and energetic self-publicist - Santos Casani.

Mr Casani was the proprietor of "the largest school of dancing in England," wrote a column for the Daily Mail, and made numerous short dance instruction films for British Pathé's cinemagazine for women, Eve's Film Review. The film company supplied free instruction leaflets based on the dance steps Casani featured, which viewers could send off for, and as a demonstration of how popular these films were, on one occasion they had to print 20,000 leaflets to satisfy the demand (most of this information is derived from Jenny Hammerton's fascinating book For Ladies Only? Eve's Film Review Pathé Cinemagazine 1921-1933).

As an aside, its lovely to imagine a cinema audience practising dance steps under their seats as they watch the films!

Here Casani makes an appearance in Popular Music and Dancing Weekly magazine, demonstrating the first three steps of the 'Five-Step' - steps four and five were published the following week, but unfortunately I don't have a copy of that issue (again, fashion buffs please note how remarkably long Miss Lennard's skirt was in 1924!):

"How to dance the Five-Step by Santos Casani" in Popular Music and Dancing Weekly, 7th June 1924, page 133 (click picture for a larger view).

In 1933 Casani opened his own nightclub in Imperial House, Regent Street, London and British Pathé was there to record it.

If you were to try to imagine a high-tone 1930s nightclub in the West End of London his establishment lives up to your Art Deco dreams, and this film includes footage of the renowned house band lead by pianist Charlie Kunz, a swimsuit fashion parade, an elegant rendering of the waltz by Mr Casani himself, not to mention a novelty song and a curious female contortionist. Pour yourself into a backless satin dress, shake up a cocktail and join in the fun:

LONDON'S FAMOUS CLUBS AND CABARETS NO. 10 - CASANI'S CLUB

Fashion rations

2010-02-04T18:25:00.005Z

Even during the dark years of the Second World War, and the long years of clothing rationing that followed it, women were expected to keep up appearances. "England's number one glamour girl" Joan Richards, a professional model, doesn't disappoint in this 1944 film where we follow Joan through a "routine day's work." From getting up in the morning with full slap (apologies to US readers - slap = makeup) and immaculate hair, through her long and busy day, she is the epitome of 1940s chic. By the way, these film links have come up as black boxes, but they will work if you click on them.

ANNE EDWARDS (aka GLAMOUR GIRL)

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However, not every woman met the grade. This amusing short from September 1946 features the "Pathé Pictorial Fashion Expert" Mr Richard Buzzvine (at least, that what his name sounds like) lurking self-consciously with a newspaper on Regent Street as he casts a waspishly critical eye over young women's outfits. Although his voice isn't heard, the narrator reports his merciless judgements.

Mr Buzzvine is very hard to please, and only one girl meets with his approval, although its hard to see how she is much different from the other 'failures.' Its a useful reminder of how fraught getting dressed used to be, with all kinds of complicated rules and conventions governing what was - and was not - appropriate wear.

RIGHT AND WRONG IN FASHION

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Endorsed by Madame Schiaparelli

2010-01-24T13:00:00.007Z

The fashion designer Elsa Schiaparelli presents an interesting contrast to Gabrielle 'Coco' Chanel - they were reportedly bitter rivals during the 1930s when Schiaparelli was in her prime.

Chanel, a determined social climber, was desperate to shake off the stigma of her poverty-stricken origins, whereas Schiaparelli was born into privilege as the daughter of aristocratic parents.

Chanel introduced a luxurious simplicity and practicality into high fashion, and was skilled with a needle, having trained and worked as a seamstress in her early years, whereas Schiaparelli had no formal fashion or dressmaking training but was gifted with a talent for adventurous innovation, stimulated and enhanced by her close personal association and collaboration with some of the leading avant-garde artists of her day.

There's plenty of information online (and in good, old-fashioned books!) about the careers of both designers, so there's no need to repeat it here. What interests me right now is some print evidence of Schiaparelli's commercial collaborations with two manufacturers, which perhaps present another interesting contrast with Chanel. I would have to do much more detailed research to discover if Schiap (her nickname - pronounced 'Skap') was unusual in this respect - its too late to venture to the library right now, and I'm keen to post this sooner rather than later so please forgive the lack of comparative evidence from other designers.

This 1936 advertisement for Lightning Coloured Plastic Zipp Fasteners below (manufactured by Imperial Chemical Industries - the still mighty ICI) proudly displays a brown wool dress designed by Schiaparelli with a very prominent zip running down the centre front. Dilys E. Blum, in her book Shocking: The Art and Fashion of Elsa Schiaparelli, notes that Harry Houghton, of the Canadian division of the Lightning Fastener Company had offered Schiaparelli £10,000 to use their recently developed coloured plastic zips in her clothing in 1933.

She obviously needed no further encouragement. According to most sources, Schiaparelli was the first Parisian couturier to utilise zip fasteners - indeed, to make a prominent design feature of them rather than hide them away as most functional clothing fasteners were by convention. (Apart from buttons, of course, which have been a handy way to display wealth and taste for some time).

Anyway, back to the advertisement. This conspicuous zip adds a considerable sexual charge to what is ostensibly a rather modest garment. Remember, zips are very easy and quick to open, and this dress flaunts its ability to be opened from top to bottom in seconds flat.

The juxtoposition of the model with a classical Greek-looking nude sculpture serves to underline this subliminal message, while at the same time adding a shrewdly judged gloss of 'culture' and prestige. This ad, although it doesn't look like it at first glance, was a pretty challenging and provocative proposition for the mid 1930s:

Lightning Zipp advertisement from (British) Vogue, 14th October 1936, page 19.

In her autobiography, which alternates disconcertingly between the first and third person, Schiap makes no mention of her lucrative promotional deal with Lightning Zipps but does describe the impact her use of zips made when first presented in a collection of hers. This was actually the August launch of her Winter 1935-36 collection, although this is not stated in the text:

. . . what upset the poor, breathless reporters most were the zips. Not only did they appear for the first time but in the most unexpected places, even on evening clothes. The whole collection was full of them. Astounded buyers bought and bought. They had come prepared for every kind of strange button. Indeed these had been the signature of the house. But they were not prepared for zips. They grasped the significance of the new trend even more than Schiap, and they bought and bought . . .

She must have been delighted with the overflowing order books, but then found herself facing an unanticipated problem:

On delivery day, however, our telephone started to ring viciously, and the desperate voices of all the commissionaires were raised to a pitch of indignation.
"The dresses cannot be shipped."
For some peculiar reason, still unknown to me, there was some agreement or contract between France and America whereby zippers could not be imported. Cables and radio-telephone calls were exchanged across the Atlantic and the zipper controversy reached the size of a political issue. After a few days of hair-tearing and supreme exhaustion, the zipper dresses were at last allowed into America, and ever since, like Columbus, they have remained unchallenged.

Blum records that on July 18th 1936, "The U.S. duty on imported zippers increase[d] from 45 per cent to 66 per cent, threatening to delay the export of Schiaparelli's collection."

Perhaps it was this difficulty that led Schiap, as the V&A explains, to use different zip companies depending on where her garments were to be sold: "In London she used zips from the Lightening Fastener Company of Great Britain, in Paris she used zips made by Éclair and for export to the USA, Hookless Fastener Company zips produced in the USA."

By the following year, the Lightning Zipp campaign featured more conventional illustrations of Schiaparelli's designs in a fashion show setting:

Lightning Zipp advertisement from (British) Vogue, 14th April 1937, p.65.

The copy reads:

Zipps on day suits, on evening gowns, on cocktail trouser suits. Zipps at front, side or back, in every colour of the rainbow, matching, contrasting . . . always decorative, always practical. Schiaparelli has made plastic zipps a feature of her recent collections, and continues - as do other leading couturiers - to use them for fashion fastening.

By August 1937, a subsequent Lightning Zipp ad makes no mention of Schiaparelli so perhaps that deal had run its course. However, Schiap had plenty of other irons in the fire.

As early as 1929, Schiaparelli had licensed her designs for reproduction by ready-to-wear companies and paper pattern manufacturers in America. Her fascination with textiles, and especially new developments in synthetic fibres, led her to collaborate with a number of manufacturers including Bianchini, Colcombet and Ducharne. She could see interesting textural potential even in test fabrics dismissed as 'mistakes' by their producers and was responsible for popularising a number of innovative new materials, including rayon crêpes.

During the early 1930s she endorsed a number of American-produced fabrics, not to mention hosiery and shoes, seeing these collaborations as a valuable way to develop and enhance her profile in that vast and lucrative market. But she also had strong connections with Great Britain - she regarded the country as her second home - and loved British textiles such as Scottish tweeds.

In November 1936, the British textile manufacturer William Hollins & Co. launched its new range of thirty-six 'Schiaparelli Viyella Fashion Fabrics' made of a blend of cotton and wool. She was credited with making this rather prosaic and workaday fabric fashionable, and in this following sequence of advertisements it is clear that she had some fun with this commission:

Viyella/Schiaparelli advertisement from (British) Vogue, 22nd April 1937, pp.58-59.

In this ad from April 1937, the layout makes a playful reference to pageantry, with heraldic motifs such as the shield, the crown and the ribbon. And the copy makes this explicit:

Schiaparelli herself has styled the new 'Viyella' Fashion Fabrics for this smartest, most colourful, most romantic of seasons. Bright challenging colours and subtle elusive shades. Novelty weaves. Checks, spots, stripes, and designs of entirely new character. A special heavier weight 'Viyella' for tailored suits and dresses.
A pageant of fabrics for a season of pageantry.
The Schiaparelli model photographed opposite is one of many 'Viyella' models in her latest collection, and she is featuring the new 'Viyella' Fashion Fabrics in her Paris Sportshop. These very same fabrics are now in all the shops for you to choose from . . . for that extra frock, that extra suit for this exciting season.

This was a coronation year (not Edward, ahem - he preferred a gilded and comfortable exile with his American divorcée - but his quiet brother George) so that explains all the pageantry.

Incidentally, a pasted-over addendum reluctantly adds the news of a price increase for these fabrics, from 4/11 to 5/11 per yard (in today's money, from £11.82 to £14.22, thanks Measuring Worth!)

The mannequin's curiously pointed knit hat makes her look like a chess piece, which is a happy coincidence when we consider the next advertisement, from November 1937:

Viyella/Schiaparelli advertisement in (British) Vogue, 10th November 1937, pp.18-19.

In this case, the theme isn't exactly chess, but Alice in Wonderland:

When I said "Check!" you purred!" said Alice (Through the Looking-glass) to her kitten - and when you see the new Schiaparelli-designed 'Viyellas' you'll react much like the kitten. Here are checks indeed! Unexpected, out-of-the-ordinary checks, the kind that make glorious little tops of two-pieces, spruce tailored frocks, swagger 'cow-boy' shirts, and so on. Crowds of other patterns too, embroidered spots and tricky little stripes - all in original, becoming fashionable colour schemes. The lovely blending plains are also important - Schiaparelli has used two of them for her superbly moulded jacket-blouse and skirt photographed here - Bright Rust (No. 8358) over Good Earth Brown (No. 6843). Both 'Viyella' Thirty-Sixes. Both in the shops now!

I have a fondness for old-fashioned advertising spiel, so forgive me for drafting all this text. Its wonderful!

The next ad, from September 1938, startled me because it looks as if it dates from nearly twenty years later:

Viyella/Schiaparelli advertisement in (British) Vogue, 7th September 1938, p.9.

I'd love to know if these fabrics were indeed "Unshrinkable. Fadeless" as the copy proudly declares. Are there any Schiaparelli collectors out there with examples of her late 30s sportswear who can verify this claim?

This last ad, from November 1938, looks more of its time, featuring a three-quarter length swagger coat and a wonderful 'up' hairdo of a kind that would remain in favour throughout the 1940s:

Viyella/Schiaparelli advertisement in (British) Vogue, 2nd November 1938, p.20.

Plus it has scotty dogs, which is always a good thing in my book.

Schiaparelli was obviously a very shrewd businesswoman, as well as an inspired designer, who had no snobbishly bourgeois scruples about entering into business deals with those who might be considered a little too populist - a little too 'mass market' - for an elite Parisian couturier to associate his or her name with.

As I've stated earlier, I really do have no idea to what extent other contemporary couturiers - such as Chanel - dipped their toes into that mass market (and I'm aware of her perfumes - this is a different degree of diffusion), but I will explain that I gathered these advertisements while scouring through the Gallery of Costume's bound collection of British Vogues. I noticed that no other couturier featured in ads of this kind during the 1930s. Perhaps if I had leafed through the American Vogues, I might have discovered a different story . . .

The two couture giants faced very different fates after the Second World War. Schiaparelli found herself out of step with fashion and finally closed her business in 1954 - the same year that Chanel emerged from her exile in Switzerland to relaunch her salon to widespread international acclaim (I understand that it wasn't the French who were cheering - they remembered her cosy intimacy with the Nazis too well).

As a result Chanel secured her place among the fashion immortals and her house endures, its status revived and maintained by Karl Lagerfeld. Schiap is hardly forgotten, but she gradually recedes back in time as a respected and revered figure too closely associated with her prime years in the 1930s to be considered relevant today.

And to finish, a charming short promotional film for cotton knitting yarns from the mid 1930s, which might not seem to have anything to do with Schiaparelli. You'll just have to watch it to the very end to understand why it is here:

PARIS MODES - (AKA COATS COTTON FILM)

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Additional notes

Information was gathered from two books which I would recommend as essential if you have any interest in Schiaparelli -

Elsa Schiaparelli (recently republished by the V&A) Shocking Life: The Autobiography of Elsa Schiaparelli.

Dilys E. Blum, Shocking: The Art and Fashion of Elsa Schiaparelli.

The elusive fashion designer caught on film

2010-01-17T11:02:00.007Z

1950s fashion shoot, originally uploaded by Trevira.

What is going on here? Its impossible to know for sure, but I like to speculate that its the fashion designer emerging from the shadows to express his robust opinion about the photoshoot (and perhaps the merits or otherwise of the photographer), just as the shutter clicks.

Although this is a generalisation, for the most part fashion designers weren't always the recognisable public figures they are today. Most people - even those with little interest in fashion - will be able to summon up a mental image of designers such as Karl Lagerfeld, Donatella Versace, John Galliano and Vivienne Westwood, partly because each has a very distinctive style and self-presentation that is instantly recognisable. But also because there is simply much more media out there now, and designers are expected to take part in the publicity machine in a way that just wasn't the case in previous decades.

However, the famous Parisian couturier Paul Poiret was decades ahead of his time, being a hugely accomplished self-publicist. His lavishly decadent costume parties were widely covered in the press, and his larger-than-life persona informed, and fed back into, the perception of his couture house. Poiret was about ostentation, exoticism, a romantic and picturesque kind of modernity and a challenge to conventions (let's not forget that he was credited with freeing women from the corset, which might or might not be true, but anyway).

This precious short film supposedly shows Poiret arriving from Paris at Hounslow airport with two of his mannequins (models), probably another stunt to attract the press since this would have been an appealing novelty item. In fact, it is Poiret himself who runs to greet the plane (look closely at that first figure to appear as it taxis to a halt), and help his models out of it, so perhaps he had arrived earlier:

PARIS FASHIONS BY AIR

FASHION COMES TO PARIS!

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Jean Dessès is little known these days, and the name Olive O'Neill will probably mean even less to most people. She was, in fact, a very important figure in the development of ready-to-wear clothing in Britain.

Born in Southport, she came to work for the fledgling brand Dorville in London in the 1920s, where she began designing classic and elegant clothes to supplement their primary knitwear line. Having set up her own factory, she studied and adopted American methods of manufacture, grading and sizing, and visited America every year to keep up with new developments. O'Neill was an innovator in textiles too, co-operating with fabric manufacturers to produce exclusive materials and designs. (This information was gathered from Elizabeth Ewing's History of 20th Century Fashion).

This great short film shows the creation of a new dress, from Olive O'Neill's rapid sketch to the final product. Although far less glamorous than the previous film - it was shot in the last months of the Second World War, mind you - it is a fascinating glimpse of a forgotten designer:

INEXPENSIVE DRESS

DIOR 'CIRCUS' COMES TO TOWN

AN TOSTAL FASHIONS PARADE

'DIOR' COMES TO BLENHEIM

Snow fatigue

2010-01-07T18:06:00.006Z

20s beach girl, originally uploaded by Trevira.

We've had some extraordinarily wintery weather this winter in the UK. The media is full of 'snow chaos' stories, and our local supermarket has empty shelves where the milk should be.

Snow is a fun novelty in this country for a day or two, but after that it gets a little tiresome. Unusually, instead of a rapid thaw within a few days, the temperatures have stayed around or below freezing (-16º C in Manchester last night!) and its become dangerous to even venture to the Post Office around the corner. I'd make better progress with skates rather than my wellies - the only footwear I have with any kind of tread on them.

My room overlooks our suburban street, where the snow has been compacted and polished by traffic into solid ice with a treacherous, glassy sheen, and I've lost count of the cars I've seen losing traction and veering sideways as they struggle to ascend the (very low) incline of the road. The eery whine of wheel-spinning has punctuated my day.

So as a respite from the continuing freeze, I'd like to seek refuge in contemplating the picture above, which is one of my favourites from my collection of old photographs and dates from the 1920s.

Its a reminder of better days - and weather - and a cheery evocation of that carefree summer holiday feeling. To me, every element of this picture is perfect, including the dizzily skewed horizon. Looking at it makes me feel happy and warm, and I hope it works its magic for you too.

A souvenir of Blackpool

2009-12-28T16:07:00.006Z

I did unexpectedly well for presents this Christmas, and among them was this tiny porcelain shoe sporting the town crest of Blackpool. Judging by its style it possibly dates from the 1900s, and is clearly an imitation of the famous Goss armorial china that was developed in the 19th century and was produced in an almost endless variety of forms.

The Goss range wasn't just extensive in its inventive array of novelty shapes. According to Larch S. Garrad in A Present From . . . Holiday Souvenirs of the British Isles: "Allegedly, Goss souvenirs were produced for every town in the United Kingdom that had a coat of arms."

This example was perhaps made in Germany - the generic red 'foreign' stamp underneath being no help at all in narrowing down its origin. But this doesn't really matter since I have a fascination for British seaside resorts, and Blackpool holds a special place among them.

Blackpool has a good claim to being the world's first working-class seaside resort - a title contested primarily by New York's Coney Island - and both towns developed more or less in parallel. John K. Walton explores the development and decline of both places in his excellent article "Popular Playgrounds: Blackpool and Coney Island, c. 1880-1970" (available to download as a pdf here - scroll down to Volume 17, Number 1).

The millions of visitors who descended on Blackpool every summer holiday season were determined to have fun and spend their money, and perhaps take home a small memento or gift with their last few pennies, and this porcelain shoe was probably very cheap in its day. All the better to attract the eye of the working-class holidaymaker with limited cash.

But a shoe doesn't really say Blackpool to me, even with a fancy town crest on it. The iconic Blackpool Tower however, Lancashire's homage to Paris' Eiffel Tower which opened in 1894, does the job nicely.

This vintage Stratton tieclip features the tower rendered in vivid blue enamel - and is currently available at the time of writing in my Etsy shop, dear reader. As a seaside souvenir, I would argue that its actually pretty tasteful:

Stratton was established in 1860, and is most famous for its men's accessories such as cufflinks and tieclips, not to mention its women's powder compacts. Vintage examples attract avid collectors, but having cast an eye on their current range (Stratton is still going) I have to say I am sadly underwhelmed.

Of course we've got to return to Blackpool in its prime, with three marvellous films from the BFI (British Film Institute) showing the town in three different eras.

First is this 1904 Mitchell and Kenyon film of hordes of visitors promenading on Blackpool's Victoria Pier. This was shot around the time that I reckon my shoe souvenir dates from:

This 1926 film clip, shot by Claude Friese-Green in what looks like a two-colour green/red process, shows the 'Reel' ride at Blackpool's Pleasure Beach. There's also a very pleased "lassie from Lancashire" proudly showing off her feathered kewpie doll prize, from the 'Shalwyn' stall, at the end:

Finally, this fabulous excerpt from the 1957 film Holiday, which reveals some obvious American influence on the town (hotdogs with or without fried onions), the 'Reel' again, and some lovely 50s fashions:

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-25T09:33:00.003Z

"Xmas 1936", originally uploaded by Trevira.

Are you dancing? Are you asking?

2009-12-22T16:32:00.006Z

Christmas is the prime party season, and parties often involve dancing. Which gives me another opportunity to plunder the vaults of British Pathé for some vintage treasures on that very theme.

Ballroom dancing is fraught with dangers - where do I put my hands? What frock should I wear? Which foot goes first? - so here's a helpful, unnamed dance instructor to put you right in a very prim short filmed at the Empress Room, Kensington, London in 1938.

Watch out for the swing step that's "hot from Harlem" but, the narrator warns, is "rather too hot for English ballrooms":

DANCING

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The "English style" mentioned was developed by English dance teachers' organisations to regulate and tame the wild new dances coming from the United States, and was explicitly intended to eliminate any aberrant moves such as kicks or swinging hips, or indeed anything that smacked of self-expression, sexuality or spontaneity.

In the crowded conditions of most English dancehalls at this time, it could be argued that some control was needed to preserve the smooth rotation of dancing couples around the floor without things ending up in fisticuffs over collisions and painfully stomped feet. But the efforts of the dance instructors drained nearly all the personality and unique appeal (not to mention the fun) of these dances to the extent that it was difficult to discern one dance from the other.

We need an antidote to all that prim English reserve. And Earl and Josephine Leach, in this 1937 film demonstrating an hilarious version of the Big Apple, are here to supply it. They gleefully break all the rules:

THE BIG APPLE

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This was precisely the time - the late 1930s - when dance hall managers realised that the sterling efforts of those dance instructors had succeeded in making many patrons scared of taking to the floor in case they committed a dreadful faux pas and showed themselves up. Dancing was in danger of becoming a difficult exercise only to be attempted by trained experts.

As a result, dance hall proprietors (including the dominant Mecca Ballroom chain) actively encouraged the development of easy dances that anyone could do after watching a short demonstration.

Watch this short film, shot at the Streatham Locarno (south London) in 1938, and you too will be able to do the Lambeth Walk with confidence:

NEW DANCES FOR EVERYBODY

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Of course, what was around the corner was the all-conquering Jitterbug, which ruled British dance floors during the Second World War, and wasn't actually that easy to do well. But we had a useful influx of US servicemen to teach us how to do it properly.

This fun film - from Youtube rather than British Pathé this time - shows MGM's comic take on the dance craze in 1944:

Make sure you clear away all furniture and breakables before you attempt this at home.

Additional notes

This post neglects the original pioneers of most of these dances, the African-American community, which is sorely under-represented in the British Pathé archive. OK, that's probably understandable since it was a UK based operation. This post shows how their dances were interpreted on this uptight little island. But I can't let this pass without some acknowledgement, so here goes.

My all-time favourite dance sequence of all time is this clip from the 1941 film Hellzapoppin' featuring Slim and Slam and the Harlem Congaroos (I'm sure its many other people's favourite too, but it doesn't hurt to repeat it) which is approximately five minutes of pure joy. If you've never seen it before, prepare to be amazed:

Lend me your elephant's ear - and I'll make a bag out of it

2009-12-17T19:42:00.009Z

My last post was a complete failure as a viable Christmas gift idea for all kinds of reasons - let alone the fact that the fishtank was from a catalogue that was about 50 years old - so I've decided to make amends with some more promising prospects for the lady in your life.

Sadly most of these are from more or less the same date or even earlier so you've the same chance (exactly none, unless you are a very accomplished vintage buyer) of finding them.

If you've read any of the previous posts you will know that I am an ardent fan of the British Pathé film archive, so I'm happy to present a few more gems that I have gathered from their amazingly extensive collection.

First up is a delightful film from 1946 about what the narrator cheerfully refers to as "junk" jewellery, which would probably be classed as "costume" jewellery these days.

Apologies for not being able to embed these films but, trust me, they are all worth the bother of opening a new tab or window to view (you can complain in the comments if they're not!):

EAR-RINGS [sic] (aka JUNK JEWELLERY)

PARTY EARRINGS

There's some very dubious parallels drawn with ancient civilisations and ethnic cultures by the narrator, but they're easy to ignore with all those marvellous baubles to enjoy.

Another potential gift idea is a handbag, an item that most women can't have too many of.

In the following 1955 film you are first presented with a pink handbag made out of elephants' ears. Control your nausea - and please don't worry, there's nothing distressing shown - because this is a terrific film with some prize examples that really shouldn't be missed, including something for the dipsomaniac gentleman:

LEATHER FAIR

SPECTACLES

MODELS LEARN SPEC BEAUTY (aka SPECTACLE FASHION)

Stuck for Christmas gift ideas?

2009-12-16T17:42:00.005Z

How about this mesmerising plastic wall aquarium, found in an undated Gamages catalogue? It probably dates from the late 1950s judging by the women's fashions featured in the middle pages. The men's fashions are no help at all, indeed some of the garment illustrations look like they've been used for at least 15 years.

Although I like the idea in principal, I'm troubled by the small dimensions of the tank and the evident lack of space and oxygen. Not to mention the lack of structures for the fish to hide and shelter from the glare of human scrutiny. I dread to think that it might have had lights built in too.

Granted I know little or nothing about keeping fish, but I'm sure this Plastic Wall Aquarium is guaranteed to traumatise them before it gently simmers then suffocates them, and they end up doing that listless backstroke on the surface (hopefully screened from view by the generously proportioned frame).

All in all, it suggests a high turnover of guppies, and possibly some equally traumatised children.

Perhaps its not the best suggestion for a Christmas gift. Apologies.

Additional notes

Using Measuring Worth's marvellous calculator, 10/6 would be equivalent to about £9.47 today. (I've taken a complete guess and used 1957 as the original year).

What could you buy for 1/9 in 1950?

2009-12-15T13:38:00.007Z

Tea diffuser from the Headquarters & General Supplies Ltd catalogue, 1950.

You could purchase a "National Service" tea diffuser (now more commonly known as a tea infuser) to help eke out your tea ration.

This ingenious item was found in a 1950 catalogue produced by Headquarters & General Supplies Ltd ("Contractors to War Office, Ministry of Supply, Crown Agents for the Colonies and Education Authorities") based in London.

As you might expect from their business connections, the catalogue has plenty of military surplus clothing and accessories, such as waterproof RAF flying suits - for 45/- or 49/6 with a hood - which are recommended for motorcyclists and motorists. And "Genuine British Army Berets" for 5 shillings ("certainly a smart article for holiday use").

After the war, military surplus flooded onto the market. It was well made and good quality, durable, practical and plentiful. The catalogue makes a fine job of suggesting alternative uses for some often very specialist garments, as has been noted above, but here are some more:

Ex-Naval Torpedo Hazard Suits (17/6): "Ideal for motoring, cycling, boating, etc."

Solid Leather Army Jerkins (12/6): "Ideal for motoring, golf, or hard wear."

Merchant Navy Waterproof Suits (19/6): "For outdoor workers, cyclists, builders."

Interestingly, there are also "Solid Leather Pilots' Jackets Zip Front . . . lined throughout with pure Sheep's Wool" for £5 5s - presumably the sheepskin flying jackets that now fetch extremely high prices in the collectors' market.

Clothes rationing ended in March 1949 but tea rationing continued until 1952, making that 1/9 for a tea diffuser look like a very shrewd investment.

Additional notes

Measuring Worth provides a handy calculator for working out the equivalent prices in today's money (well, 2008 is the nearest they can get), using the Retail Price Index. So let's see:

Tea diffuser 1/9 = £2.25 (you can buy more or less the same thing today for about £3)

RAF flying suit 45/- = £57.76

British Army beret 5/- = £6.42

Ex-Naval Torpedo Hazard Suits 17/6 = £22.46

Solid Leather Army Jerkins 12/6 = £16.04

Merchant Navy Waterproof Suits 19/6 = £25.03

Solid Leather Pilots' Jackets £5 5s = £134.77

And because I seem to have wandered off the subject of tea a bit in this post, here's a stern man in a white coat (a "tea instructor") explaining more than you'll ever need to know about the dos and don'ts of tea making. This is a 1941 film from the BFI's YouTube channel:

If that's worn you out (or you can't face a full ten minutes of tea making instruction) then join Harrod's shopper Elizabeth Allan in 1955 as she introduces the wonder of the teabag. Look out for the brief appearance of a tea diffuser/infuser:

The Toast Rack

2009-12-05T20:06:00.006Z

Hollings Campus, Manchester Metropolitan University, originally uploaded by Trevira. Please click on this picture for the full view (I'm never going to use flickr's 'blog this' button again - the picture never fits!)

When I first moved up to Manchester in 2004 this building really caught my eye.

Its in Fallowfield just off the Wilmslow Road which, if you keep on heading north along it, takes you through the famous Curry Mile, and then tranforms into Oxford Road as you hit Manchester city centre. This road is one of the main arteries into Manchester, and has the multiple bus routes (and regular traffic queues) to prove it.

I was told that it is known locally as the toast-rack because of the row of swooping open parabolas at the crest of the building.

Its a building that is like Marmite - you either love it or hate it (check the comments on the original flickr page to see at least one dissenter).

Some credit is due: this marvel was designed by the architect L.C. Howitt in 1958, and opened in 1960.

By some strange twist of fate, I found myself based here about a year after my move to Manchester, so I had the chance to explore it more fully as a registered student. And I have to confess I'm still starry-eyed about it.

Its an extraordinary building, but its showing its age now and is increasingly inadequate for the volume of students that are flooding into this campus, not to mention the technical difficulties of updating an early 60s building for the demands of the 21st century.

Another problem is that in high winds those prominent ribs generate an eery and noisy howl that can compete with the most determined lecturer, and is seriously distracting for exam candidates.

I'd like to hope that it still has a future with the Manchester Metropolitan University which currently occupies it, or at least a sympathetic new owner who will respect its grade two listing.

Whatever its future holds, it remains a rare example (in the generally architecturally conservative UK) of an architect being allowed to follow his fancy and build an optimistic and ambitious vision of the space age future.

Anne of I Like fame has written a great account of it here, and there's also this fabulous film from British Pathé, made in 1961, extolling the virtues of its original tenant - the Domestic and Trades College:

COLLEGE FOR TRADES

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Slap Up Tog

2009-12-01T15:42:00.007Z

A Victorian handbill found in a book by Renée Huggett called Shops published in 1969.

This marvellous Victorian promotional handbill (flyer) from London addresses the discerning working man in need of new clothing. Written in a presumably authentic slang current at the time, it has an immediacy and humour that defies its age, even though much of it is completely mystifying to the modern reader.

Let's have a go:

Mr H nabs the chance of putting his customers awake, that he has just made his escape from India, not forgetting to clap his mawleys upon some of the right sort of stuff, when on his return home he was stunned to find one of the top Manufacturers of Manchester had cut his lucky, and stepped off to the Swan Stream, leaving behind him a valuable stock of Moleskins, Cords, Velveteens, Box Cloths, Plushes, Doe Skins, Pilots &c., and having some ready in his kick--grabbed the chance--stepped home with the swag--and is now safely landed at his crib. He can turn out Toggery, very slap at the following low prices for

Ready Gilt--Tick being No go.

Upper Benjamins, built on a downy plan, a monarch to half-a-finnuff, Fishing or Shooting Togs, cut slap, 1 pound, 1 quarter, and a peg. A Fancy Sleeve Blue Plush or Pilot ditto, made very saucy, a couter. Pair of Kerseymere or Doeskin Kicksies, built very slap with the artful dodge, a canary. Pair of Bath or Worsted Cords, cut to drop down on the trotters, a quid. Pair of out and out Cords, built very serious, 9 bob and a kick. Pair of stout Broad Cords, built in the Melton Mowbray style, half a sov. Pair of Moleskins, built hanky spanky, with a double fakement down the sides and artful buttons at bottom, half a monarch.

MUD PIPES, KNEE CAPS, AND TROTTER CASES BUILT VERY LOW.

A decent allowance made to Seedy Swells, Tea Kettle Purgers, Head Robbers, and Flunkeys out of Collar
Gentlemen finding their own Broady can be accommodated.

(My thanks to flickr contact Bollops for taking the trouble to transcribe this text when I originally posted this picture there).

Many of the terms are obviously types of cloth: moleskin (a heavy, cotton cloth with a short, soft pile on one side), corduroy, velveteen, box cloth (I failed to find a definition of this), plush, doeskin (a fine, soft woollen cloth), pilot (a thick woollen cloth, often dyed blue used for overcoats and sailors' gear), kerseymere (a twilled fine woollen cloth).

Then there's prices: a monarch (a sovereign? That's one pound), half-a-finnuff (? - thanks to alan.98's comment below, I've discovered that a finnuff is Yiddish for a fiver), 1 pound, 1 quarter (a crown or five shillings? One pound was twenty shillings) and a peg (?), a couter (a sovereign, found in an excellent article on costermongers' backslang on the Victorian Web here), a canary (?), 9 bob (9 shillings) and a kick (?)

And of course, there's the garments on offer themselves: many appear to be trousers, such as the kicksies, or the cords "cut to drop down on the trotters (feet?)." Perhaps the "Upper Benjamins" and the "Fancy sleeve Blue Plush or Pilot ditto" are coats or jackets - the mention of a sleeve is a bit of a clue! "Mud pipes" might be some kind of oilskin waders or trousers, but I'm guessing here. "Knee caps" are possibly protective pads worn over the knees for labourers who have to kneel in their work, but again this is pure speculation. "Trotter cases" are likely to be boots if we can assume that trotters are feet.

The final call to "Seedy Swells, Tea Kettle Purgers, Head Robbers, and Flunkeys out of Collar" strongly suggests that Mr Harris is happy to do business with men of dubious reputation, so long as they have the ready cash of course.

This is a piece densely packed with detail and description, and deserves much more research than my desultory efforts.

But as much as its fun to try to translate this text, perhaps the most enjoyable thing about it is the way it reads. I would love to hear Bob Hoskins tackle this in his ripest Cockney growl.

Apparently Mr Harris advertised widely, or he copied a widely used format. More or less the same text, with some minor variations, appears in Mayhew's London Life and the London Poor of the mid 19th century (scroll down to the last quarter of the page or do a search for "slap up" on that page to find the passage), and in the New York Herald in 1888, which suggests that this tailor/outfitter was so familiar with the London criminal underworld that his handbill "appeals to the thieves, burglars and outcasts from society only."

This assertion is unfair I believe. Mr Harris was clearly drawing from the rich source of contemporary slang that would have been readily understood by its intended audience - working class men living in the slums of London. That's not to deny that perhaps Mr Harris was borrowing a bit of underworld cool by using terms that were not entirely respectable or correct, especially in Victorian times, but he was clearly a shrewd businessman who knew how to speak to his market. And he was aware that a more formal approach was a waste of time and expense (handbills cost money to print).

Credits are due. My sincere thanks to flickr friends Bollops and Art Nahpro for doing all the heavy leg-work to unearth most of the links that I have used in this piece.

I've not finished yet! At that time (19th century), trousers would not have had the central vertical fly front we are familiar with today, but a fall front. This is a method of fastening the trousers with a flap that spanned the front waist and was fastened with buttons. Take a look at this pair of trousers which will give you the idea:

These trousers are from a suit made possibly in the early 1930s, according to the museum record, which is in the collection of the Gallery of Costume, Manchester. You can see that there are four buttons near the waistband which open to reveal:

OK, that might not be what you were expecting. This is under that front panel you saw above, and there's the pocket with a flap at the top which was visible in the first picture, and also a hidden diagonal welted pocket below it.

Sorry, this is getting complicated! So if you were getting dressed you would have to fasten two side panels of the trousers with a central button or two, and then fasten up the four buttons that secure the fall front over that.

I'm pretty sure this style was archaic by the time this suit was made, and it doesn't look like a regular "lounge suit" as it is catalogued in the museum. To be fair, I'm sure there was a note in the museum record about it being a gamekeeper's suit, which would make much more sense. This suit is very old-fashioned for the time, assuming that given date is correct, and is sturdy and warm enough for tramping through the Cheshire countryside in the depths of winter with a shotgun over your shoulder and maybe a brace of pheasants hanging off your belt.

Just to complete the picture, here's the jacket of the suit:

Its beautifully curved cutaway hem, high button front fastening and waist seam speak of earlier days. The days of Mr Harris even.

There's been a dearth of film in recent posts, so this is the nearest I can get to Mr Harris's time and place - a wonderful film from 1903 of Petticoat Lane, London, from the BFI's Youtube channel. Don't you wish it had a soundtrack?:

You can't keep up with the mods

2009-11-23T17:19:00.004Z

This is the first issue of The Mod's Magazine, published by Albert Hand Publications Ltd., in Heanor Derbyshire. There's no year given, but I'm guessing its 1964 or 1965.

Its welcoming editorial, written by the editor Mark Burns, almost admits failure before its even begun:

Hallo there!
For the first edition of "Mods Monthly" I hope that we have included everything that you want to read and see. Unfortunately, although we have a staff of very "with it" Mods, so many different styles and fashions enter the Mods world every week that it's sometimes impossible to include them all. I do hope, however, that you will enjoy this edition and the subsequent editions of "Mods" for our planning of the book depends on what you want in it, not what we think should be in it.

And so it proved - a failure, that is. The only information I can find about this publication was in the book Empire made: the handy parka pocket guide to all things mod! by Terry Rawlings and Keith Badman (a gift from my brother and the only source of mod-related information in my library). Their verdict doesn't pull any punches:

Short-lived cash in publication 'Mods' failed miserably after only a handful of issues. The publishers hopelessly misjudged the average Mod's notoriously short attention span and their ever evolving tastes. It was a fact that Mod fashions and accessories could change overnight, often meaning what was considered 'in' at the beginning of the week could just as likely be 'out' by the end. 'Mod's' monthly turnaround meant it constantly found itself out in the cold!

Operating from the depths of rural Derbyshire must have been another disadvantage, since the acknowledged centre of all things mod was obviously London. You would assume this venture hadn't a hope.

But they did have some credible contributors: Cathy McGowan models three outfits on the inside front cover, and there's an article by Andrew Oldham (no Loog in the author's credit) called "Mods around the world!"

Features included "The mod trend in hairstyles" (short bobs for girls, Beatle haircuts, a move towards buns on the top of the head using false hair), "Headgear that's real gear" (girls' caps with little peaks), "Can you invent a new dance?" and "Why are Mods so much in the News?"

There's precisely zero pictures of male mods, which is a bad sign for a start since it was surely all about the boys?

In the "Records for Mods" column there's a recommendation for Blue Beat records - specifically the Exotics' Cross My Heart - followed by a positive mention for the Rolling Stones' Not Fade Away:

Alright for doing a fast shake too, but I doubt whether your energy will last to the end of the record.

Perhaps the author was unaware of the official mod fuel, amphetamine? This is another worrying indicator of terminal unhipness (I'm not endorsing drug abuse by any means, but it was the mods' drug of choice and might have allowed our correspondent to continue his "fast shake" to the fade out).

At least I can now date this magazine to 1964, since Not Fade Away was released in February of that year.

I have four consecutive issues of this magazine, which I have discovered are as rare as hen's teeth, so here is a little gallery of the covers of a well-meaning but doomed publication:

And just to be both perverse and provocative, I'm going to add a British Pathé link to a delightful short film that the mods would have hated with a passion! This really is worth two minutes of your valuable time:

MEN'S HAIR STYLES

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What could you buy for one shilling in 1928?

2009-11-21T10:53:00.007Z

Kissproof lipstick advertisement from Woman's Life magazine, October 27th 1928.

You could buy a Kissproof lipstick in a "rich, red, youthful colouring" that is not only waterproof but requires only one application in the morning because it is "as permanent as the day is long."

Now that is quite some claim to make, because I'm sure that right at this moment there are boffins in the labs of L'Oreal still busily trying to formulate a lasting lip colour to live up to that kind of claim. Perhaps the Kissproof formula included a pigment that actually stained the lips?

According to Wikipedia that was indeed the case: "long-lasting, indelible stains were the most popular" in the 1920s.

So if this lipstick (lip dye?) required only one application a day, presumably you wouldn't need much of it. In fact, the lipsticks were tiny:

Kissproof lipstick, with a cent for scale (apologies to UK viewers, the cent appears to be the universal indicator of scale - it is slightly smaller than a penny).

This example measures just under 1¾ inches (4.2 cm) long and just over ¼ inch (9 mm) wide. I can't remember how I acquired this lipstick, but I suspect it was from the days when my mother ran a vintage clothes shop and would sometimes find things (shopping lists, hair grips, handkerchiefs, no diamond rings unfortunately) in the old handbags she sold.

Its not cylindrical as you might expect, but a kind of flattened, oval shape, and it has been used right up to the nub (it was a matte, dark red colour, incidentally).

Another popular lipstick brand was Tattoo:

This has the typical cylindrical shape, but is only 1 inch (2.5 cm) in length. It is etched with dancing maidens dressed only in skimpy grass skirts.

Compared to modern lipsticks, these are absolutely tiny, and must have been a boon in the days when handbags were correspondingly petite.

Just to return to the Kissproof ad at the top for a moment: it strikes me as a rather strange advertisement for a cosmetic product. Its very brisk and English, with two posh, outdoorsy women ("My dear") conversing on horseback. This is not the kind of scenario you might associate with a lipstick - I'd imagine a night club, or fancy restaurant, or one of those newfangled cocktail bars that came over from America during the 1920s. Where's the glamour, or the sex appeal?

Well, the Tattoo lipstick company knew all about sex appeal, and in a series of advertisements from the 1930s they laid on the glamour and exotic sex appeal with a trowel:

Vogue, 7th August 1935, full page ad on the back cover.

"From South Sea maidens, whom you know as the most glamorous women on earth, comes the secret of making and keeping lips excitingly lovely and everlastingly youthful.

In that land where romance is really real, you'll naturally find no coated, pasty lips. Instead, you'll find them gorgeously tattooed! Not with a needle, but with a sweet, exotic red stain made from the berries of the passion-fruit. The resulting transparent, even colour is alluring beyond words."

Now that's more like it! "Really real" romance! And there's even a glimpse of bosom!

The recumbent female figure with the dewy lips was a signature feature of many of these Tattoo ads:

Vogue, 21st August 1935, full page ad inside the back cover.

Here, a modern, swimsuit-clad young lady precisely echoes the posture of her South Sea island sister, who is so transported by the dreamy guitar melodies that she's writhing on the ground!

"TATTOO is so soothing, it will keep your lips soft and smooth . . . lastingly young . . . forever desirable! Oh, so desirable."

Phew! I think we're getting the message. I'll bet these overheated, sensual ads found a receptive audience beyond their intended market.

Incidentally, they've also dropped the claim that these lipsticks are made "from the berries of the passion-fruit" which I'm sure was completely untrue, not to mention faintly ridiculous, and was probably only added because it had the word 'passion' in it. EDIT: I've re-read the copy and its clear I misunderstood it - those South Sea maidens were supposedly 'tattooing' their lips with passion-fruit - it was not claimed to be an ingredient of the lipstick. I'm not convinced that you would get much colour from a passion-fruit so the idea is still preposterous!

Vogue, 4th March 1936, full page ad on the back cover.

They must have liked that swooning posture, because you can see one of the women at the top of this ad in more or less the same position, not to mention being naked and with two other naked women.

"Fling a challenge to adventure! Tattoo yours lips!"

And what kind of adventure might that be, hmmm?

Vogue, 15th April 1936, full page ad on the back cover.

South Sea exoticism is relegated to the bottom left corner in this 1936 ad, which features an ethereal Jean Harlow type, the right way up for a change. (This illustration is signed by Frank Farkas, about whom I've failed to find out much except that he trained in Europe and worked in an ad agency called Farkas-Jensen-Farkas in Chicago).

Vogue, 7th July 1937, full page ad on the back cover.

This last Tattoo ad, illustrated by John LaGatta has a "South Seas Enchantress" whispering secrets to a languid chestnut brunette in a gloriously liquid satin gown. Its perhaps a little more restrained (if you ignore the hint of lesbian eroticism, that is), although the copy is anything but:

"There's a magical ingredient blended into the New TATTOO that gives lips a thrilling new kind of softness . . . an endlessly yielding softness!"

Well, really. I can feel my inner brisk Englishwoman losing patience now. That's quite enough of that!

[Note: the Tattoo advertisements were found in bound copies of British Vogue, held at the Gallery of Costume, Manchester].

What could you buy for 16/5 in 1933?

2009-11-16T17:41:00.004Z

You could treat yourself to a smart pair of co-respondent shoes from Saxone, delivered to your door.

But wait! I always picture this type of shoe in cream and brown, or possibly black and white if you're a bit of a flash Harry. These shoes betray their elegant half-tone illustration by being proudly offered in "Vivid green or blue" and white kid, along with those more conventional options. Can you imagine?

This advertisement was found in the July 1933 edition of The Wide World: The Magazine For Men, which is full of manly adventure stories about vicious head-hunting tribes in Ecuador, bank hold-ups in Canada, and shooting rogue elephants in the British Cameroons.

I suspect you'd have to be a particularly adventurous type of man (foolhardy, even) to wear "vivid green" and white co-respondent shoes in 1933. Or at any other time for that matter.

What could you buy for 6d in 1934?

2009-11-16T16:32:00.004Z

Well perhaps not buy outright, since 6d is your deposit on "a delightful Spring Frock in Fashion's latest style," and you would in fact be obliged to make fortnightly payments of 1/6 (1 shilling and 6 pence) until the balance of 12/11 was reached.

Oh, and there's 6d for postage too.

But you do get a free pair of black patent leather shoes, so its looking more like a bargain. J.A. Davis was one of a number of mail order clothing companies advertising in the issue of Picturegoer magazine (June 2nd, 1934) that this ad appeared in, and it was certainly the cheapest.

Corot, of 33 Old Bond Street, London, was the dearest. It offered two models: "miss innocence," a pure silk crepe de chine frock for 3½ guineas cash or 10/6 monthly (a guinea was one pound and one shilling - 21 shillings - the 'posh' pound!), and "fresh as the morning," a linen sun frock with matching cape for 2½ guineas cash or 7/6 monthly.

Doing some sums - "miss innocence" is effectively 73s 6d and nearly six times the price of J.A. Davis' frock (with its rather less romantic title of "model 12").

This disparity in prices points to the wide readership of Picturegoer magazine, although even Corot would not have been considered a 'high end' clothing retailer at the time. Prestigious department stores were offering couture copy model gowns for up to 25 guineas, which gives some perspective on the market.

There's lots to pick over here - I always enjoy the fortuitous abbreviation of 'artificial' into 'art' when referring to synthetic fabrics, which makes them sound much more prestigious and appealing.

And I am always brought up short by the colour options listed, with the quite customary use of a derogatory racial term for shades of brown. Nobody would have turned a hair at that term in those days, and within my memory I recall seeing coloured pencils being labelled the same way.

If I'm ever lured by the warm appeal of cosy nostalgia - "things were so much better in the old days, you could leave your door unlocked, kids had respect for their elders" and all that nonsense - that's something to bring me right back down to earth with a bump.

Upcycling, recycling, remaking, reusing

2009-11-15T16:13:00.009Z

hand made antique dolly peg, originally uploaded by Trevira. This is made of a strip cut from an old tin, wound round a split stick.

In principal its ALL good, but having recently joined Etsy I've had reason to give it some more thought.

There's a lot of people busily remaking new garments out of vintage ones, and some of them are remarkably inventive and stylish. But I do have qualms about using, and drastically altering, vintage items that are perfectly wearable and undamaged as they are.

In their original state, they are authentic survivors of their era, and often have some value as collector's items or potential museum pieces. Once they have undergone such alterations, they are no longer authentic, and have lost that intrinsic value accrued by age, rarity and desirability - but on the other hand, they may have gained in appeal for the modern buyer who isn't the least bit interested in history or authenticity.

Of course, reusing and remaking clothing is nothing new. For centuries, people have plundered old, secondhand garments - unpicked silk dresses to remake the valuable fabric into something new; removed lace collars and trimmings to adorn another blouse or dress; snipped off buttons and saved them for the next suitable sewing project.

As fashions changed, garments might be altered to conform to the newest styles. When paisley cashmere shawls fell out of favour in the nineteenth century, for example, some of them ended up as neat little jackets or mantles. Here's a late example from the 1920s, held at the Gallery of Costume, Manchester.

In the days before 'vintage' became the lucrative marketing term it is today (something I've discussed rather pompously here), nobody was sentimental about secondhand clothing, regarding it as raw material to be used as they saw fit.

So perhaps I shouldn't be bothered. But the historian in me can't help but mourn the loss of items that have survived the years intact, only to be destroyed at the hands of some unsympathetic maker who is perhaps blind to its merits. (There is a case to be made, I suppose, that the 'new' items made from old ones become authentic artefacts of the current era).

That said, I find it hard to care about mass produced 1980s garments - they're not that old, they're plentiful and most of them are pretty dreadful (I'm being unforgivably subjective here!). Perhaps in twenty years I might feel differently.

My parameters for justified reuse are: badly damaged and/or worn out garments - or ones less than twenty years old - that have no particular qualities, uniqueness or style to them are fair game.

Admittedly, this is probably still ridiculously irrational and sentimental of me. Especially since I have quite a number of vintage clothes in my wardrobe that I wear on a regular basis and will eventually wear out and (effectively) destroy myself!

The era most associated with reusing and remaking garments is that of the Second World War - when 'make do and mend' was an imperative that no-one could afford to ignore. Goodness knows how many potentially valuable 'vintage' items ended up chopped up or altered (like my first ever vintage dress, which got off relatively lightly) during that time.

Anne Edwards, fashion editor of Woman magazine, provides some ingenious tips on how to decimate your poor husband's wardrobe while he is off fighting the war, in this 1942 British Pathé clip (this film might account for the relative scarcity of 1930s menswear!):

HATS (aka MAKE AND MEND HATS)

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Even women's wardrobes weren't safe from the scissors! An evening dress is transformed into a becoming day dress (and turban):

EVENING AND DAY FROCK (issue title is HI-DE-HI)

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And finally, "great grandma's priceless old lace" is turned into some attractive household decor items:

LACE (issue title is GIVE AND TAKE)

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How do you advertise when you don't have anything to sell?

2009-11-14T14:34:00.011Z

Leafing through a copy of Modern Woman magazine from January 1944, I noticed that a number of the advertisements weren't promoting actual goods, but the promise of them after the war.

The frazzled lady above with the fire buckets is presumably doing the weekly wash, and couldn't wait until she was able to buy a new Hotpoint washing machine, something that I'm sure a lot of women at the time could relate to.

G.E.C. (below) used an arresting illustration to make the point that their production lines were diverted to munitions work for the duration:

Clothing manufacturers, such as Healthguard knitwear, were busy supplying the troops with uniforms and (presumably in this case) cosy and durable knitted sweaters and undergarments, although in this industry, unlike that of the electrical manufacturers, a small proportion of their output was devoted to the domestic market:

The tone is sympathetic but encouraging - acknowledging that their products will be scarce and probably require a concerted effort to hunt around numerous retailers to source - "annoying, perhaps, but well worth the bother." (I can't see that phrase catching on in the same way as "Keep calm and carry on," somehow).

Thomas Ratcliffe & Co. Ltd., makers of Moderna wool blankets, appear concerned to preserve their image as producers of high quality goods:

After explaining what makes their blankets so special - "pure lamb's wool . . . more threads to the inch in warp and weft than in an ordinary blanket" - they are obliged to confess that their wartime blankets, produced "under the current Govt. restrictions," aren't quite so special. In fact, its clear they really don't want to sell you their current, substandard blankets at all and instead urge wartime brides who are setting up their new homes to save their money for the (better) post-war Moderna blankets and in the meantime "make do with what you've got"!

Bourjois, the cosmetics manufacturer, congratulates women on maintaining their feminine allure whilst engaged in arduous war work, but urges them to use their scarce products sparingly:

In small print at the bottom, after expressing regret that their Evening in Paris perfume will not be available during the war, is this warning: "Any perfume offered to our clientele as 'Evening in Paris' is spurious and not a Bourjois production unless the bottle is labelled with our name and address thereon, in conformity with the Board of Trade regulations."

It seems that shoddy, counterfeit goods were another hazard of wartime life.

All these adverts appeared in a single magazine in 1944, five years into the Second World War, and their message must have been repeated throughout countless publications during the conflict. Although manufacturers engaged in essential war production were probably not suffering unduly, with their lucrative Government contracts, they were evidently anxious to maintain public goodwill and the future customer base that would ensure their post war prosperity.

For consumers, it must have been constantly frustrating to be repeatedly reminded about what they didn't have and couldn't get. Everything had to wait until after the war.

But what nobody seemed to realise (or perhaps didn't dare admit) was that all these enticing goods wouldn't suddenly appear in the shops once victory was declared in 1945. In fact, shortages and rationing got much worse! The government had huge wartime debts and just about anything worth selling was exported to help pay it off.

After six long years of deprivation, not to mention the stress and heartbreak of living through a long and bitter world war, the patient and enduring British consumers were faced with a further nine years wait before all rationing finally ended in 1954.

Of course, they weren't necessarily that patient and enduring (who would be?) If you want to learn more about the 'ordinary' British person's experience of the immediate post war years, you can't do better than Simon Garfield's book Our Hidden Lives. Garfield skilfully and sensitively edits the Mass Observation diaries of five people to illustrate how this largely overlooked era affected those five individuals, and it makes surprisingly vivid and compelling reading.

An aspect of wartime advertising I haven't mentioned yet, is the manufacturers' awareness of the limits of that assumed patience. An Atkinsons Eau de Cologne ad pleads: "Supplies are scarce though, so please don't be cross if the shopkeeper is out of stock." A Parozone bleach ad urges: "Don't blame your suppliers if you can't get all the Parazone you want. Bear with us please - we are doing everything possible to maintain supplies."

There's a clear hint of the daily, small-scale conflicts that poor, hard-pressed shop staff had to face from frustrated and enraged shoppers. But, I ask you, could you tolerate this?:

At the bottom of this advertisement it says: "We ask your indulgence should your retailer be temporarily out of stock." My memories of Bronco are of the waxy, stiff and resolutely non-absorbent toilet paper that no-one would buy or use out of choice. To have only Bronco toilet paper available is torture enough. To have no toilet paper at all is beyond comprehension!

As my grandmother (and probably yours too) always said - we don't know we're born!

Connie bobs her hair

2009-11-10T09:46:00.007Z

Connie, originally uploaded by Trevira.

Meet the lovely Connie, captured some time in the 1910s (quite possibly during the First World War), with her tumbling tresses, huge bows and pretty pale silk dress with pearl beading.

Hollywood buffs might be reminded of "America's Sweetheart" Mary Pickford, at that time the most famous woman in the world.

But then the 1920s arrived:

the new modern Connie, originally uploaded by Trevira.

And Connie was transformed! She's bobbed her hair, and wears a simple day dress with a Peter Pan collar.

Not only that, but her inscribed greeting on the photographs has changed from the rather formal and restrained 'with love Connie' to the brash and informal 'tons of love Con.' Its not just her hair that has changed!

After I uploaded these two pictures on Flickr I got some interesting responses, including one from anniebee drawing parallels with F.Scott Fitzgerald's 1920 short story Bernice Bobs Her Hair (there's a link to the full text of the story on that page too).

And magpie-moon claimed to prefer the pre-bob Connie, which led me to wonder about the modern appeal of these two different aspects of femininity. Both play on the 'girlish' - the older style a flowery, frilly and wistful look of an adolescent who can't wait to grow up, put her hair 'up' and become a proper lady; the 'newer' style, although it looks more modern to our eyes, actually references the kind of haircut and dress that pre-pubertal girls wore at that time, and suggests a wish never to grow up!

As a rough indication of the relative popularity of these looks, the 1910s Connie photograph has been 'favourited' 23 times and the 1920s Connie has 21 'favourites' - 1910s Connie is ahead by a narrow margin.

I can't let this one pass without the now obligatory British Pathé gem, so here's a young lady getting her hair shingled (a later variant of the bob) in 1924 by the eminent hairdresser Emile Long:

"SHINGLED" - A CUTTING LITTLE EPISODE IN ONE ACT

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Everyone was so much smaller in the old days

2009-11-09T16:24:00.008Z

With love to dear Gwenn, originally uploaded by Trevira.

Of course they weren't all much smaller in the old days, but its surprising how often I'll hear that repeated. Madame, above, photographed in 1909, is a particularly good answer to that lazy generalisation.

And here's another:

now identified: Mercedes Gleitze, champion swimmer, originally uploaded by Trevira.

When I first uploaded this picture on Flickr I had no idea who this woman was, and hadn't a hope of deciphering the pencilled autograph across it. She wears a 1920s knitted swimming costume, which turned out to be a bit of clue.

A Flickr contact, alan.98, succeeded in identifying her as Mercedes Gleitze - a well-known endurance swimmer in the 1920s and 1930s who was the first English woman to swim the English Channel in 1927. This incredible feat, completed in just over 15 hours on a bitterly cold day in October, was, within days, beaten by Dr. Dorothy Cochrane Logan. Unfortunately Dr. Logan's 13 hour crossing was soon revealed as a hoax, which led people to doubt Mercedes' own achievement.

Determined to prove her case, Mercedes insisted she would swim the Channel again. Meanwhile, the prestigious watch company Rolex saw this new attempt - and the guaranteed attendant glare of publicity - as a golden opportunity to promote their recently patented waterproof watch, the Rolex Oyster. Miss Gleitze agreed, and wore the watch hung round her neck with a ribbon for her 'Vindication Swim.'

Unfortunately, her attempt at the crossing failed in waters that were even colder than her previous successful swim and she was pulled from the sea almost unconscious after enduring it for nearly 10½ hours. However, she had proved her stamina and endurance, the Rolex Oyster survived and kept perfect time, and Miss Gleitze supplied a glowing testimonial and was featured in subsequent advertisements for the watch. You can read a much more comprehensive account of this story here.

Mercedes Gleitze had the kind of sturdy figure that must have been perfectly suited for this kind of swimming. Although she looks 'big' she was obviously incredibly fit, not to mention incredibly brave and resolute. A thoroughly modern woman in the 1920s, and a name to admire to this day.

I can't help but notice that although she was 'modern' in her pioneering activities, her personal style was actually quite old-fashioned. Her long hair proves that not every woman in the 1920s chopped their hair into a short bob - even though it would have been even more practical for her as a long-distance swimmer. Footage shows that she wore her hair in two plaits which were then coiled round over her ears - Princess Leia style! - which was a popular strategy to avoid actually cutting your hair whilst still approximating the neat, short, fashionable look of a bob.

Miss Gleitze went on to complete marathon swims across the world - including being the first person (not woman, person) to swim across the Straits of Gibraltar in 1928. As if there aren't enough reasons to admire her, she used the money earned from her swims to open the Mercedes Gleitze Home for the Homeless in Leicester in 1933.

The fantastic British Pathé has come up with the goods again! This film supposedly shows Mercedes Gleitze shortly after her failed Channel crossing, although she looks rather too perky to have just been pulled from the waves to me:

A SPLENDID FAILURE

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And here she is in action, setting off from Folkestone in 1926 on one of her failed attempts to cross the Channel:

THE CHANNEL WINS AGAIN

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Plus fours - why?

2009-11-07T15:42:00.014Z

plus fours and plus eights, originally uploaded by Trevira.

Having failed to find any photographs of outrageously wide Oxford bags (see a previous post) among my own fairly extensive collection of old snapshots, I realised I had a few good examples of another baffling men's fashion favourite of the interwar years - plus fours.

Originating as comfortable golfing trousers or breeches generously cut so that they billowed below the knee by four inches - hence the name - these garments became popular as leisure wear appropriate for all kinds of locations, not just the golf course.

That famous men's fashion leader, the then Prince of Wales (you know, the one who made cosy social calls on Hitler and abdicated to marry Mrs Simpson) helped popularise the trend worldwide. And despite their Bertie Woosterish associations these days, it wasn't just upper class twits sporting them, but men of all classes.

The two gentlemen at the top were from the North Shields, and because I have quite a bundle of photographs from the same family I know that they and their friends lived in semi-detached or terraced houses, and fixed their bicycles by the shed in the back garden. They are evidently not members of the landed gentry. The precise location has yet to be identified, but the date is somewhere in the mid 1930s, and I implied with my caption that the chap on the right's plus fours look particularly capacious. Note the Argyle patterned socks that seem obligatory with plus fours.

Mob of lads, North Beach, Scarborough, originally uploaded by Trevira.

This cheery crowd of youths from around the same date, or possibly a year or two earlier, display quite a range of men's leisure wear, with one brave pioneer in the middle in plus fours. Other photographs from this set show that these boys were camping in tents somewhere in Scarborough, and I'd be prepared to bet that this was probably their first holiday without their parents. Let's hope they behaved themselves.

plus fours, 1920s/30s, originally uploaded by Trevira.

These gentlemen are old enough to know better. The circumstances around this photograph are lost to history, but its fair to assume that alcohol might have been involved given the array of glasses at their feet. This does not explain the teapot, however, or the chap kneeling behind and holding something like a bicycle inner tube over his friend's head. Clearly none of this would have occurred had they been wearing sensible, double breasted suits.

From this limited selection of photographic evidence, it seems that plus fours brought out the light-hearted, jovial, devil-may-care aspect in a man's character. Something that may explain their virtual disappearance once the Second World War started spoiling everyone's fun.

But the fun can't end just yet:

plus fours?, originally uploaded by Trevira.

This joker from South Wales has either gone completely potty and had some plus tens made (imagine the trouble in store), or he's actually tucked his trousers into his socks for a laugh. I'll leave you to decide which.

By the way: can you picture wearing a pair of trousers (please refer to the Oxford bags post earlier) over these plus fours? Hmmm.

What I did on my holidays (in Cromer)

2009-11-06T10:13:00.007Z

blackcurrant and cassis sorbet, originally uploaded by Trevira.

No this won't be a school essay!

But I always do plenty of research before our holiday breaks because I don't want to miss out on any good places to see, enjoy or eat at in the vicinity, and its always useful to find reliable testimonials online.

One of my best sources for travel information is Anne at I like, who shares an enthusiasm for the "Great British Holiday" and has impeccable taste. Her regular reports of her jaunts, with copious photographic evidence provided on her flickr photostream, are always full of places, attractions and businesses that are worth making an effort to seek out. (Of course, there's plenty of other good reasons for checking I like, but we're talking holidays here).

Anne's keen interest in unusual, quirky and/or neglected tourist attractions led her to establish the essential nothing to see here. This has developed into a prodigious online repository for the informed and discriminating tourist with an appreciation of the unusual/quirky/neglected.

Back to my holidays. We stayed at the Hotel de Paris at Cromer, which caters mostly to the silver-haired coach party crowd. Indeed, it proved rather hard to secure a booking at all, but it was worth the effort (and regular phone calls on the chance of a cancellation) for a sea view room that looked right over the pier.

Cromer is a modest little seaside town on the north Norfolk coast, which has little to offer the nightclubber or funfair fiend. It was perfect!

There's plenty of book shops and antique and collectors' shops for junk hounds, including Collector's World, easily found on Church Street, where I secured some brass fringes from a Mason's apron and a clutch of enamel badges. The friendly owner showed me an extraordinary set of Freemason's ceremonial robes - white with a red crusader's cross on - that had more than a passing resemblance to a Ku Klux Klan outfit.

Fine dining seems in short supply in the area, but I did really enjoy a (birthday treat) meal at La Griglia, and can wholeheartedly recommend their seared scallops starter, and seafood risotto made with "whatever's fresh from the market today." I would have taken pictures but the lighting was so low I could barely see to pick up my fork!

Mary Janes (award winning) Fish Bar on Garden Street supplied at least two more of our meals during the break, but don't try and sit down in the restaurant too late or the waitresses bellow at you "we're closed" as you push open the door (this was at about 8.30 p.m.) Don't let that robust Norfolk charm put you off though, the fish and chips are great. Just head to the take-out bit and enjoy your fish supper on a bench overlooking the nearby pier (weather permitting, of course).

In nearby Sheringham is the wonderful Ronaldo's Ice Cream parlour. Ronaldo's uses local cream, milk and fruit for its ices and spurns artificial colours and flavourings. It took some time to make up my mind:

Ronaldo ice cream parlour, originally uploaded by Trevira.

And then it turned out that they didn't have any chocolate cappuccino and Tia Maria on that day. Fortunately, my second choice - blackcurrant and cassis sorbet - was sublime and can be admired at the top of this post.

Finally, 'Joyful' West's Shellfish Bar, in Sheringham too:

'Joyful' West's Shellfish Bar, originally uploaded by Trevira.

which supplied freshly made crab sandwiches for my birthday lunch (eaten on the seafront and shared with some very cheeky starlings), not to mention the best dressed crab at prices half those I saw in Cromer.

What could you do for £2 2s in 1933?

2009-11-05T15:58:00.014Z

Advertisement from the Davis Standard (a Croydon cinema newsheet), November-December 1933. Eugène permanent wave, originally uploaded by Trevira.

You could perm your 'whole head' at Ede, hairdresser to the ladies and gentlemen of Purley. Or half your head for 25 shillings, if you were a bit strapped for cash.

£2 2s in 1933 would be equivalent to £111.09 these days, according to the handy calculator on measuringworth and using the Retail Price Index alone. This was a considerable sum to invest in a process that might last a couple of months before it grew out.

Ede of Purley favoured the Eugène system of permanent waving, developed by the Swiss Eugene Suter and his Spanish technical whizz Isidoro Calvete in London in 1917. There's some marvellously alarming photographs of their perming machines in the Wikipedia entry on the Perm (hairstyle), including this example from 1923:

Photograph from Louis Calvete, son of Isidoro Calvete, used under CC license.

It might look terrifying, but it must have worked, and indeed worked very well. So well that Eugene's name became "synonymous with permanent waving throughout the world," and you don't achieve that by electrocuting your clients!

And this little film from 1935, courtesy of British Pathé, shows a later system which used heated clamps allowing the permee [??] to wander about rather than being tethered by the hair to an electrical contraption:

FEMININE PICTORIALITIES NO. 42 - A HAIR NOVELTY

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Oxford Bags at their widest

2009-11-02T13:52:00.012Z

"Oxford Bags" at their widest, originally uploaded by Trevira.

Sometimes stories get a bit distorted over time, as evidence is repeated second, third and fourth hand until little essential parts of it go missing.

This picture was found in the book These Tremendous Years 1919-1938 published by the Daily Express. Its a marvellous run through of all the major events, personalities, fashions and crazes of that period, and here - in the 1927 section - is a photograph of a man wearing extraordinary trousers.

The text explains things quite clearly:

'"Oxford bags" at their widest were seen in the West End of London when a man, wanting to win a wager, walked out in trousers measuring forty-eight inches across each leg. The fashion of extra-wide trousers, begun in 1923, though still popular among undergraduates was now dying out generally, but trousers have never got back to the narrow widths of pre-war days.'

So this isn't a fashionable young man pushing the stylistic envelope. In fact he looks like rather a grumpy middle aged man who wants to prove a point. Oxford bags were widely mocked, and even, according to Beverley Nichols, 'somehow connected with atheism, [and] effeminacy.'

This man is ridiculing Oxford bags, and the godless, sissy undergraduates that sported them at the time! You can almost hear him harumphing as he submits to the newspaper photographer's attention while he marches down the road.

But the interesting thing is I've seen this exact photograph reproduced in a popular men's fashion history book to demonstrate the extremes that Oxford bags went to, with no mention of the wager at all.

So a humorous wager and publicity stunt gradually becomes recorded fact and the context is lost to history.

UPDATE: Having given this some thought, the original caption to the picture is misleading. It claims that the trousers measure "forty eight inches across each leg," but I would suggest that that was the circumference, and not the width. A 24 inch width (two feet) is still pretty vast. This confusion between circumference and width might account for the ludicrous misreporting (and its repetition over the years) of the Oxford bags phenomenon.

And further - I've found another picture of this same man in a rather more jovial mood. Perhaps he'd just collected his winnings?

Scarves and buckles

2009-11-01T14:22:00.013Z

Not long ago, I showed a visiting friend a British Pathé film (forgive the regular British Pathé references and links - I'm officially obsessed with it) from 1942 demonstrating some ingenious ways to wear headscarves. We were both filled with enthusiasm and inspiration so I dug out some old scarves for us to experiment with.

First the film, which is well worth the link leap:

TURBANS (issue title is WAYS AND MEANS)

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My friend tried the 'natty little pussycat' with just one long scarf rather than the two recommended, and was so taken with it she left it on. Some of the other variants were possibly a little too complicated and involved pins so we left those alone (particularly prudent after a couple of glasses of wine).

But I did have some old - ok vintage - buckles that I thought could be pressed into service with the scarves for some new variants. These experiments worked pretty well, so I recreated them later on my battered old mannequin.

Number one - square scarf, folded diagonally into triangle, place fold at brow, draw each end of that through the buckle at the back. Not bad, a little bit insecure though.

Number two - long scarf, drawn through a buckle, tighten to fit. I was aiming for Clara Bow, and got Steve Tyler. Needs work.

Number three - same principle as number one, only the opposite way round. The corner underneath has been tucked under for neatness. Exhibits same instability as number one. Norah Batty?

Number four - hardly needs explaining. Using a tiny buckle seemed to help the security issue. This might be a bit more Rita Tushingham, only without the bouffant.

Well, mixed results, certainly. But it was a fun evening.

What could you do for 2/6 in 1924?

2009-11-01T08:16:00.011Z

Where to dance, originally uploaded by Trevira.

You could go dancing in one of the palatial new dance halls that were appearing all over the country, the first of which was the (recently demolished) Hammersmith Palais de Danse, built in 1919.

The murky newsprint photographs don't give much idea of their scale and splendour, but you can make out the huge, 'oriental' style lanterns that became a signature feature of many of these Palais.

H.V. Morton made a visit to 'A Suburban Dance' recounted in his book Nights of London, published in 1926. His account helps fill those murky little photos with the people and life that is absent from them:

You give eighteenpence to a young woman who is imprisoned behind a brass grille, and you enter the dance hall.

The floor is covered with young men and girls fox-trotting to the music of an excellent band. The hall is large. Big yellow lanterns hang from the roof. Your first impression is that the girls are extraordinarily pretty and the men surprisingly ordinary. The girls have dressed for the dance; the men do not possess evening clothes. Here and there a star dancer has changed into a special kind of trousers, grey or black Oxford trousers as a rule, which billow over very pointed brown shoes. With these trousers he wears the coat and waistcoat of his lounge suit. Young men who do not dance linger in vague, drifting groups on the outskirts of the floor, smoking cigarettes and making comment. Pretty little wallflowers sit out by the dozen. Now and again two girls rise and dance together.

The music ends, the lights go up. Then a surprising thing occurs. In an instant men and girls have parted! The girls go over to one end of the room to sit on chairs ranged against the wall; the men group themselves in bands and coteries around the floor and light up the cigarettes which they had left parked on the radiator!

You look at the girls with interest. Most of them work in the big shops in the district. Each one wears a knee-short, tasteful evening frock and light stockings. You look along the rows of chairs and realise that here are seen the prettiest, neatest legs in London. In the Ritz, the Savoy, Claridge's, the pretty woman is easily picked out from the crowd; in this eighteenpenny suburban dance 'hop' a new beauty dawns on the sight of each minute; the girls are all between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five. Perhaps that is the secret; they have abundant vitality and youth. They also have abundant lip-stick and powder, and one or two have Eton-cropped their heads.

It strikes you again and again that they are too vital and brilliant for the dull youths who lean against the wall and smoke cigarettes and whisper.

And if you'd like to see a glimpse of possibly 'the prettiest, neatest legs in London' the British Pathé film archive has a short clip of the Wimbledon Palais (the dance hall at the top of the advert) filmed in 1926:

DANCE TIME

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Mr Parkinson

2009-10-31T18:55:00.006Z

Another article I wrote, for a magazine I forget the title of. That no one read.

This is a story about my encounter with a true eccentric when I was about nine, and is accurate in every respect (at least, accurate to my vivid memories of it, which are so strange it almost feels like I dreamt it):

Mr Parkinson