Wednesday 16 September 2009
1920s Black Beaded Violets Silk Chiffon Flapper Chemise Over Dress XXL by hautecountryvintage on Ets
1920s Black Beaded Violets Silk Chiffon Flapper Chemise Over Dress XXL by hautecountryvintage on Ets
1920's Antique Vintage Metallic-Daisies Elegant Gold-Lame Lace Couture Rhinestone French Wedding Fla
The Man I Can Charleston With
There is a man - I'll tell you about him:
He's fairly tall, has great panache,
Slicked black hair, pencil moustache,
Neat and dapper, handsome, smart,
A gentleman after my own heart!
A side parting, yes - and moving on,
A smile that outshines the sun.
Brown eyes has he, with visions deep
And soft lips that are mine to keep.
My man wear boaters, blazers, ties
Wears Oxford Bags (he's so fashion-wise)
The occasional monacle for his weak left eye
And a pocket watch to keep track of time.
And do you know - it's such a shame
I have to play this lonely game.
But there's nobody I can blame
For my lack of gents to claim
To fit the description of my beau -I guess that I'll just never know
The man I can Charleston with.
©1995
©1995
Monday 14 September 2009
Rolf Armstrong, 20s glass hoops, and other ebay losses
It really can be quite hideous when one finds something to die for on eBay and gets pipped at the post or finds it just at the wrong time when funds are low before the paycheck has arrived, and subsequently one loses out on things so deliciously magnificent it causes one to despair in ways that are, unforgivably so, the depths of depression caused by materialistic want, and nothing more. Of course, I can survive without these - but, I ask you, do I HAVE to? Really? But they would make life so much better!
Everything you see here are original 1920s items. Unfortunately for me the seller of the Rolfe Armstrong pictures disabled the photo's after the auction, so I have only managed to salvage these small thumbnails. They were just too too divine, and I am a sadder lady today for not having won them!
But ho hum. I did manage to find a 1930s deco wardrobe at the weekend for pennies, so all is not completely lost!
Tuesday 8 September 2009
Of Burgh Island, Part II
So; we get to the Burgh Island Hotel, and the Burgh Island Hotel is divine.
We were led, as I remember it, in a sort of strange calm gentle busy flurry, like late leaves being blown in by a sudden unexpected gust of wind through an open door in the fall, with the soft frantic bustle that just as quickly is at peace once set down by the wind. And so there we stood. If eyes could talk they would have been all a-stuttering in their broken gaze, distracted again and again the second they tried to focus on just one thing; another source of distraction clicking its invisible fingers out from the corner of our eyes to demand our
"Good afternoon" beamed the receptionist, and at last my eyes settled on the reception area. I nodded and smiled. "Would you like tea brought to you in the morning?" she asked. Smiling, and nodding, and saying 'yes please' before taking the large clear plastic keyfob with the name Noel Coward etched in it in frosted writing; two deco seagull styled "m's" hovering in one corner. There was movement; I turned to see a smartly dressed porter standing behind me motioning to my steamer trunk. "This all you have?" he asked. I was too much in awe of the building to repeat the small child reference. I nodded. And smiled. "Thought it was part of the hotel" the Porter exclaimed, and with that, he directed into the elevator with the trunk, whilst he turned to ascend the stairs.
In the silence and privacy of the elevator, I softly squealed in my instant and intense adoration for the place; the elevator stopped with a soft bump and the door was pulled open by the Porter. He gestured for me to go before him through a white door which led us into a softly lit hallway, at the end of which was a huge Art Deco unit with a marble clock on the top. I bit my bottom lip in furious excitement at the sight of it; and finally, a left turn brought us walking towards a full length mirror. The mint green door adjacent to it featured the framed sepia toned portrait of Noel Coward. So, here we were.
In a moment where I thought I would scream out loud, I managed to stifle any such extremity of emotional delirium and instead funnelled it into a small squeak as the door opened and the sight ahead of me was revealed for the first time. I walked through into the small hallway, past the granite bathroom, and into the lounge and dining area of the suite. Alone. At last.
The sea was a soft, muffled roar beyond the panoramic windows. A circular geometric rug sat amongst the purple art deco leather suite; blonde walnut side units – one of which a bottle of Bollinger sat awaiting it’s mass consumption - and a dining table with chairs featured glorious acorn shaped shades. I ran my fingers down the curtains; they were thick and heavy, the embroidery on them like Braille under my fingertips.
The bedroom boasted more blonde walnut in the shape of a 30s dressing table whereupon I instantly decided my Shalimar would sit. The rest of the room consisted of a complete art deco suit which would fulfil any deco lovers dream; but especially a girl’s; perfume, shoes, bags and make up storage were abundant, and all in such style!
So the bubbly was opened, and after all this excitement we decided to be decadent and order a Devon cream tea. It arrived with bells on; the scones were still warm from the oven. Champagne, tea, and a clotted cream tea all in sumptuous art deco surroundings once inhabited by Noel Coward are all very much things that you cannot, in my opinion, very much top.
And so it came to pass that before long we would start the delicious process of getting dressed for dinner, which is something that in this day and age hardly bears any comparison to it used to be (and should be) done.
The tuxedo was donned, and the dress - my 1920s lace dress, bought especially for the occasion, was set to make its debut at Burgh Island. After the last checks in the mirror had taken place, we departed the suite to join the other guests for cocktails and canapés in the Peacock Bar; the sun had appeared, the rain had stopped, and as we made out way down the stairs, the sunlight burst through the little panes of glass that make up the trademark long window of the tower of Burgh Island. Piano music trickled up to us, loudening with every step down we took, and into the Peacock bar we strolled; the ghosts of Josephine Baker, Noel Coward, Clara Bow and Agatha Christie all whispers of our previous neighboring guests, and who had once sat underneath that glorious domed rainbow of glass above us.
To be continued…
We were led, as I remember it, in a sort of strange calm gentle busy flurry, like late leaves being blown in by a sudden unexpected gust of wind through an open door in the fall, with the soft frantic bustle that just as quickly is at peace once set down by the wind. And so there we stood. If eyes could talk they would have been all a-stuttering in their broken gaze, distracted again and again the second they tried to focus on just one thing; another source of distraction clicking its invisible fingers out from the corner of our eyes to demand our
"Good afternoon" beamed the receptionist, and at last my eyes settled on the reception area. I nodded and smiled. "Would you like tea brought to you in the morning?" she asked. Smiling, and nodding, and saying 'yes please' before taking the large clear plastic keyfob with the name Noel Coward etched in it in frosted writing; two deco seagull styled "m's" hovering in one corner. There was movement; I turned to see a smartly dressed porter standing behind me motioning to my steamer trunk. "This all you have?" he asked. I was too much in awe of the building to repeat the small child reference. I nodded. And smiled. "Thought it was part of the hotel" the Porter exclaimed, and with that, he directed into the elevator with the trunk, whilst he turned to ascend the stairs.
In the silence and privacy of the elevator, I softly squealed in my instant and intense adoration for the place; the elevator stopped with a soft bump and the door was pulled open by the Porter. He gestured for me to go before him through a white door which led us into a softly lit hallway, at the end of which was a huge Art Deco unit with a marble clock on the top. I bit my bottom lip in furious excitement at the sight of it; and finally, a left turn brought us walking towards a full length mirror. The mint green door adjacent to it featured the framed sepia toned portrait of Noel Coward. So, here we were.
In a moment where I thought I would scream out loud, I managed to stifle any such extremity of emotional delirium and instead funnelled it into a small squeak as the door opened and the sight ahead of me was revealed for the first time. I walked through into the small hallway, past the granite bathroom, and into the lounge and dining area of the suite. Alone. At last.
The sea was a soft, muffled roar beyond the panoramic windows. A circular geometric rug sat amongst the purple art deco leather suite; blonde walnut side units – one of which a bottle of Bollinger sat awaiting it’s mass consumption - and a dining table with chairs featured glorious acorn shaped shades. I ran my fingers down the curtains; they were thick and heavy, the embroidery on them like Braille under my fingertips.
The bedroom boasted more blonde walnut in the shape of a 30s dressing table whereupon I instantly decided my Shalimar would sit. The rest of the room consisted of a complete art deco suit which would fulfil any deco lovers dream; but especially a girl’s; perfume, shoes, bags and make up storage were abundant, and all in such style!
So the bubbly was opened, and after all this excitement we decided to be decadent and order a Devon cream tea. It arrived with bells on; the scones were still warm from the oven. Champagne, tea, and a clotted cream tea all in sumptuous art deco surroundings once inhabited by Noel Coward are all very much things that you cannot, in my opinion, very much top.
And so it came to pass that before long we would start the delicious process of getting dressed for dinner, which is something that in this day and age hardly bears any comparison to it used to be (and should be) done.
The tuxedo was donned, and the dress - my 1920s lace dress, bought especially for the occasion, was set to make its debut at Burgh Island. After the last checks in the mirror had taken place, we departed the suite to join the other guests for cocktails and canapés in the Peacock Bar; the sun had appeared, the rain had stopped, and as we made out way down the stairs, the sunlight burst through the little panes of glass that make up the trademark long window of the tower of Burgh Island. Piano music trickled up to us, loudening with every step down we took, and into the Peacock bar we strolled; the ghosts of Josephine Baker, Noel Coward, Clara Bow and Agatha Christie all whispers of our previous neighboring guests, and who had once sat underneath that glorious domed rainbow of glass above us.
To be continued…
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