Fabulous Vintage Links

Absolutely stunning dresses:

http://www.revampvintage.com/index1.html

http://www.bluevelvetvintage.com/

http://www.20thcenturyfoxy.com/en/index/a1

In the name of Gloria

Last weekend, I was in a film. And I was in a film the way the likes of Gloria Swanson happened to end up in films. By pure chance. The original actress couldn't make the shoot at short notice, so I found myself donning the romany gypsy outfit I had supplied. It was silent, and there had been no time to prepare. At the word action, the cameras rolled. And I hope I did my idols proud. If only there were more opportunities for a silent movie actress...

To all the Bright Young Things

For past few weeks, I have met a circle of souls who are all kindred spirits of the roaring age. So for this I bow down humbly to the powers of social media and the modern age, without which I would still be sat alone in my room with the lamp burning low, shrill cornet bleats and quivering voices rising from my gramophone. Surrounded by sepia photographs hanging around my head, I grieved that there would be no one else in the world with whom I could ever really share the magic of that world with.

And so in celebration of these new found souls, I hereby declare a twenties revival society; the flame has been lit again, and we shall bask in the brightness of the bright young things!

In greedy haste, on pleasure bent,

We have no time to think, or feel

What need is there for sentiment

Now we've invented Sex Appeal?

We've silken legs and scarlet lips,

We're young and hungry, wild and free,

Our waists are round about the hips

Our shirts are well above the knee

We've boyish busts and Eton crops,

We quiver to the saxophone.

Come, dance before the music stops,

And who can bear to be alone?

Come drink your gin, or sniff your 'snow',

Since Youth is brief, and Love has wings,

And time will tarnish, ere we know,

The brightness of the Bright Young Things.

"Women of 1926" - James Laver.

Oh frabjous day, calloo callay! Happy Birthday Buster!

No, it's not by me, but I love this poem and it springs to mind today, October 4th, when in 1895 one of the greatest talents this world has seen was born. I am slightly biased, because he has had me spellbound since I was a 14 year old school girl; but let's ignore that for now. All you need to know is that he was one of the greatest film makers of all time, a lovely person - and today is his birthday!

A BIRTHDAY

by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Y heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;

My heart is like an apple-tree

Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;

My heart is gladder than all these,

Because my love is come to me.




Raise me a daïs of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

And some other goodies I happened to pick up recently...

eBay has been very twenties generous recently. With these earrings, I'll certainly be ready for my close up...

For gorgeous 1920s earrings...

...visit Jewellery By Costume Drama here.

This lovely lady has been supplying me with stunning hand made twenties inspired jewellery for a while. And she sells so reasonably; it's easy to treat yourself!

These are a few of my recent purchases. I would recommend you visit her online store over at eBay for more designs - my collection is always growing. Fast friendly and fantastic service with earrings to die for - what more could you want? And they won't break the bank!

1925 Vintage Yrby Perfume Bottle "Mon Ame"

A rather lovely Art Deco perfume bottle from 1925. I have never had the luxury of experiencing this perfume, but the bottle would be enough to adorn my dresser.

Sadly, from a little research, it looks as though Mon Ame no longer exists in any form (although there is a tanning lotion in existence of the same name, which, with my pale complexion, is less than appealing).

So it will have to be that the admiration of this bottle is all the choice we have.

Perhaps you can treat yourself to one should you have a cool $2,700 going spare, as the link from Christie's suggests. Alternatively, there is currently one up for auction on eBay; and with six days remaining, it's currently at $152.50...

How to smell like the 20's

Today I smell of 1925.

This may potentially conjure up an image of a musty, moth eaten silk flapper dress from an old attic, or rusting old Ford; however, cast your mind to a boudoir with velvet cushions, the seduction of swirling smoke from heavy incense, the heady heat of the East. Gentlemen; imagine a Sheba. A smokey eyed, scarlet lipped temptress luring you lasciviously. Ladies; a Sheik. A smouldering, tall, strong, dark Valentino about to take you in his grip and make love to you passionately.

This is a scent of intrigue; deep, sensual, heady, romantic and mysterious. For the lady who wears it; think Theda Bara in a bottle, and this is Shalimar. It is the scent of vamps.

Shalimar by Guerlain was re-launched in 1925 after having initially been created in 1921. The bottle itself is beautifully ornate; a midnight blue stopper with Guerlain Paris scrawled in gold, sitting atop a crystal urn shaped bottle on a footer, with a gold label in the centre displaying it’s name decadently.

Apparently (so I have read in sources long forgotten) the perfume contains pheromones amongst the other dark velvet infusions; whether this is true or not, it was the first perfume to ever heavily use vanilla as its base note which Jacques Guerlain considered to be a powerful aphrodisiac, making it a perfume designed to intentionally inspire love and lust. So, when I say it is the perfume of vamps, it really is - it epitomizes the dark eyed, bee stung lipped, pale skinned beauty who peers out of a smoky screen and lures her lover into the darkness of her Eastern boudoir.

It is exactly this heady exotic Eastern world that inspired the perfume. The name Shalimar means ‘Abode, or Hall of Love’ in Sanskrit, and is taken from the Gardens of Shalimar in Lahore in what is now Pakistan, built by Shah Jahan in memory of his wife, the love story of whom also inspired this perfume.

The top notes in this scintillating scent are bergamot, hesperidies and lemon, with rose, jasmine, iris, patchouli and vetiver making up the middle notes. Vanilla, opoanax, musk, civet, leather, ambergris, sandalwood and incense all combine to give the velvety rich base notes which I adore.

Sadly, modern versions of the perfume have been altered so that the deeper, darker muskier notes which were so apparent in the original have now been overpowered by higher citrus notes to adapt to changing tastes in perfumes.

Earlier perfumes of the twentieth century most certainly follow a trend of the dark, intense musky fragrance as opposed to most perfumes of today; personally, I prefer the darker scents with this musky infusion as opposed to the lighter citrus notes that modern fragrances favour. The depth of Shalimar undoubtedly creates this warm, sensuality that modern scents just cannot match.

What can I say; the lady is a vamp. Shalimar is a perfume that exhibits all the elegance, velvety purrs and feline grace of the panther, with a gentle wink that reminds the admirer of the hidden claws and teeth.

Laughing to the Max

Although I had always been very much aware of Max Linder, I must confess I had never seen his work. And by saying I had never seen it, I mean I have never had the opportunity to. However, thanks to Paul Merton, on Sunday evening I was finally given the great chance to see this man in action, and I was thoroughly delighted at Mr Linder's talents. I shall certainly be buying up available DVDs to add to my ever increasing collection; although watching him it was intended on a huge screen in an early cinema will be sorely noted.

And although Mr Linder's own personal story was no laughing matter - for which I bow my head, respectfully - I hope that somewhere out there, wherever he may observing from, he knows that he left us with the precious gift of bringing a smile to grace our lips because of his magic.

Feels Like Home

Of an interview, a passion, and of hope for good news.

Today I was fortunate enough to attend an interview at a local firm of solicitors. The building was the first thing to make an impression; after the succession of tiled steps which led up to a brightly painted front door, I found myself standing in a huge hallway under the austere gaze of a man painted in oil and framed in ornate gold. I was shown to the waiting room. It represented perfectly what I had always wanted in a house of my own one day; antique deep red leather chairs, with varying hues across the seat and arms from years of wear, and a towering oak cabinet with glass windows filled with dusty law books, all red and green bound, and with gold writing gleaming on their spines.
The silence of the building hung as gracefully as the painting in the hallway; and, such is the same within many Courtrooms and Solicitor's offices, the dark oak, the red leather, the oil paintings and the smell of dust all amalgamated so as to inspire me to sit up straight and improve my posture considerably for the sake of some unseen disciplinarian. In an environment such as this infused with venerableness - in which I have found myself working in at various times of my life -one could be forgiven for thinking the year 1710, 1810, or 1910; and this is one of the little lascivious things I cherish about the Legal profession, at least in terms of the offices I have worked in. In my opinion, one is very lucky to work in an atmosphere such as this.
The rich and detailed history of Law are inescapable, especially in such surroundings; and, very much like the gentleman watching from the confines of his golden frame, one is humbled by the grace, regality and time-honored traditions of such a fine art.

All the goings on in February

It has been a while since I wrote.

On reflection, it occurred to me that the reason is partly down to lack of ideas for content, and by this I mean the relevant content in connection with a 1920s blog. Which is of course, what this is. I have always been one to have something to say, which pleases some and is a source of great annoyance to others (although none dare say so; and if they do, they say it with a twist of jest drizzled on top so as to sweeten with subtlety and avoid any bitterness), but my problem is that it is not always strictly in relation to the 1920s. If only it were. And so I face this problem, where in my opinion if I have a 1920s blog, then it should be filled with 1920s related things, and 1920s related things only. This would of course all be very achievable if I were in the decade itself. Sadly, and very bitterly, I may add, I find myself light years away from it, and surrounded by the recent echoes of the noughties and the new decade stretched out ahead of me, still filled with plastic celebrities and cheap perfumes stamped with their names; of supermarkets in a constant attempt to take over the world and fight each other to the death by way of advertising and marketing and cost-cutting, meaning that our dear local home grown independent grocers and butchers and bakers are all dying a death. And the list of course goes on to include all manner of politics, and society, and all the ills that pain me of this age. But that is for another time.

So you see, it becomes entirely distracting at times to write constantly about an age one does no longer live in.

So it came to me this morning that perhaps I should be less strict with my blog; and allow the content to be flexible and free so that it doesn't sit unattended for weeks and months at a time. I have come to the conclusion - one which is rather silly, being so completely obvious that I feel an idiot for stating the revelation here in writing as though it were some life-changing discovery - that I can, and will as a course of my own nature, write things here that will always undoubtedly contain an element of the twenties about it. No matter what it is. Whether I write about Cheryl Cole, or Lady Gaga, or Rudolph Valentino and Constance Talmadge - it will always be with an air of twenties-ism that is as ever-present and thoroughly instilled in me as the ways of an old Etonian will still always be an old Etonian, even if they decided to run away and join a circus, or some such unrealistic (I assume, but could be wrong) set of circumstances.

(If anyone knows of an old Etonian that did this, I have to say I will now be intrigued to know about the gentleman's fate).

So with that in mind I hope, very much so, to go forward discussing all manner of sorts here, past and present (and possibly future); but as ever, I will always be humbly your

Girl Gatsby

Afterthought

Love; I do believe
That you have tricked me and deceived
You do not soothe; you only vex
I should have only stuck to -

(c) 2009

New Years Resolutsch and all manner of excuses for absences...

It has been on my mind for some time that I not managed to post anything here for quite a while; and it was this evening's post from Icy Sedgwick that made me kick my butt into gear and finally get the hell on with it. Yes, I am aware that my Burgh Island 'review' of sorts has not quite been accomplished yet, but I hope to have that finalised at some point! My excuse is the more I write about it, the more I think about it, and the more I long to go back...

Now the real focus, espesh of this evening, is that I absolutely must get back into my writing. Lots of things distract me from this once simple pleasure of mine; life on the stage singing, hard liquor and hard men (ahem), oh and all sorts of divine distractions that have led me astray. The main thing being the good old nine to five, which always manages to drain the creativity from one's soul and if one isn't careful it will dry you up forever. Creative juices must be kept flowing.

So, ahead of 2010, I have at least one resolution set. What will the others be? I still have two more weeks to decide on those...

GG

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

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

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!

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…