Constant Curiosity | What we wear

"That season we were loaded with pizazz. Earrings of fuchsia and peach. Mind you, peach. And hats. Hats, Hats, Hats, for career girls. How I adored Paris."--Diana Vreeland. 

Although she was no DV, I credit my grandmother in part for my interest in fashion and beauty.  She was always known as "Nana," not Granny or Grandma, had a closet full of evening gowns and treacherous high heels; she was in her 70's when I got married and she wore an ecru lace sheath dress, champagne colored 3/4 gloves, high-heeled mules and a big picture hat.  I wore a home-made empire waist "granny" gown, with a big picture hat.  You can't pay for that kind of irony.

At any rate, I have always loved clothes, shoes, and adornments of any kind, except possibly those scratchy yellow party dresses my sisters and I had to wear when we visited Nana; our pedal pushers and Keds would just not do.  When we went to town, we always wore our little striped sleeveless dresses. 

I recall even wearing cotton gloves once. 

My mother, who had once wanted to be a fashion designer, was no slouch in the style department.  And my Dad wore Pendleton shirts with silk scarves tucked inside the collar (to keep his neck warm, of course.) 

So of course, I jumped at the chance to see the new film Diana Vreeland:  the eye has to travel all about the legendary fashion editor of Harper's Bazaar, editor-in -chief of Vogue magazine and finally a consultant to the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

What makes Mrs. Vreeland so amazing was that she had a natural eye for beauty and style--she was no beauty herself and had no real formal education, yet in her surety and audacity she became the most feared and revered fashion trend-setter of the 20th century.  She is credited with "discovering" Lauren Bacall and promoting Twiggy and famously said "The bikini is the most important thing to happen since the atom bomb."

                                                                      

"The only real elegance is in the mind; if you've got that, the rest really comes from it."  --Diana Vreeland.

Constant Curiosity | Wish Books

When I was little, maybe 7 or 8, I liked nothing better than to lie on the living room floor in a sunny spot and pore through the Walter Drake catalog.  We lived way out in the country and the nearest small town was nine miles away, so a wish book opened a whole world of amazing stuff unknown to my young self.  No money was no problem; dreaming was enough. 

I like the self-contained nature of catalogs; shiny paper cabinets of curiosities; treasures yet to be discovered.   The delicious anticipation when a new one comes...sit down, have a cookie and a cup of tea and just turn the pages.  Like being in the best kind of bubble.  Who needs Calgon?

One of my all time favorites is The Metropolitan Museum of Art catalog.  It's not the same as visiting the museum, but imagining the exhibits that inspired the beautiful objects contained within can be very diverting. 

If you sign up for a Harrods catalog, the form has a nice list of titles: Prince, Princess, Viscount, Viscountess, Wing Commander, His Royal Highness, Her Royal Highness, etc. in a pull-down menu for your convenience.

Fortnum and Mason, famous purveyors of hampers full of goodies for Christmas and other occasions, doesn't offer a catalog, but one can subscribe to their various magazines (online only, alas.)

 

As with Fortnum and Mason, the Internet has rendered catalogs somewhat redundant, even though, according to the National Mail Order Assn., some 20 billion catalogs are mailed each year (at least a million end up at my house.)  Ease of ordering and all; instant gratification takes too long.

That's not really what a wish book is for, at least in my view; the sentimental name sort of says it all--you can wish for something you never knew existed and never knew you could want or need.   You can let your imagination fly to parts unknown or to well-remembered places:  journeying via catalog can be a great way to armchair travel.