This darling article from an early 1920’s issue of French Vogue caught my eye recently, as much for the humorously written story as for the adorable little drawings. Since many of us have flappers on the brain these days, I thought you might enjoy it as well.
Here’s how it looked in the magazine:
The original is cuter than what I’m able to recreate. But thanks to Google Translate (and my high school French teacher) at least you can read it. Enjoy!
COLETTE DECIDES TO CREATE HER OWN ENSEMBLE
By shortening the sleeves, by removing the back, by removing the sides and by decreasing the skirt one can manage to simplify a dress more than one might expect. . .
Colette was faced with a most nagging problem: she had to choose a new toilet. Many young women would have been more than satisfied by going quietly to Paquin to choose a lace dress or to choose a taffeta at Chéruit. But Colette had higher aspirations. Each dress seemed particularly interesting to her; in one, she admired this, in the other, she admired that, and she did not quite know which way to turn to succeed in conceiving the ideal dress, one which borrowed a bit of charm from this couturier and a bit of charm from that one. It was a terrible situation and worthy of the deepest consideration!
She reflected for a long time; she meditated during sleepless nights and then, suddenly, a wonderful idea crossed her mind: She was going to visit all the fanciest couturiers and after having carefully chosen what was the newest, most trendy, most recent, she would be able to make for herself a dress which would be the melding of all the latest novelties, of all the trends, of all the recent ideas.
Her first visit was to Georgette.
“An evening dress, Miss? But certainly. Here is something absolutely perfect.” A black trained dress was brought to Colette which was like an apotheosis of graceful lines, the typical dress, by the way, of the house. Colette was delighted.
“How deliciously this dress favors me, how it makes me thin,” she cried in ecstasy, turning and turning in front of the three-sided mirror. But suddenly, seeing her back, Colette gave a slight start: there was no back.
“Isn’t there something missing here,” she asked shyly. The fitter looked at her, stupefied. “I’m talking about the back,” Colette explained, “haven’t you forgotten something?”
“But, Miss,” the fitter protested, “none of our evening dresses have backs this season. No backs or sleeves, that’s what makes our outfits so chic.”
Colette got dressed, rushed into her Rolls-Royce, took out a little notebook, held it up, and with a triumphant quill wrote: “Neither back nor sleeves. . .”
The second stop was the salon of a designer specializing in clothing for very young people. Colette was most famous there. Her attention was first drawn to an adorable little emerald green taffeta dress, like the sea on some fine evenings.
The skirt was covered with a cloud of silver gauze on which a shower of flowers, of a tender white, fell in garlands.
Colette was in seventh heaven. But now she wanted to look at the bodice, and she noticed that what she was looking at was her chest. She was dumbfounded for a moment, wondering what that meant.
“The bodice,” she whispered, blushing slightly, “I can’t see it very well, would you please tell me where it is?”
“Ah,” cried the saleswoman enthusiastically, “but that’s the charm of this dress, it’s so daring, so carefree. No front, no sides.”
Colette remained stunned; but she picked up her little gold pen and wrote on her little notebook, under the words, “No back,” the following sentence: “No sides and hardly any front”.
Then she rushed to the House of Nicole.
“Your latest evening dress,” she said with a thoughtful smile to the saleswoman who greeted her with deference. They brought her a foam of lace and put it on her. Colette was panting with joy. But, looking at herself on all sides, she began to smile softly.
“Miss Gailor,” she said, “obviously you must have mistaken me for my little sister, Edith, because it is a child’s dress that you brought me.”
“My dear Mademoiselle,” cried Miss Gailor, “the skirt covers your knees. It is impossible for me to dress you with anything longer; if you could see some of the models from the latest shipment, if I dare say so, you would realize that this is almost worthy of a dowager. I dare say this is exaggerated prudishness .”
Colette was convinced. She took her gold pen again and added to her little notebook: “Barely a skirt”.
At this moment, the thought of shoes came to her; it was a pleasant diversion. Colette immediately ran to her favorite shoemaker. A young salesman rushed up to her. As soon as she expressed her desire for evening shoes, a hint of enthusiasm appeared in his eyes.
“A poem,” he whispered, “we just created a poem of shoes, two verses written in silver brocade. . .”
Colette couldn’t breathe; in her excitement, she took her little shoes for a walk. But, the young salesman looked with a certain embarrassment at her legs.
“You really cannot, Mademoiselle, try on these marvelous shoes with such stockings. It is essential that they be highlighted by a pale fabric, so diaphanous, so ephemeral I dare say, that it is invisible. If you would be good enough to. . .”
And from their tissue paper hiding place, the salesman removed and presented, with great seriousness, two small tufts of cobweb.
Colette was determined not to look provincial.
“Oh, but it’s perfect,” she murmured. And it was just as the young salesman had told her; the shoes were simply lyrical little poems and the stockings – if you looked closely you could see them – were wonderfully fitting. The whole thing was bought without delay.
And then the ideal dress was carefully designed and made with all Colette’s list of “don’ts”. It was curious to see how little material it required.
The day finally arrived, when the ball was to take place. At the last hour, a purple and silver box arrived. Colette could hardly contain her emotion; trembling with anticipation, she rushed to the mauve ribbons and began to remove the silk papers that wrapped the precious object.
She had to search for a while, but in the end she found the dress. With enthusiastic and reverent fingers she took it and slipped it on. The result seemed to Colette more beautiful than her most secret hopes could have conceived: The tulle was like a magical thing, the flowers lovely and romantic, the green accent of the belt was almost too beautiful to bear. Colette was beyond happy. She put on her stockings and shoes and, for the final touch, put a feather headband in her hair.
This costume was undoubtedly a complete success because it brought together all the latest creations of the most elegant houses. Its chic was undeniable, it produced an electrifying effect. There was only one very small difficulty: that Colette could never show herself in it, other than behind a screen.
Moral: When you want to show too much fashion at once, you end up with nothing at all.