RetroXotique |
An Excerpt from The Crimson Petal & The White by Michel Faber |
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RetroXotique |
An Excerpt from The Crimson Petal & The White by Michel Faber |
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Waiting for William to
stir, there's no need for you to gaze unblinking into his lap until he
does. Instead, why not look at some of the objects of his desire?
They've come to St James's Park to be looked at, after all.
If you've any love for fashion, this year is not a bad one for you to
be here. History indulges strange whims in the way it dresses its women:
sometimes it uses the swan as its model, sometimes, perversely, the
turkey. This year, the uncommonly elegant styles of women's clothing and
coiffure which had their inception in the early seventies have become
ubiquitous - at least among those who can afford them. They will endure
until William Rackham is an old, old man, by which time he'll be too
tired of beauty to care much about seeing it fade.
The ladies swanning through St James's Park this sunny November
midday will not be required to change much between now and the end of
their century. They are suitable for immediate use in the paintings of
Tissot, the sensation of the seventies, but they could still pass muster
for Munch twenty years later (though he might wish to make a few
adjustments). Only a world war will finally destroy them.
It's not just the clothes and the hairstyle that define this look.
It's an air, a bearing, an expression of secretive intelligence, of
foreign hauteur and enigmatic melancholy. Even in these bright early
days of the style, there is something a little eerie about the women
gliding dryad-like across these dewy lawns in their autumnal dresses, as
if they're invoking the fin de siecle to come prematurely. The image of
the lovely demon, the demi-ghost from beyond the grave, is already being
cultivated here - despite the fact that most of these women are daft
social butterflies with not one demonic thought in their heads. The
haunted aura they radiate is merely the effect of tight corsets. Too
constrained to inhale enough oxygen, they're ethereal only in the sense
that they might as well be gasping the ether of Everest.
Even walking requires more skill than before, on the higher heels of the
calf-length boots now fashionable. When I first read the above (and each subsequent time) it evoked a strong reaction, the description of the opulence and inconvenience of late 19th century fashions was so strong that I decided to gather some pictures to illustrate the authors idea's and they are shown below. Mike
If you've any love for fashion, this year is not a bad one for you to
be here. History indulges strange whims in the way it dresses its women:
sometimes it uses the swan as its model, sometimes, perversely, the
turkey. This year, the uncommonly elegant styles of women's clothing and
coiffure which had their inception in the early seventies have become
ubiquitous - at least among those who can afford them. They will endure
until William Rackham is an old, old man, by which time he'll be too
tired of beauty to care much about seeing it fade.
The ladies swanning through St James's Park this sunny November
midday will not be required to change much between now and the end of
their century. They are suitable for immediate use in the paintings of
Tissot, the sensation of the seventies, but they could still pass muster
for Munch twenty years later (though he might wish to make a few
adjustments). Only a world war will finally destroy them.
It's not just the clothes and the hairstyle that define this look.
It's an air, a bearing, an expression of secretive intelligence, of
foreign hauteur and enigmatic melancholy. Even in these bright early
days of the style, there is something a little eerie about the women
gliding dryad-like across these dewy lawns in their autumnal dresses, as
if they're invoking the fin de siecle to come prematurely. The image of
the lovely demon, the demi-ghost from beyond the grave, is already being
cultivated here - despite the fact that most of these women are daft
social butterflies with not one demonic thought in their heads. The
haunted aura they radiate is merely the effect of tight corsets. Too
constrained to inhale enough oxygen, they're ethereal only in the sense
that they might as well be gasping the ether of Everest.
Morally
it's an odd period, both for the observed and the observer: fashion has
engineered the reappearance of the body, while morality still insists
upon perfect ignorance of it. The cuirass bodice hugs tight to the bosom
and the belly, the front of the skirt clings to the pelvis and hangs
straight down, so that a strong gust of wind is enough to reveal the
presence of legs, and the bustle at the back amplifies the hidden rump.
Yet no righteous man must dare to think of the flesh, and no righteous
woman must be aware of having it. If an exuberant barbarian from a
savage fringe of the Empire were to stray into St James's Park now and
compliment one of these ladies on the delicious-looking contours of her
flesh, her response would most likely be neither delight nor disdain,
but instant loss of consciousness.
Even walking requires more skill than before, on the higher heels of the calf-length boots now fashionable.
Yet they are beautiful, these tubby English girls made willowy and slim, and why shouldn't they be? It's only fair they should take other people's breath away, suffering such constriction of their own.
He's been mulling over his financial humiliation so long now that he's been inspired to compose a metaphor for it: he imagines himself as a restless beast, pacing the confines of a cage wrought in sterling silver '£' symbols, all intertwining like so: ££££££££££££££££££££££: Ah, if only he could spring out! Another young lady glides past from behind him, very close to his bench this time. Her shoulderblades protrude from her satin thorax, her hourglass waist sways almost imperceptibly, her horsehair bustle shakes gently to the rhythm of her walk. William's financial impotence shifts its focus, ceasing to be a challenge to his wits and becoming instead a challenge to his sex. Before the young lady in satin has trod twenty more paces, William is already convinced that something important - something essential - would be proved about Life if he could only have his way with a woman. |
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