Stories & Resources:
Last Chance by Sandra Dodgson
‘Third Time Lucky’ they say, if only that is the case I will be content. In a few hours I will know, one way or the other. As I wait the minutes stretch out before me in all their possibility and I wonder if fulfilling my reason for being is really that much to ask for, especially as I have already waited for more than fifty years.
It is mid afternoon, and this evening we will see the full pageantry that is the Oscar Ceremony unfold in front of the world’s media. A night for dazzling gowns to be displayed in their full glory, for endless photos to be taken and for all those smiles, be they heartfelt or otherwise, to come together in a strange mix of celebration and commiseration. The preparations are in full flow as I hang here on a rail in the hotel suite belonging to Kate, a rising star in the film industry who is up for ‘Best Actress’. She will be heading off in a few hours to see if she has secured the coveted statue. As her hair and make up are being perfected, the final decision is being made as to which dress she will wear in order to secure most impact. There ensues a reworking of the frenzy of questions about best colour, best fit, how well it will photograph running alongside repeated calls to and from the designers of the two dresses hanging beside me. Amongst all of this who will speak for my potential and for me.
This passes in a blur, as I wonder if ‘finally’ I will get to be seen in all my glory or as on previous occasions something will happen that ensures I am consigned to oblivion. A somewhat dramatic view I know but fifty years of waiting does colour ones’ perspective and hanging here beside these two exquisite modern gowns designed especially for Kate does not help. I know that I am in with a chance as Kate loved me at first sight and compared me with a favourite dress her mother had worn many years ago. Her stylist oozed compliments about how well I flattered her figure and colouring, whilst chattering on about how on others I would be bland and they both agreed how well I would photograph. All good but in the end will they choose me, an old dress, over freshness and youth, however much the trend is for ‘Vintage’.
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Courage they say, well it is hard with my history to believe that I may finally realise my destiny and live the dream. I’ll never forget being created by my seamstress in Paris. She took the designers’ original sketch and crafted a gown of such fluidity and movement. The process seemed endless, the pins, the sewing, the fittings, the alterations where I didn’t live up to the designers’ expectations, the detailed beadwork and finally the selection of accessories and shoes to compliment me. The growing excitement and frenzy within the studio as we approached the date we were to be shown to the wealthy women who travelled to this house each season for their outfits. Then, that fateful day just three days before the show, when I was cut from the list and left hanging forgotten in the sewing room whilst the others’ were shown, admired, chosen and ultimately worn as had been intended. Not for me, the words ‘too modern’ and ‘not quite in keeping with this season's collection’ were repeated. No consolation, never to be forgotten the crushing disappointment and sense of rejection that came with being left to hang motionless under a piece of cloth. I was created with the sole purpose of being brought to life on a human body, of making someone look beautiful and in being admired for doing so securing compliments for the ideas of my designer and for the skills of my creator. That said knowing ones’ purpose does not make rejection any easier to bear.
Back here in Kate’s suite, it appears a decision may have been reached but only if a different pair of shoes can be secured. At this late stage I wonder what they are thinking but it may be a normal part of this game. Calls to the famous shoemaker, whose creations’ Kate adores, have secured her three options that are being rushed over to her right now. The car is due to collect her in less than two hours and then the walk along the red carpet, the endless possibilities of being admired and yet still not knowing if I will be the one.
The excitement that comes with anticipation pervades the room and fills them all. The resulting energy and chatter remind me of the women working together in the atelier, in which I was created. The hours passing whilst waiting for the designers’ new sketches to arrive, the increasingly long days working on the garments as the date of the show approached and the challenge of getting through the overnight sessions during the final week. The seamstresses would moan and complain about many little things, their fingers sore from the needles, their eyes burning from the detailed work and their stiff backs. On and on they would grumble but in their hearts they loved the work and enjoyed the respect and appreciation they received as people at the top of their profession.
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I remember those weeks after the show with the endless rounds of visits for fittings, the finishing, parcelling and deliveries to the women of Paris and beyond. Imagining those outfits arriving and the pleasure they would generate filled my thoughts during those times. The sense of loss and missing out did not ease until on a wet afternoon, as luck would have it, one of the daughters of a regular customer needed a fabulous dress to wear as prom queen. None of the items seen in the show were felt to be suitable and there was a moment of panic until I was remembered, given a quick steam to freshen me up after weeks under cloth and taken to the showroom. The young girl loved me immediately and after some minor alterations I fitted to perfection. As she twirled and floated in front of the mirrors, receiving compliments from all sides, I was renewed. I couldn’t help wondering about my previous level of concern, for now at last I was going to fulfil my destiny. You cannot image the sensation, well perhaps you can. You may also be clear about something you want to achieve in life or at least an inkling of it and have travelled on that roller coaster of emotions as you get closer to then further from your dreams.
On the night of the prom, in that moment of pleasure how could I have known what was to come. There we were on the point of departure, excitement coursing through her veins, her escort waiting in the hall as she glided down the stairs with a mild sense of irritation that her father was absent, probably working late as usual and the phone distracting her mother. Oh that fateful, or should I say hateful moment, when her mother returned ashen faced to announce that the girl’s father had been taken to hospital with a suspected heart attack. The resulting rapid change of clothes and dash to his bedside meant leaving me there on the floor of her room, forgotten in the moment. I waited for many hours hopeful of a false alarm. Would she return so that we could finally make our entrance even if we would have been a little later than planned? But no, they returned in the early hours of the next day, he was going to be well but the party was over.
Coming so close and yet not close enough is a memory upon which I do not like to dwell, some may but not me. The ensuing years, initially stored at the front of her wardrobe occasionally taken from the rail to be admired but always with an air of missed opportunity. Slowly moving further towards the back as new garments arrived, then to be stored in the loft wrapped in tissue, forgotten until the day she moved house when I was consigned with other unwanted memories to the used clothes store. I spent many years in that shop amongst the wide range of clothes that passed through and along those rails. Some were well worn and for those I imagined many interesting and eventful experiences. Some like me were ‘one off’ designs but most unlike me had been worn and admired as they were meant to be.
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I remained in that store for many years, too many to count, until three months ago. On that day Kate’s current stylist was exploring the possibilities of a ‘vintage’ dress being suitable for an event that Kate was to attend. She spotted me amongst the many and immediately those words that it was so long since I had last heard were being used, ‘what a beautiful dress’, ‘perfect colour’ and ‘such exquisite beadwork’. I could feel the old excitement rising but it was tinged with a sense of disbelief and an overwhelming sense of here we go again, back on the roller coaster. To be purchased and to be sent to a specialist cleaner for removal of the small stain on my perfection, a result of the initial tears of my prom queen was at least a beginning. Kate’s initial reaction was almost beyond belief and the thought of being worn with those emeralds of the purest green that she would loan for the night was sublime. After the initial expectations I had been given back at the atelier all those years ago, could her pleasure in trying me on and being worn for such a short time suffice.
So, we approach the finale, my finale. Kate may or may not win this year but she has time, she will continue to mature and for her there will be further opportunities in the coming years. For me, a different story unfolds. I was designed and created to be worn, to be seen and to be admired. I have imagined what that might be like on so many occasions and the red carpet that they are speaking of sounds like the perfect opportunity. Can my dream become reality and will it live up to expectation. We will soon know as I am being taken from the hanger. As Kate steps into me and I envelop her my fabric falls into place and the exquisite nature of the experience flows through both of us.
We emerge from the dressing room to the admiration of all and revel in giving such pleasure. For me, knowing that I have achieved my goal is beyond description and for Kate similar possibilities unfold. On route to the event the conversation in the limousine turns to reminders for Kate on how to show me off to best effect and on how to be photographed in ways that capture her beauty. Talk then switches to tomorrow morning, will Kate be in the newspapers, how big a photo would be a success, what about the celebrity magazines next week and the monthly magazines that report on the Oscars. In all these publications, will I be described simply as a vintage garment alongside the name of my designer or will my cut, colour, fabric and design be written about and commented upon. Oh the rising angst.
Suddenly the possibility that my dream of being worn may not be enough explodes in front of me, together with the prospect that the wait will only have been worth it if there are visual reminders and many column inches. These thoughts take me from my pure enjoyment into a tortuous mix of excitement and fear. I sense something similar in Kate as she sits there listening to all the advice she is being given whilst contemplating how to react if she wins and more importantly if she does not, considering that the eyes of the world, her world at least, will be upon her.
So here we sit, waiting to see if reality lives up to the dream. I take time to remember that all I wanted for those endless years was to be worn once and that it would be enough. Perhaps it will be!
Sandra Dodgson
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