Unquiet
Things

For every dreamy dress that makes its way into one of my How To Wear fashion collage ensembles, there’s a digital graveyard of discarded possibilities – beautiful things that weren’t quite right because the ruffle-to-lace ratio failed to properly evoke the precise feeling of reading Gothic romance novels by candlelight during a power outage, or the shade of black wasn’t quite the same black as a crow’s feathers found in a cemetery at exactly 3:47 PM on an overcast Tuesday.

I spend hours haunting the darkest corners of haute couture collections, pursuing that perfect piece that speaks to whatever strange mood has possessed me that day. A stunning Alexander McQueen gown? Rejected because the hem wouldn’t appropriately billow in the theoretical breeze of an imaginary Victorian ghost hunt. That breathtaking Valentino piece? The beading caught the light in a way that reminded me too much of morning dew rather than the glimmer of fairy lights in an abandoned conservatory.

Would you believe that for every dress you see in my finished collages, I’ve passed over at least fifty others? Fifty! Each one lovely in its own right, but ultimately set aside because the neckline wasn’t dramatic enough for swooning over ancient cursed jewelry, or the silhouette failed to capture the essence of “widow who definitely did not poison her third husband but has excellent taste in mourning wear.”

A blood-red Rodarte with velvet ribbons at the shoulders, tea-length and slinky – a dress that captured the exact color of freshly spilled… well, let’s say wine. But – and this pains me still – the way it caught the light was more “elegant dinner party murder mystery” when what I required was “secret vampire masquerade where everyone pretends they’re just wearing really good lipstick.” I spent three days contemplating various shades of crimson trying to convince myself it could work. Reader, it could not.

A transcendent Simone Rocha creation in ivory organza with crystal-scattered corsetry and, how to put this delicately? Sequins placed in such a weird way that they’re essentially crowning a pair of imaginary sagging mams, creating an effect that’s somehow crazy fascinating. It’s giving “disco meditation on the drooping divine” when what I needed was “possibly transformed into a particularly elegant moth while conducting questionable botanical experiments.” The upside-down, underside boob crowning was just too distracting for proper ghostly activities.

A Comme des Garçons masterpiece of gathered jacquard cotton that held such promise: a symphony in black with a flared hem that looked like it had been designed by architects who exclusively work in shadows. But alas – while the structural gathering created the perfect silhouette for looming menacingly in doorways, it would make it impossible to dramatically drape oneself over ancient tombstones without getting caught on the carved cherubs. No amount of strategic flaring could solve the physics of proper Victorian swooning. Some dresses simply refuse to compromise between avant-garde menace and classical gothic poses.

An achingly beautiful Alexander McQueen creation that both haunts and taunts me – a sheer, dotted tulle masterpiece with gold sequined unicorns galloping across its surface. Perfect in absolutely every way… except that I couldn’t find a single photo of it laying flat or even on a hanger. And how can one properly daydream about wearing such a magical thing when there’s always someone else already wearing it in the photos? (We need that blank canvas, that absence, that empty space where we can project our own ghostly selves into the dress!) Alas, this unicorn remained, appropriately, too ethereal to capture in the way I needed.

An Erdem blazer that whispered such dark promises, with its dusty pink cotton-candy corsage trailing tattered ribbons against strict black wool like a forgotten Valentine pressed between the pages of a book of funerary customs. But the double-breasted structure and relaxed cut were giving more “eccentric gallery curator who specializes in cursed paintings” when what I needed was “mysterious lady novelist who may or may not have a collection of possessed dollhouses.” The distinction, while subtle, makes all the difference.

An Oscar de la Renta creation that looked like someone had captured the winter night sky and sewn it into a dress – all starbursts and comet trails and snowflakes that might actually be sea anemones frozen in time. The Art Nouveau-inspired crystal embroidery was absolutely perfect for every celestial occasion I could dream up… except that this cheeky little number was definitely more “tipsy on champagne with shooting stars” when what I needed was “solemnly communing with ancient nebulae.” Some dresses are just determined to have more fun than you had planned.

And finally,  a Taller Marmo gown of black tulle and cascading fringe that promised every dramatic entrance I’ve ever dreamed of. I passed it by at the time, but now I realize it’s giving “Endora, but make it goth” – like if Samantha’s mother traded her signature tangerine caftans for something more suited to materializing dramatically in your living room at midnight instead of noon. Just imagine the withering looks she could deliver to Dum-Dum in this number, all swishing black fringe and sequined disdain. I could absolutely kick myself because that is EXACTLY the vibe I didn’t know I needed.

Why am I telling you this? I guess because I am sitting on a (virtual) pile of pretty dresses, and I need someone else to play pretend to dress up with me. Sometimes you spend hours hunting for the perfect gown for an imaginary moonlit garden party that will never actually happen, and you have to share that particular form of beautiful madness with someone who might understand. Someone who won’t question why you rejected a masterpiece of haute couture because it wasn’t quite right for theoretical ghost-spotting, or why you have such specific opinions about which dress would be most appropriate for dramatically reading poetry in an abandoned conservatory.

Maybe you’re that someone.  If so, pull up a chair (preferably a high-backed walnut throne with blood-red velvet and lurking gargoyles, but I won’t judge if your chair only has regular Gothic architectural details). We can swap stories about the ones that got away – the almost-perfect gowns that whispered the wrong secrets, the beautiful dresses that cast the wrong shadows.

(And yes, I realize these are theoretical dresses that we never would have got in the first place because if we had a spare 36K, we would invest it or pay off our mortgage or something sensible like that. But that’s the beauty of window shopping for ghost-appropriate couture – the price tags can’t hurt you when you’re just playing pretend.)