Flanked by overexcited white haired women with large digital cameras and cute cardigans, I found myself at the Toronto Design Exchange’s newest exhibit, “Diana, The Dresses,” a collection of 14 gowns Diana, Princess of Wales once owned and wore. The 14 now belong to a woman named Maureen Rorech Dunkel from Tampa Bay, who purchased them at Diana’s famous charity auction at Christie’s in 1997, just two months before Diana was killed. On June 23, the dresses will again find new owners: Waddington’s, a Canadian auction house, will be selling the famous gowns, from designers like Victor Edelstein and Catherine Walker, with prices estimated as high as $1,000,000. Until then, the dresses are available for public viewing at the Design Exchange building.

Knowing all of this ahead of time, I had prepared myself to be amazed. The exhibit promised an inside look at the wardrobe of the most photographed woman in history, and one of the 20th century’s most notable fashion icons. The chance to get up close and personal with Diana’s customized dresses sounded like a dream, especially in the midst of the fever produced by the recent royal wedding. But arriving at the small room, where lines of white, faceless mannequins modeled the floor-length frocks and a biography video illuminated the back wall, I felt an emotion I had not expected: sadness.

The gowns hung like ghosts on their plastic wearers, lifeless and still like the woman they once belonged to. Gazing at the intricate patterns, rich royal fabrics, and delicate details, I couldn’t help but wonder, will these dresses ever be worn again? The answer, sadly, is most likely no; the dresses themselves signify something far too personal. The off the shoulder midnight blue silk velvet evening gown by Victor Edelstein was worn to a Reagan state dinner, at which Diana danced with John Trovolta. The black silk crepe halter dress by Catherine walker was worn in a famous photoshoot with Mario Testino for Vanity Fair. The deep green silk velvet dinner dress with buttons down the back was worn only at state dinners, and has a child’s handprint mid thigh, most likely from a young prince. Although Lady Diana is dead and gone, these dresses hold her memories. My concern is: Can a life be held in fabric and threads?

For me, the answer is no. The collection was educational, beautiful and interesting, and the pieces included showed a sort of evolution of Diana, moving from whimsical airy white day dresses worn early in the princess’ life, to dark velvet creations with shocking necklines worn after her divorce. But as much as I looked and read, something was missing: Princess Diana wasn’t there, and her dresses were nothing without her 5’10 figure to don them. Patrons of the exhibit, like me, surely visited to feel they were coming closer to Diana, an unattainable public figure so many admired but few got to meet. Sadly, the exhibit only made me feel farther from the humanitarian “people’s princess” who once grabbed the entire world’s attention. The dresses have lost their grandeur, offering lists of memories that aren’t ours to keep, and metres of beautiful fabric we will never wear. The dresses themselves, like Diana, Princess of Wales, have suffered an untimely death.

- Alyssa Garrison

Photos courtesy of the Toronto Design Exchange

I’m big on lists. I write them in my planner, on scraps of paper (when said planner is unavailable), and when things get really desperate, in smudgy scribbles on my hands. My favorite type is of the “to buy” assortment, although mine always seems to grow and can never be completed, creating one giant, ongoing list. Almost every time I head to a shop, be it alone or with friends, for large pieces of furniture or just groceries, I will secretly be clutching a list detailing exactly what I’d like to buy. There’s just one problem: no matter what I have on my list, I somehow always end up bringing home the same thing. Shoes.

Last weekend, I went out looking for a vintage trunk to use as a coffee table in my new place. What did I come home with? Vintage suede slippers with a delicately embroidered toe in a delicious olive green. A few weeks earlier, it was black patent vintage Ferragamos with a fabric bow and gold detailing, a pair so precious they managed to trump my basic food needs for the week. No matter how final my lists are on paper, my mind always seems to have a subconscious agenda that constantly pulls me to the footwear department, distracting me from the things I actually need.

Now that I find myself packing up my tiny bachelor to move, I can’t help but feel ashamed by the sheer mass of shoes I’ve accumulated in the last year. Worse, I can’t seem to convince myself to pack them; the discovery of each clog, boot, and heel offers new outfit inspiration or nostalgia for looks lost in my past. As I pack away everything around me, the shoes stay, stacked in piles in my closet, by my door, hanging on a rolling rack, and even displayed on shelves. The evidence of my addiction is daunting, but I can’t bring myself to part with a single pair. Their soles have somehow become a piece of my soul, and the few times where I have persuaded myself to share my footwear finds, I really do miss them like old friends.

Am I going to end up like Imelda Marcos, with over 3400 pairs and no control whatsoever? Why do I choose clogs over cardigans and stilettos over shorts?

Perhaps it’s because, despite my misshapen feet, buying shoes is easier than almost anything else. Instead of shuffling into a tiny change room, taking off every layer, and scrutinizing how a garment fits my body, an intriguing pair of oxfords can be slipped on without the hassle, and will almost always fit my foot. Even if the size is a bit off, I’ve been known to turn a blind eye; this results in a small number of shoes I can only wear with three layers of socks.

I also find it easier to justify footwear. Work is always a go-to excuse for a new pair of black brogues, and school serves as an excellent reason to invest in extra sneakers. When a shoe doesn’t fit an everyday event in my life, I always manage to fabricate an extraordinary circumstance where I will need the shoe in question. “Maybe I’ll wear these to an 80’s themed party?” or “ These would be just perfect for a picnic in High Park!” are common rationalizations, although I seldom partake in either of these activities.

In the end, shoes are simply so much shinier, prettier, and more personal than anything else on my list. I can’t let my aging pairs go because every time I look at them, I get lost in the memories we’ve shared together. I can’t turn down a new find when the shoes on store shelves offer a little story, a character of their own, and a place they want to take me. I want to go to those places, so naturally I buy the shoes.

- Alyssa Garrison

There is subliminal magic built into the fabric of a luxurious dress. It has a way of oozing romance, elegance, and the possibility of something extraordinary occurring on an otherwise simple evening. A dress can also speak its own language and, as 100 Dresses shows, the tongues are endless. A white lace gown, like the 1901 dress worn by Manhattan aristocrat Winifred Sprague Walker Prosser, brings to mind a traditional white wedding. In Winifred’s time however, the high-necked, mutton sleeved beauty was nowhere near elaborate enough for such an occasion, and was instead worn as a simple day dress.

100 Dresses takes readers through the expansive permanent gown collection of the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, a collection generally seen by a privileged few. The pages are laden with covetable dresses ranging from a Mantua frock worn in the late 17th century, a time before design houses (as we know them today) existed, to a House of Dior creation from the Fall 2006 collection.

The two-page prologue is written by the celebrated curator of the Costume Institute, Harold Koda. Koda takes readers through the history of the collection, which began as the Museum of Costume Art in the 1920s — its own entity separate from the Met. Originally used as a costume resource for the New York City Playhouse’s productions, the collection was a modest aggregation of historic and regional garments. By 1937, it had grown both in size and in curatorial importance, was pulled from theatres, and deemed worthy of preservation. In 1946 the Museum was began operating under the umbrella of the Met, and became its own department in 1959. It was then that the Museum of Costume Art began gathering its “Masterworks collection” of the world’s most rare and iconic frocks. Today the museum is home to over 35,000 costumes and accessories, but only a select few can be shown at any given time due to their quick deterioration. Koda explains the challenge of deciding which 100 dresses to include in the book: “Establishing a standard for inclusion of one beautiful or elegant dress over another presents, whatever its date or provenance, the same objectivity that operates whenever we judge others by what they are wearing.” In the end, he admits, the dresses seen in the book are simply the favorites of various museum staff members.

As a result, this textbook-like paperback was born. Each dress has a two-page spread: one side dedicated to a photograph of the dress itself, and the other to short paragraphs detailing where the dress might have been worn, who first designed it, and how and where it was made. Often close-ups of the beading or lace are also pictured and in some cases, photos of women modeling the particular style (occasionally the original owner) are included as well. Two-page photo spreads are littered throughout the book, showcasing archival images of dresses from different eras. On page 66, five flappers walk through London in 1925, decked out in pleats, long strands of pearls, and dropped waists. Jump ahead to page 152 and you’ll find a Dennis Hopper photo of model Mary Leon Bing modeling a Rudi Gernreich ensemble from 1966.

Although vastly different, every gown offers something unique and beautiful — I couldn’t seem to hold in my gasps and sighs with every turn of the page. Full of dreamy classics and modern marvels, the photographs in this collection turn these dresses into what they truly are: works of art.

100 Dresses by The Metropolitan Museum of Art (Preface by Harold Koda), Met Publications/Yale University Press, 2010

Reviewed by Alyssa Garrison

My reaction to Dossier’s latest cover was instant adoration. It’s androgynous and beautiful, the perfect crossroad between hard masculinity and soft femininity. I love any magazine cover that can make people think, especially when they’re thinking about gender binaries and their perceptions of what makes a man or woman. But apparently what I viewed as a brave step forward, others couldn’t stand the sight of — leading U.S. bookstores Barnes and Noble and Borders’ reaction was to cover up the gender-bending cover.

Both corporate chains told Dossier’s staff they refused to stock the cover, featuring a nude torso, without an opaque plastic covering. If Dossier failed to comply, both Barnes and Noble and Borders would immediately cancel their orders. Although the copies destined for Barnes and Noble and Borders make up only 10 per cent of Dossier’s worldwide distribution, and they were the only stores to request a cover, Dossier complied.

Is this really a shock? If pornographic magazines are covered with a plastic sheath, why shouldn’t a full frontal of a naked woman be given the same treatment? Maybe because Dossier’s cover girl is androgynous MALE model, Andrej Pejic, and amongst all the other topless men on the covers of GQ and Men’s Health, Barnes and Noble is asking only he be covered. Their reasoning? Customers may mistake him for a woman.

Putting aside the argument that topless women should be seen on magazine covers (which I heartily agree with), this is a case of gender discrimination unto itself. The message Barnes and Noble and Borders are sending to their millions of customers is that in order to be seen in their stores, men have to fit a specific, muscle-clad criteria. This double standard creates a very obvious statement: Men need to look like “men”. Pejic, who has modelled in almost as many women’s collections as he has men’s, simply doesn’t make the cut. Evidently for Barnes and Noble and Borders, a man wearing makeup and curlers in his hair is simply too much.

Is it just me, or does this make no sense? Even if customers mistook Pejic for a nude woman, who cares? He’s a man! The root of the problem is the discomfort the cover is causing for sheltered Americans; Pejic has the face of a beautiful woman, but the body of a young man, a concept which obviously confuses a lot of people and raises some pretty serious questions regarding gender performance. The people behind Barnes and Noble and Borders obviously felt so threatened by the confusion they were feeling themselves that they resolved to protect their customers from the same feelings, instead of allowing shoppers to think critically, make their own decisions, and maybe even learn something. Is our society really so closed-minded that questioning gender is no longer even a question?

- Alyssa Garrison