We teamed up with Katriona Flynn, lecturer in fashion at TU Dublin, to ask readers to share their story of a dress that has played an important role in their lives. We were struck by the huge response, and how the physical features of the dresses played second string to the human stories around them, and the memories embedded within. Here’s a selection …
Submit your own ‘Story of A Dress’ to amy@thegloss.ie and discover more stories online throughout the series. See the details of a new Desert Island Dress Podcast coming soon, created by Katriona Flynn and Dr Dee Duffy below.
My Friend Chose My Wedding Dress by Viorica Caraus
In 2006, as my wedding day drew near, I found myself in a rather unconventional situation. I hadn’t picked out my wedding dress, nor had I tried it on. In fact, I hadn’t even laid eyes on it until just two months before the big day. Instead, a good friend had taken it upon herself to choose the dress for me, far away in a different country. My friend and I shared more than just a close bond; we were nearly identical in size and figure. She tried on the gown in my place, sending me photos and descriptions from across the miles. I was entrusting one of the most significant decisions of my life to her judgement and taste. The moment I finally stood before the mirror, gazing at the dress that would accompany me down the aisle, all my doubts evaporated. It was as though the dress had been designed for me personally. Every stitch, every lace detail, every inch of fabric hugged me like a glove. I felt like a true princess, a fairytale come to life. On my wedding day, as I walked towards my partner, I didn’t just wear a beautiful gown, I carried the love and friendship of the friend who had chosen it for me. That dress, despite its unconventional journey, had become a symbol of trust between us. It was a day of joy, love, and magical moments, all wrapped up in that unexpectedly perfect wedding dress.
The Queen’s Visit by Marguerite McCurtain
On the sun-drenched evening of Queen Elizabeth II’s visit to Dublin Castle on May 11 2018, I was standing in the Throne Room in front of a Georgian window which overlooked the Castle courtyard. Two men were standing close by. There were just the three of us there.
My mission was to get to the cloakroom on the entrance floor to somehow secure the waistline of my evening skirt which was hanging precariously in place with the help of a large safety pin which had just snapped. Given my skirt was a complicated contraption designed by that enfant terrible of fashion, Jean-Paul Gautier, it was hardly surprising it had a mind of its own. It was full-length moss-green taffeta, studded along the hemline with big circular hoops which were ruched up into a bustle effect by metal hooks attached to a belt worn at the waist. It was always too big for me but like many of my clothes it was a bargain. I am always on the verge of taking everything in or letting it out, dropping the hem, or raising it, but I never seem to get around to it.
For that moment, a faulty safety pin and the laws of gravity were all that stood between me and sartorial disaster. I found that all doors leading from the Throne Room were locked. I had no option but to stay put. I joined the two men who had been already standing at the Georgian window. The man closest to me introduced himself. “Gus O’Donnell” he said, extending his hand. “This is my colleague. He is a diplomat from the EU.”
I introduced myself and we watched the electrifying events unfolding below us. The Queen was resplendent in a long white frock. The bodice and sleeves were appliquéd with white shamrockshaped leaves studded with crystals. She wore a Swarovski-embellished Irish harp brooch pinned at her left shoulder. Her other jewellery included a diamond tiara, diamond necklace, earrings and bracelets.
In the golden glow of the evening sun, we saw her walk along the red carpet and enter the building which had been the seat of British Imperial power for centuries. It was a moment steeped in symbolism – the first time a reigning British Monarch had visited Ireland since the foundation of the Irish State.
The door of the Portrait Gallery, where the guests were gathered for a drinks reception, opened suddenly. A wave of Irish luminaries surged past us towards the State Drawing Room door which was still closed. My husband Frank walked towards us on the inside of the crowd searching for me. I introduced him to Gus O’Donnell and his friend. “I’m very happy to meet you” Frank said. “I hope that you are enjoying this historic occasion.” They chatted. The door of the State Drawing Room opened. The guests pressed forward and handed their name-cards to the Master of Ceremonies. He announced each one in a loud booming voice. We said goodbye to Gus and his friend and we all gradually eased into the thinning crowd. “Gus is the British Cabinet Secretary,” Frank informed me. “I just told him that I thought that Enda was going to fire half the civil servants” I confessed. “I’m sure that he has your measure by now.” Frank replied with that look of resignation that he reserves for bombshell moments.
“Speaking of measures, my skirt is about to fall off” I told him.
We were now at the door of the State Drawing Room. We handed our name-cards to the Master of Ceremonies. I heard our names being called. The receiving line was backing up. Protocol had flown out the Georgian windows. Guests were hugging, kissing and chatting with the President. She responded equally warmly. I shook the President’s hand but I couldn’t move forward because the guest in front of me had a good grip of Her Majesty’s hand and her ear and was deeply engaged in a monologue, as far as I could see.
When she had finished speaking to the Queen she ran past the Duke’s outstretched hand, ignored Martin McAleese and moved swiftly towards the exit. She then changed her mind and ran back again. She shook Martin McAleese’s hand but ignored the Duke’s still outstretched hand which was now hanging in mid-air. She then turned on her heel and headed towards the exit for the second time. I only moved when I was sure that she wasn’t coming back for a third round.
By now my skirt had fallen onto my hips. The metal hoops along the hemline were clanging like chain-mail on the medallions of my shoes and the open safety-pin felt as if it were lodged, like a dagger, in my hip bone. I mustered as much grace and elegance as I could manage and I walked forwards. I bowed and gently touched the Queen’s white-gloved hand. “Your Majesty.” I said. She smiled. I then shook the Duke’s still outstretched hand.
“Your Royal Highness.” He had a glint in his eye and a quizzical smile on his lips. I also greeted Martin McAleese and shook his hand. I walked quickly out of the Drawing Room and headed for the cloakroom. I felt that I had had the good fortune to have been saved from disgracing myself in front of the Royal Couple by a faulty safety pin and a favourite long sequinned tulle-top which had masked a multitude of impending disasters.
In the R.T.E. video of the receiving line, which I watched later, I noticed that the Queen glanced momentarily at the hem of my rattling skirt as I walked past her. The Duke of Edinburgh had an expression of complete bemusement on his face as he extended his hand towards me. Clearly he was anticipating that I might also do a runner.
As Queen Elizabeth II stood, in St. Patrick’s Hall, to address the people of Ireland on May 18th 2011, the ghosts of the too often unhappy history of 800 years could finally be laid to rest. Seamus Heaney once wrote in his poem An Open Letter that neither he nor any of his people ever raised a glass to toast the Queen. On that historic May evening Seamus, the Nobel Laureate, and the assembled gathering at the banquet rose to toast the Queen.
The tinkling echoes of those clinking glasses reverberated like a symphonic melody across the centuries and heralded a new chapter in Anglo-Irish relationships. In the words of Mary McAleese: “It was a toast to the health and happiness of Her Majesty and His Royal Highness. To the well-being and prosperity of the people of Britain: To the cause of peace and reconciliation on this island: And to the continued friendship and kinship between the peoples of Ireland and Britain.”
A Smock For A Shy Girl by Katriona Flynn
My story of a dress is a long-forgotten (until now) simple smock dress which I wore over my first Irish dancing dress. The smock was light pink cotton, with a tiny flower motif and a burgundy velvet bow. Picking up the smock transports me back to school halls and feiseanna I attended. Even back then I loved the simplicity of my smock, the volume, the bow which I would hold and rub. Simplicity in a world of dazzling dancing dresses. The smock was in the early days a safe space: as long as the smock was on, the pressure was off, I was not on the stage. I was painfully shy as a child, too shy, and taking part in a feis was perhaps my mother’s way of drawing me out of myself. At the beginning I was petrified, coaxed only by her promise of a new Polly Pocket at home that evening – and what a wonderful collection of Polly Pockets I acquired. Medals and trophies meant nothing. I needed my mother’s push, the help, the nurture, the belief when I didn’t have it in myself, a belief that would last well into teenage life, adulthood and motherhood. I needed the safety of the smock dress and then I needed to outgrow it. Looking at this smock dress now, I see myself and my wonderful mother in the hall, curlers and ringlets, socks pulled up, the smock being taken off. I see us in a small silver Toyota travelling to towns all over the west of Ireland, my mother a newly qualified driver in a world without Google maps, talking and chatting, listening to one cassette on repeat, the smock protecting the dancing dress hanging in the back of the car. How small that smock looks now, how simple. The bow feels the same, and the feeling of comfort I get when I rub my hand along the bow is the same. How symbolic it feels. The most precious memories of wonderful days at feis with my beautiful mother.
Mum’s Ossie Clark by Felicity Pierce
Evelyn May, Nanny Evo, my dear, funny, elegant mother, departed this world on October 13 2022 at 87 years young. Off to join her beloved husband John in the Ether. She had three daughters, five granddaughters and one grandson (her one and only!)
A full life well lived. She drank gallons of tea, ate oceans of ice cream and was fanatical about sport, especially tennis and Wimbledon. A crack shot, she won medals at Bisley. Latterly, she liked to report on who was ill, dead, or nearly dead.
A frustrated thespian, she loved to dress up in costume. Fancy dress parties were her speciality. She loved clothes and glamour and her hair and nails were always immaculate. While we were clearing out her extensive wardrobe, my daughters and nieces were delighted to find some vintage treasures on which they pounced. Her fake fur “Dude coat”, a startling number of black cashmere coats, Hermès scarves, great jackets, and some beautiful dresses – one being a black velvet Ossie Clark with a satin ruff collar. I have a hazy memory of her wearing it in the late 1970s, with her hair piled up high and the heady scent of Guerlain Mitsouko wafting as she kissed us goodnight. When my niece Olivia got married in April this year, my youngest daughter Anna decided she would like to wear it, remarking how slim Granny was back then! She also, of course, had Googled it and said, “Oh my goodness, I think this is really quite valuable.” The wedding was a joyous family occasion and as I watched Anna laughing and dancing in Mum’s lovely dress, I smiled to myself and thought how Mum was also very much there – in spirit.
It’s My Dress! By Jane Gormley
Boring winter was intercepted once. When I was six. By my mother. She was dragging a kitchen chair into the living room. I was summoned. “Stand on it please.” She produced from her pocket a long cloth measuring tape. She measured everything. Shoulder to shoulder, underarm to waist, around the belly. Strange places. Her hands were tickly. It was a bit sore holding my arms up. Then I was dismissed. But she did it again. This time, she arranged pieces of crinkly paper cuttings on me. She drew lines on them in chalk. She said, “I might need you again in a few weeks.” The chair appeared again. I whipped off my pyjamas. My mother produced a bundle that revealed bursts of colour. A silky sea of fl owery fabric with faded blobs of pink, green, blue, yellow. My arms stretched high, it spilled down my little body. My mum pinned the back closed, nipping in the waist. I was Alice! A pink ribbon was attached, tied in an extravagant bow at the back. I gasped. Mum admired me. But then: “For a friend’s daughter,” she explained. “Similar size to you, for a surprise.” My lip trembled mournfully. What horrible, mysterious friends were these? The dress was gone. Magic dissolved. Not for me. Christmas came. A big brown box. Torn open, it spilled out. All the silky, fl owery love. The coloured blooms of the most beautiful dress in the world. I felt it again, the touch of mum’s hands, stabby love pins. Her little white lie. I dove back in. Covering myself in love and care and flowers.
Coming Soon: Desert Island Dress Podcast
The podcast that unearths the heartfelt stories behind the clothing we cherish the most. In this unique series, guests share the four garments they could never leave behind, each with a profound connection to their lives and loved ones. Join your hosts Katriona Flynn and Dr. Dee Duffy on a captivating journey through the wardrobe of memories, as we explore the emotional tapestry that clothing weaves into our most cherished moments.
READ MORE: The Story of a Dress: A David Classic