Where Paris Sells Her Frocks

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 195, 7 November 1927, Page 4

Where Paris Sells Her Frocks

Impressions of a Dress Showroom IS it difficult.” 1 asked a friend who lives in Paris, "to get into one of the dress shows here—one of the really great dressmaker’s ?” She laughed, "quite easy to get in." she said, “but you may find it a little embarrassing to get out! Unless, of course, you intend giving them an important order!”

TT certainly took courage to gain an entry, but I succeeded, writes an English correspondent. The “collections” are shown from .2.30 to 4 every afternoon, and I arrived in good time at a celebrated establishment. The entrance is a revelation. Dressmaking? Not a sign of it! Nothing so vulgar! A great door of ground glass and wrought iron, opened by an impassive manservant, admits you to the ground floor. There is an impression of space, beige carpet, and countless mirrors. I see, after a moment, that the walls and pillars are composed of mirrors in narrow panels, each a few inches wide. A few tables, each bearing one large vase of perfect crystal flowers. That is all. Very simple, almost austere. Quite at the back a few articles are disposed almost apologetically, as if the hostess had perhaps overlooked them. One or two of the new feather boas: a weird umbrella, with a handle like the business end of a hockey stick: a belt or so, with coloured glass buckles; half a dozen chiffon flowers. MIRRORED PANELS I mount the staircase. Each little mirrored panel is set at a slightly different angle to make the curve of the stair, so that on the way up I have about 60 or 70 opportunities of seeing whether my skirt is exactly the right length. (It isn’t!) On the first floor a black-clad lady sails toward me, all smiles and swaying fringe. “Good afternoon, madam: have you your own particular vendeuse, or ”? I explain. “Ah, madam is an English journalist.” Higher powers are called in. If I will leave my address I shall be sent an invitation. I explain more. I must leave Paris on Sunday. It is now Friday. In the end the powers relent. I am admitted to the showroom., and perch, thankfully on a little black satin chair. I notice that most of the other spectators have a “vendeuse,” or saleswoman, seated by them, who comments and advises on the models as they pass. “1 thought of you, madam, directly this one came in,” or “that model is a little old, perhaps, for mademoiselle.” If you are a regular customer the same vendeuse always attends to you. A vendeuse is paid less in actual salary than a mannequin, but earns a handsome commission on every sale she effects. Nearly all the customers seem to be English or American—more often the latter, but two obviously English girls are next to me, one holding on a lead an adorable Sealyham puppy. Con-

scious of being the only male thing in sight, and entirely negligible at that, he cowers rather forlornly under her chair. The dresses float by—dozens, scores, hundreds, it seems. Heavens! —are there enough women in the world to wear all these? There are never less than three of them in the room at once, and yet they are only there an instant. A girl walks quickly in, turns this way, that way, the other way—and is gone. “Why do they rush so?” asks one of the English girls. “For one thing, they’ve got about 200 models to show,’’ the other tells her, “and besides, they are not supposed to stay long enough to give anyone a chance to sketch the frock. Copyists, who sneak in by pretending to be customers, are the bane of these people’s lives.” If you think of ordering a IrocK. your vendeuse notes its number, and it is shown to you privately in a fitting room, where you can examine the details. SLIM HIPS I begin to study the mannequins. They are ft*»t all beautiful, or strikingly young, but they arc all tallish, and one thing I notice in particular — the extreme slimness of their hip? “You’ve got to have that,” one of them told me later “two centimetres more, and not one of the models looks well on you—you’re finished.” I’m reminded of the old tag, “She has no more conscience than a snake has hips.” Certainly these girls have no more hip? than a snake has conscience. THE LAST MOMENTS 0 Four o’clock. The procession tail? off, and those of us who are not staying for fittings or final selection? make our way downstairs. My little notebook is bursting, and my head feels rather like that. too. Wild yapping of joy and rqlief from the Sealyham pup. I've been intensely interested, even thrilled, but —I do not understand exactly how he feels.