My couturiers are sending along gouache renderings and fabric samples of the latest Parisian collections. Accompanying each creation a hand written notation detailing exactly, “How smart you would look in this suit...” or “Isn’t this fabric divine for your coloring?”.
I was so looking forward to “The Bartell Patented Pocket”.
And matching fabric belts.
New severe funereal suits with new spats as my old spats are urine stained.
Item number 220 caught my eye made from the fetching Norfolk sack; stationary sewed on belt and shoulder straps.
Also number 232 the one button cut-away for corpulent figures.
I’m just dying for a new shawl collar tuxedo (234) and the most heavenly clerical frock (237).
I haven’t the heart to ring them up and let them know I shan’t be purchasing a new wardrobe this season due to my reduced circumstances during the depression. Oh I’m just sick about it. Sick, Sick, Sick about it. I’ll have to make do with my old tattered frocks and raiments. They’re all so last season, full of gold thread and royal purple, brocades and silks. They’re all too happy.
This season is about dull lifeless frightfully drab fabrics and decidedly outré, but I still lust after the new, the washed up look is where it’s at.
So I’m going with the new direction. Let the economy dictate fashion. Something with a bare, minimal, existential, Zen feeling about it. Rustic and plain, basic and understated. Too the point of making the statement, “I’m Poor!” and “Brother can you spare a dime” and “Get out of my way the soup kitchen is forming a line”.
I like to call it, "The Clampett Look"