When I got married, I chose a dress by Simone Rocha. As a nonbinary person, I didn’t want anything conventionally feminine, but I did want a spectacular piece of clothing. The dress I picked was from the spring 2018 collection—Elizabethan in its shape, with leg-of-mutton sleeves and a huge skirt. It was gothically black, covered in sprays of tiny red roses. The exaggerated shape felt sculptural, romantically androgynous, and definitely un-girly. When I took it off to dance, two friends, both gay men, took turns slipping it on.
We got married at a University of Cambridge college, in a 15th-century hall decorated with Pre-Raphaelite exuberance in the same unusual black, red, and green palette as the dress. There were heraldic roses and other botanical motifs everywhere you looked, rising up the walls and swarming across the painted ceiling. It was like entering a fantastical Eden, at once traditional and anarchic.
Flowers are often coded as sweetly feminine, especially in fashion, but their historical use is far stranger and more subversive. Before I became a writer, I trained as an herbalist, falling deep under the spell of medieval herbs, with their bewitching floral associations. Flowers had once formed a kind of secret language, an arcane code that only an adept could read. Bouquets, paintings, even dresses could carry a hidden message, by way of the humble plants they contained.
While I was researching my new book, The Garden Against Time: In Search of a Common Paradise, I came across a historical study with the beguiling title of Queen Elizabeth’s Wardrobe Unlock’d. It was an account of the marvelous dresses the Tudor queen had worn, many of them densely embroidered with flowers, which broadcast a coded message about her virtues. The dress worn by Elizabeth in the famous Hardwick Portrait includes pansies for humility, lilies for purity, and roses to emphasize her Tudor lineage. They appear on a dress swimming with floral, animal, and even monstrous life. It wouldn’t look out of place on a catwalk now, perhaps worn by Gwendoline Christie at Maison Margiela.
It was William Morris who brought the lost language of flowers back into everyday circulation. He’d pored over medieval herbals as a child, and their flowers reemerged in his fluid, fertile prints. Morris wanted everything to be as beautiful as possible, and he covered the staid bedrooms and stiff drawing rooms of the Victorian world with a restless profusion of marigolds and roses, chrysanthemums and lilies. His flowers encoded a subversive dream of a shared Eden, a secret message he even managed to install in the Throne Room of St James’s Palace.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1357654597/1717055600/articles/CZWri5JzO1717064999496/7713179207.jpg]
There’s a similar sort...
We got married at a University of Cambridge college, in a 15th-century hall decorated with Pre-Raphaelite exuberance in the same unusual black, red, and green palette as the dress. There were heraldic roses and other botanical motifs everywhere you looked, rising up the walls and swarming across the painted ceiling. It was like entering a fantastical Eden, at once traditional and anarchic.
Flowers are often coded as sweetly feminine, especially in fashion, but their historical use is far stranger and more subversive. Before I became a writer, I trained as an herbalist, falling deep under the spell of medieval herbs, with their bewitching floral associations. Flowers had once formed a kind of secret language, an arcane code that only an adept could read. Bouquets, paintings, even dresses could carry a hidden message, by way of the humble plants they contained.
While I was researching my new book, The Garden Against Time: In Search of a Common Paradise, I came across a historical study with the beguiling title of Queen Elizabeth’s Wardrobe Unlock’d. It was an account of the marvelous dresses the Tudor queen had worn, many of them densely embroidered with flowers, which broadcast a coded message about her virtues. The dress worn by Elizabeth in the famous Hardwick Portrait includes pansies for humility, lilies for purity, and roses to emphasize her Tudor lineage. They appear on a dress swimming with floral, animal, and even monstrous life. It wouldn’t look out of place on a catwalk now, perhaps worn by Gwendoline Christie at Maison Margiela.
It was William Morris who brought the lost language of flowers back into everyday circulation. He’d pored over medieval herbals as a child, and their flowers reemerged in his fluid, fertile prints. Morris wanted everything to be as beautiful as possible, and he covered the staid bedrooms and stiff drawing rooms of the Victorian world with a restless profusion of marigolds and roses, chrysanthemums and lilies. His flowers encoded a subversive dream of a shared Eden, a secret message he even managed to install in the Throne Room of St James’s Palace.
[https://cdn.magzter.com/1357654597/1717055600/articles/CZWri5JzO1717064999496/7713179207.jpg]
There’s a similar sort...
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ELLE (Digital) - 1 Issue, June/July 2024