I have dreams of dresses, of pinafores, bustles, shifts, shirtwaists, kirtles, and overskirts. I muse of miles of sumptuous fabrics, satin cool as milk against my skin. I visualize gowns of delicate brocades and silken underclothes, the shimmery gossamer of my chemise drawn through the gaps of my sleeves like the intimation of butterfly wings beneath my skin. I fantasize of heavy damask frocks and furred sleeves trailing along my hips, thread-of-gold embroidery crowning the front of my corseted bodice, holding me in tight and blossoming. I have daydreams of panniers and petticoats and lace, flowered hats perched at impossible angles, and curls brushing my shoulders. I imagine silken snoods and delicate French hoods to cover my hair. I seek to imitate the fit-and-flare femininity or the sultry hourglass silhouettes of the Fifties. These dresses and gowns and the beauty inherent in each style of habiliment, are elevated to an absolute divine elegance in my imagination, in these dreams.
I would find myself happily-placed to be a dress-up doll for those whose skilled hands create these textile works of art. I have no such talent and so admire and exult in the artistic, wearable beauties that those who do create. I am here and willing, dear artists. Dress me!