upcycled vintage peignoirs

Reimagining ‘old things’.

I occasionally think back when I first started purchasing and wearing vintage and talking about it to people who didn’t quite ‘get it’ and knowing that they just saw these secondhand items of clothing as ‘old, used and horrible’ and not realising just how desirable secondhand clothing would become.

I’ve always been drawn to the drama of vintage lingerie, especially around the period when nightwear became super trendy as daywear and I’d see reimagined versions of vintage slip dresses layered over t-shirts and long sleeved turtle neck tops. I took a huge liking to 1950s peignoirs, those whisper-thin layers of nylon mesh, the fussy little ruffles and the colours that somehow manage to feel both nostalgic and completely outrageous at the same time.

Peignoirs have such an interesting history. Originally worn as these elegant, floaty dressing-gown-like pieces for women to get ready in, they were kind of pointless but totally glamorous at the same time. They lived in that in-between space: not quite nightwear, not quite daywear, but something indulgently impractical, which of course, made me love them even more.

I ended up purchasing two beautiful originals: one in the most unapologetic neon pink (longline with the cutest squiggly ruffles) and another in a soft powder blue, delicate and cloud-like, that sat at the waist.

Both were stunning on their own, but I wanted to reimagine them just enough to give them a new life and I wanted to nudge them gently into modernity. I changed the original, fiddly polyester skinny satin ties to a wide, spot-tulle ribbon in complimentary colours, partly because I adored the texture contrast and partly because the original ties felt very dated.

The embellishments became tiny acts of appreciation: a bit of hand-sewn detail here, a brighter finish there, just enough to make them feel like pieces someone could cherish again and I definitely wanted these revived pieces to be worn outside!

Upcycling vintage is always a strange, lovely process. You spend half the time wondering what these garments once meant to someone else, and the other half quietly negotiating with yourself about what they could become now. Both pieces were snapped up soon after, and while it’s always a little hard to part with something you’ve invested so much love into, it felt incredibly satisfying that someone out there connected with my work. 🌸

Harper's Bazaar, 1958