Miss Havisham Hits Paris

Work today was quiet. There was a model shooting but sadly female so nothing to gawp at. After making myself a fair quantity of coffee, I headed toward style.com. The couture shows are so aesthetically pleasing and one image in particular caught my eye:

This Christian Lacroix dress has an obvious reference to bridal wear with its gauzy veil and ivory colouring, but what struck me in particular was how morbid and deathly it is.

Perhaps its the make-up, perhaps the antiquated style of the bodice and sleeves, but this girl could either be walking down the isle to her husband or walking to her coffin.


My first thought was Miss Havisham; the iconic Dickensian character. Being obsessed with the Victorian era and especially Dickens, Great Expectations is one of my favourite books, and Miss Havisham my one of my favourite literary characters. Jilted by her beloved on her wedding day she spends the rest of her days wasting away in Satis house. Time stops. She keeps her wedding dress on, the wedding banquet remains. When we, the reader, meet her she is an old withered woman in a decaying dress, a shadow or a ghost of the woman she was.


I personally do consider marriage a death. Its a death of what you knew and have always known. Once you have committed you can never be the same, this may be desirable, or like Miss Haviasham a darkening of your former self.


I read about an interesting concept awhile back. Brides who trash their wedding dresses for a photo shoot once the big day is over. There are photos of women lying rolling in mud, running through puddles, floating in streams...all in that dress so painstakingly chosen for 'the big day'.

(Image: trashthedress.com)

I think the linking of marriage with destruction rather than preservation is really interesting, and really a rather clever concept. Should I ever get married (an unlikely occurrence) I would well consider partaking in this 'trash the dress' trend; though rather than shred it with scissors, I would do like Lacroix and embrace the deathly essence of the ceremony, perhaps submerged in water like a calm Ophelia or a graceful Lady of Shalot.


Alternatively, maybe I should stop identifying with doomed literary females...