More question related goodness! Huzzah!

This comes from NB in Melbourne:

“Love the blog and decided to test your super sleuthing skills by asking if you know of any auctions/ auction houses in the Western suburbs and have you bought any vintage items at auction.”

OK, first things first. Let’s have us a little talkee about the antiques and auctions culture in Melbourne.

In short, NB, the western suburbs only has one auction house that I know of, and it’s the Breen Auction Group. The website says the following:

“Specialising in the disposal of office furniture and equipment,commercial catering equipment and accessories, plant and machinery, computer and information technology equipment, motor vehicles & trucks.

These sales are conducted on behalf of major government (Federal and State) bodies, corporate organisations and private vendors.”

They also call themselves an ‘asset disposal centre’. This means one thing: you stoled it, we sellz it. Wouldn’t you know it - the only auction house in the whole westies is the police one (insert gag related womp-womp-wow trombone noise here).

This brings me to point number 2: the auction houses in Melbourne that do sell antiques and vintage are concentrated in a small area of the inner east; they mostly seem to be in Hawthorn/Glenferrie, Malvern and Richmond. There are a few in the outer east, but the ones who deal in the Big Leagues can just about all be found at the city end of the Belgrave/Lilydale train line. Snobbery? Possibly. What would rag-tag westies like us/outer eastern peeps/country peeps be wanting with serious antiques houses? Aren’t we happy with Knifepoint/Fountain Lakes and row after row of electronics/homewarers superstores? Sheesh!

Essentially, the snobbier the area, the more likely it is to have a thriving antiques hub. I bet Sydney’s the same (but I don’t know, so correct me if I’m wrong). The companies figure that their clientele consists of infirm Malvern Ladies wearing their own body weight in jewels and a dead fox that appears to be eating itself, so they place their wares in the proximity of the vast, Dickensian mansions in which these ladies live. Not that I’m stereotyping or anything. 

On to your second point: no, I haven’t bought anything at auction, though after many, many happy hours spent watching ‘Bargain Hunt’ I’d love to. I’ve researced auctions a bit, and aside from ‘bulk lots’ (ie cheaper items being packaged up together) it seems to be the pricier things that are entered into live auctions, especially since the introduction of eBay et al. I’m not really in the market for Serious Antiques yet (but what a day that will be…), so at the mo I’m happy scrounging my way around markets, fairs, op shops and the like.

Has anyone out there had a great auctioneering experience that they can share with me and NB and anyone else who’s curious about the mysterious world of antiques auctions? Any horror stories? Any non-police related antiques houses in the westies that I am yet to know about?

“Hi Chloe,

Hmmm, as I once heard on a snappy TV show, ’short answer no with a but, long answer yes with an if’. The bald fact of the matter is that I don’t know of any archival material that’s freely available and related to Glo Mesh, but the objects themselves provide clues.

Here’s what I can tell you:

2. There were a range of basic colours, along with some less common, more collectable ones (see this ol post on the importance of colour when valuing vintage).

3. The term ‘Glomesh’ is the official trademark of the company you asked about - Glo International Australia. If it isn’t labelled ‘Glomesh’ then the item should be referred to as simply ‘mesh’ or ‘alumesh’

4. ‘Glomesh’ would have been manufactured in Australia.

5. Many Glomesh designs have a four digit design number somewhere on the label of the bag. This can be of assistance in dating the item.

6. If you’re lucky enough to find a swing tag attached to the item, this will help in dating it. 60s bags have swing tags/sticker labels with a sort of rounded triangular shape, like a plectrum; later ones have a square tag with a gold ‘G’ on it.

7. If the original box comes with the item, this too can help you date it - older boxes have printed off-white cardboard that’s designed to look like glomesh; later boxes are grey with thin diagonal pink stripes and white lettering (there may be others, these are the two that i know…)

8. Cheaper mesh, which mostly seems to come from Hong Kong or China, will tarnish easily and is generally not worth your while (unless it’s an amazing shape or colour or something).

9. Here are the most reputable brands of mesh:

Australia - Glomesh (Glo International Australia) and Park Lane
USA - Gold Crest and Whiting and Davis (USA)
Germany - Oroton

That’s about all I’ve got, but NEVER underestimate the value of talking to the aged. Even ladies (and some gents) who don’t take an interest seem to know the difference between Oroton and ‘Made in Hong Kong’. If you go into an antiques shop/fair/market where people seem to be selling loads of mesh, they will probably be wonderful founts of wisdom. You can also check fashion magazines from the 70s and 80s, which will probably assist you in identifying designs and trends of the period.

Good luck with the hunt!

‘Kitty Foyle’ is the name of a rather charming 1940 film starring Ginger Rogers. It tells the tale of a working girl (in the sense of Dolly Parton/working 9-5, not in the sense of Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman) who falls in lurve and marries a young, rich socialite. The family of said socialite are generally rude and snooty to the modest-but-loveable Kitty.  

I won’t ruin the ending for you, but it’s a story of class, family, society, finding one’s place in the world etc etc. From a feminist perspective, the end of the film puts out a pretty lousy/disturbing message, now that i think about it. But, textual issues aside, this film also gave us what became a Classique of understated, chic dressing - the ‘Kitty Foyle’ dress. Typically, this is a dark, long sleeved dress with contrasting collar and cuffs (which are usually white). It can be seen here (sort of):

When I saw this, I realised how much I’ve taken this style of dress (and probably many others) for granted, as somehow being ‘obvious’ or not having traceable origins. But, as per usual, go raid the ‘Nostalgia/Classic’ section of your local video emporium, and you’ll find the source of most of Today’s Fashions (well, except maybe extreme low-rise jeans, they do really seem to be a product of the ‘noughties’).

The Kitty Foyle crops up everywhere…notably on Christina Ricci as Wednesday Adams (god i loved those movies). Over the years, it’s taken the shape of a bow at the neckline (rather than/as well as a contrasting collar) and a bright coloured dress contrasted with white or another colour. But the classic b-n-w version always ends up resurfacing.

I don’t have a KF myself, but you’ve gotta love them. Clean and classy. Plus it gives you full licence to maximise the size of your coiffe, a la Ginger Rogers.

Does anyone have a Kitty Foyle dress and has never known to refer to it as such? And if you’ve seen the movie, did it disturb you a little? I mean, I know Ginger totally took out the Oscar and everything,  just saying…

The other day I was wandering around my local op, blithe as a lark, when I overheard this conversation between two elderly volunteers (hello ladies):

Vollie 1: That’s a nice tea cup
Vollie 2: Yes, not too…thick
Vollie 1: I won’t drink tea out of a thick cup. I just can’t do it.
Vollie 2: Oh, I know. And everyone these days seems to drink tea out of mugs - Mugs!
Vollie 1: Unbelievable
Vollie 2: Quite

This came as quite a shock to yours truly. As a child of the 80s, I have never seen anyone turn their nose up at the idea of drinking tea out of a mug. I tea-mug almost daily. Does this make me some kind of philistine?

Especially because the vollies weren’t just disgusted at the idea of drinking out of mugs, but of drinking out of the wrong sort of cup.

This got me thinking. It seems, these days, the quality of a tea cup (and therefore its value, collectability etc) is based on four things:

1. The company that produced it
2. The condition it’s in
3. The design (in terms of being attractive and/or rare)
4. Whether it’s part of a set (it’s rare to have a whole set, so the value will rise if you’ve got a full tea set/set of six).

The notion of how pleasant the cup is to drink out of, and how it affects the tea, isn’t really thought of. Personally, while I love and adore the delicacy and aesthetic appeal of ye olde style tea cups, I find them impractical to drink out of and usually end up slugging back my earl grey out of a mug featuring a cartoon of garfield saying ‘they don’t call me lightning lips for nothing’ as he sweeps that lady-cat off her paws for a stolen kiss (purchased at cambo market for 20c - BARGAIN).

But it’s worth thinking about. The cups we collect/value as decorative objects were also designed to measure up to a set of drinking-related standards. And the legend goes that tea tastes best when drunk out of porcelain or fine bone china. So, you’re wondering, what is…

The difference between porcelain and fine bone china

I’ve heard that the tea cups that ensure The Best Tasting Tea are made of fine bone china, and must be translucent. That is, they must become semi-opaque when held up to the light.  But is fine bone really better than porcelain?

The difference between porcelain and fine bone china is as follows: ‘porcelain’ is fired, then glazed, then fired again, making for a high-quality piece. However, ‘bone china’ is said to be stronger while losing none of its delicacy, because bone ash (finely ground) is added to the clay before firing. Bone china is also the whitest china.  

The most expensive, collectable china is usually either porcelain or fine bone.

Cups for the rest of usMany tea cups aren’t made of either porcelain or fine bone china, but simply ‘fine china’, which is similar to the above, but may have been strengthened by the application of treatments instead of bone/additional firing.

Then there’s things like ‘earthenware’ or ’stoneware’ which is a less expensive, heavier style of china. 

Don’t despair, however, if your beloved vintage china turns out to be earthenware or stoneware. Certain items made of these materials can still be highly collectable, depending on the design, age and who the maker is. Google the name on the bottom of your cup (if there is one), see if you can price it on eBay, use a Carter’s guide, whatever. You might be pleasantly surprised.

Care of your teacupsThis is easy:

1. Don’t stack them, if you can help it (that’s just asking for trouble)
2. Don’t put them in the dishwasher.

OK, now don’t get all wahsy on me and say ‘but the label says dishwasher safe!’ The bottom line is that if you want your lovelies to last, you should wash them by hand in water that isn’t too hot, and keep them out of direct sunlight. Same goes for most vintage stuff, really.

Anyway, I think the kettle’s just boiled, so I’m off to pour some nigella-approved twinings into a huge monster of a Far Side mug. Talk about taking a walk on the wild side.

I was reading today about the coded messages of sailors’ tattoos in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and must say it made for some interesting factoid-alicious trivia absorption.

It seems especially important to be aware of these things in an age where images are so often severed from their contexts, and thus their cultural meanings start to get diluted. Kind of like this exchange in Daria (oh my godfather did I love that show), after Trent gets a Maori tattoo:

Daria - Umm, nice tattoo. Tribal?
Trent - Maori. I copied it out of Tattoo World’s international issue.
Daria - Very graphic, and meaningful.
Trent - Yeah, it makes a statement. You know what it is?
Daria (thinks) - I got a tattoo out of a magazine?
Trent - I got a tattoo out of a magazine.
 
Back to the sailor tatts; here’s a rough guide to what they mean. Seeing as these images are everywhere now (think cheap jewellery at Diva etc etc) , I thought youse might all like to know what olde-timey meanings you’re invoking (none of them mean ‘please shuffle up to me in an alley’ or the equivalent, so if you’ve already painted yourself salty sea dog style, don’t get nervous).

 - A swallow means that the navvy in question had travelled 5000 nautical miles. For each subsequent 5000 miles, ye get another bird. Swallows were a popular choice because it’s said that they always know their way home. Apparently, in the days of yore, retired sailors with multiple swallows would have a line of washing tattooed between the birds. Now that’s a tatt I’ve got to see.

 - A ship with full rigging (like, all them cables n crap) is a symbol you’ve sailed around cape horn (I’d better go through my rag tag bunch of ship brooches and check whether I’ve been sending out the wrong message here…some of them are rigged up real good and I haven’t exactly been tally-ho ing down the cape lately)

 - A turtle standing on its back legs (otherwise known as a ’shellback turtle’) means you’ve crossed the equator. More unusual, but you never know when this stuff will come in handy…

 - A dragon (especially a ‘golden dragon’) can be a sign that you’ve sailed to China, or that you’ve ‘crossed the dateline’, as it were.

 - Many people had nekkid ladies tattooed on themselves so that they’d always have some female company, wink wink. Later, some dudes tried to avoid being drafted into the navy by having a naked woman tattooed onto themselves, as people with ‘obscene’ tatts weren’t allowed in the navy. If you wanted to join, you’d have to head back to the tatt guy and get a dress drawn on her. It happened!

 - Sailors had a superstition that an image of a pig at the top of one foot and a rooster on the other would protect them from drowning - the idea being that these animals couldn’t swim, and therefore would magically remain on land.

 - Crosses on the bottom of the feet were to stop sharks from eating you. True story.

So there you have it. Next time you slip on an item of clothing/carry a bag/hang up a picture bearing one or more of these ‘retro’ images, you’ll know just what it is you’re saying to your seafaring brothers and sisters. Ahoy to ye.

Last Friday, I was engaged in peddling various wares at the launch of a magazine. Us peddlers were instructed to dress as “cigarette girls” of yore, and then carry various thingos around on a tray and use our powers of persuasion/feminine wiles to sell sell sell.

Now, I’m always up for some costume-related hi-jinks - every party i’ve ever thrown has basically involved me dressed as someone/thing ridiculous (Michael Jackson/Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle/a Prophet of Doom/pirate/flapper/Miss Scarlett from Cluedo etc etc etc) and trying to convince all invitees to do the same. So this was not necessarily a problem for me. But it’s a pretty high maintenance costume, so if you ever happen to find yourself in a similar situation, here are some pointers:

1. Red lipstick will bleed all over your face like a mofo unless you take a few precautions. Do use a lipliner in as close a colour to the lipstick as you can, even though it will be annoying to remove, because this will make the ’stick cleave like a barnacle. Word.

2. Don’t try to apply liquid eyeliner in a single line. Do it in about a million tiny little lines joined together, and draw it right into your lashline. This is the only way i can get this dangerous substance to dry straight.

3. If you have to wear fishnets, go for the fine-mesh kind. They are somewhat more subtle and comfortable than the big-ass mesh kind.

4. A side part is the lazy way of saying ‘my hair is retro’. Recommended.

5. Heels are a bitch. I had some truly radtacular spat-like peep toe heels, but I chucked a pair of jiffies into my bag because I knew I would grow weary of the heels. Rapidly. Especially once dancing began. The lesson? Always have flats on hand.

6. Always wear a black bra under black.

7. If you have a vaguely ridiculous, tall, fez-like sequinned black hat jammed onto your cranium, make sure to stand back during official business/speeches/entertainments, otherwise you will annoy other punters. This is also known as the ‘Law of Stupid Hats’ and applies to any large structure that balances atop your head, in any situation, ever.

8. Get someone to take photos. This is something I forgot to do, so I won’t be able to drag an image of this former glory out of the archives and wave it around in front of younger, humiliated relos one day. Damn.

Sheesh, you really do learn something every day. What’s the best/worst/most hilarious costume you’ve ever worn? Would you advise your fellow blogulars to attempt it?

OK, now before I get started, please don’t take my minor love affair with this movie to mean that a) I’m secretly in love with Harry Connick Jnr, who starred in the 2006 stage version, or b) I approve of the ridiculous American spelling of pyjama as pajama.

But this film is surprisingly addictive. Largely for the costumes. Because man-o-man, did they know how to rock volume in the 1950s.

See, being a musical, this is a huge, schmaltzy, cast of thousands cheese-fest of a movie. It’s brassy, it’s colourful, it’s over the top. Thusly, the costumes are nothing short of fantabulous.

In a nutshell, it’s a whole lot of swing skirts, circle skirts, dresses with waists that cinch their wearers to within an inch of their lives, neckerchiefs (huzzah for the neckerchief) and dramatic necklines. And that’s without even mentioning the colour. There’s turquoise, hot pink, paris green, rich blue and mauve as far as the eye can see. From Doris Day’s stupidly pristine white summer dress to Gladys’ burnt orange number with about a bazillion yellow and red petticoats, no costume is allowed to be boring. Except, of course, for the men’s…sorry, dudes.

Even in scenes where the ladies are supposed to be working/taking a casual stroll/having a beer (there’s an oddly high number of beer references in this film), they couple their kicky capris with wild patterned blouses, sculpted hair and heels.

Of course, there’s more to love in this movie than the costumes alone. The message about organised labour, sticking together and holding to your principles rather than throwing them out the window the moment an oiled up hunk o’ man walks through the door is both satisfying and remarkable, given the era in which this film was made. Sure, the cloud of McCarthyism was beginning to lift in the late 50s, but the stage version was produced a few years earlier and this film shakes the general notion (well, my notion) that Doris Day was a hugely conservative figure in showbiz at the time.

Anyway, I highly recommend this film, not only for its technicolour costume glory (did I mention the polka dots? There are so many classic uses of the polka dot through The Pajama Game that I can hardly breathe) but because there’s a lot of interesting socio-political etc etc stuff going on. Oh yeah, and there’s the music too.

P.S. Does anyone else find that Doris Day has a really odd singing voice? Don’t get me wrong, I kind of dig it, but often it’s oddly low/veering close to being off-key.

P.P.S. Did you know that she’s still alive, and has an animal welfare organisation called the Doris Day Animal League? The more I google Doro, the more I like her.

I was briefly in Sydney this week, and while I didn’t have time to do a good ransacking of the western suburbs’ finest op shops, I did get to have a thorough going over of one of the city’s best ops – the Paddington St Vincent de Paul Op Shop.

If you happen to be wandering down Oxford Street in Paddington, and have already stopped at the cupcake bakery for a ridiculously over-iced cupcake and at some of the many, many boutique-y style boutiques, I would highly recommend a wade through the wonder that is this tardis-like SVDP located in the thick of hip-Sydney heartland.

For those of you who aren’t ridiculous nerds and have no idea what the tardis is, allow me to explain: this shop looks tiny from the outside, but is cavernous (long, two storeyed, packed to the rafters) on the inside. (Now go and google Dr Who).

Oxford Street is known for having thousands upon thousands (slight exaggeration) of so-cool-it-hurts fashion shops, and there can be little doubt that this SVDP is benefiting from having a voguish, well-heeled bunch of locals to gather donations from (there’s a bin at the front of the store). Many things look new, or near enough to it. There are well-known labels and the odd designer piece. The overall quality, cleanliness and range of the clothing here is almost astounding. It’s like being in a bourgeois family’s gigantic walk-in wardrobe.

Thusly, I gathered quite an armful of clothes and tried them on three-at-a-time (as per the rule) while the beau dutifully held onto the rest. I ended up buying a black velvet blazer (I’ve been looking for one that fits properly for YEARS…I had one that I loved to death during Year 12 and 1st year uni, but I wore it to death and had to get rid of it and have been pining for something similar ever since) for $15 and a barely-worn Carla Zampatti black wool skirt (I know this label is so mumsy, but it’s a good item) with some kicky pleats for $16.

As you may have gathered, things aren’t cheap as chips in Paddington and the SVDP is no exception. Prices between $10 and $30 are common. But they are catering to a relatively wealthy neighbourhood, and the items attracting these sorts of prices are good. Very good. So I think a bit of price pressure is justified in this instance.

Sadly, the amount of vintage in this shop is minimal, but it is made up for by the sheer range of quality, contemporary stuff. There were a couple of 70s style printed dresses and a few coats from the 60s-80s, but don’t come here to get dress ups for your next Brady Bunch themed party. It’s a fairly subdued sort of vibe.

In terms of non-clothing items, this store is fairly average (except for the vast number of books). There’s some half decent homewares, a bit of jewellery, a cabinet where antiques are priced according to the vollie’s knowledge of Carter’s guides and the Antiques Roadshow. You know the drill. But if you’re in Sydney and you haven’t visited this shop, I highly recommend it.

Incidentally, there’s one drawback to this store which it is my civic duty to make you all aware of: the doors on the changerooms are quite low, and short. So if you’re tall and/or the retiring type, be sure to protect your modesty at all times.

What do other people think of this op? And to assist all us non-Sydney types, what is the best op shop in Sydney?

It’s the Writers Festival this week (well, it finishes today), and I’ve been having a high ol’ time wandering around Federation Square (about which the beau keeps saying ‘I feel like we’re in the near future’) and perusing the books and journals in the temporary bookshop and Atrium. So what better time to have a think about the value of vintage books?

Whenever I think of this topic, I remember going to a talk given by author of the Treasure Hunter’s Guide, Kirsty Montagu. Among the many pearls of wisdom she shared, one has stuck with me and continues to bother me - that most, if not all vintage books have little to no market value.

This was such a disappointment to me. It’s always so exciting to flip through old books - they often have such beautiful or strange dust jackets and photographs. And they smell really good (unless they’ve gone mildewy…gross).

But the bald fact of the matter is that the market is flooded with old books; I guess people hold onto books in a way that they don’t hold on to clothes (which wear out) or kitchen stuff (which can break if used all the time), or any number of other collectibles. They’re bought to keep. At least the hardback ones were. Result? Even books that are Seriously Old (like, over 100 years old) might have little or no value, because they aren’t scarce and no one has to work hard to hunt them down.

That said, there are exceptions to this rule. And if you want to collect books, you need to work out why something would be valuable - and this usually lies in establishing a market of potential collectors.

Below are a few pointers for working out which books are valuable and which ones aren’t. Remember, though, that financial value isn’t everything. I have many wonderful 20c or 50c books I’ve picked up over the years which have zero resale value, but which I cherish as objects of beauty or curiosities of a bygone era. Nonetheless, here’s what to look for if you want to make your fortune peddling old pulp fiction:

1. Is it a first edition?

This is the oldest chestnut in the book (har-di-har-har) - first editions are valuable. It largely holds true, but it’s not always easy to tell whether your book is a first edition, and the most reliable ways to know are (sadly) checking with an expert or getting hold of a very detailed author bibliography. However, you probably don’t want to do either of these things, so read on.

The place to start is the page with the copyright information. Check this page to see which year the book in question was published. Most newer books (last 10-15 years) will tell you which edition they are, but older ones don’t, so check the publication year and cross check it against the year the book was first published. Note: ‘first edition’ isn’t always a guarantor of value. What you really want is a ‘first printing’, ie the copy you’re holding is from the very first print run - a single ‘edition’ can have many print runs.

Some books don’t even have a year of publication in them (helpful, not). In this case, you can reference the printer’s key, which will be on the same page. It’s a chain of numbers that looks like ‘10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1′. The last number represents the printing, so in the above example, the book would be a first printing. If it was ‘10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 2′ it would be a second printing etc etc.

2. How’s the condition?

To be of any value whatsoever, a book needs to be in above average condition. Significant damage, such as tanning, water damage and brittleness DECIMATE the value of a book, and I’d advise you NEVER to buy a book in this state if you’re buying it as an object of value. If you’re buying it to make an art project or find out interesting factoids on bulbs or cheeses of the world etc then go right ahead.

Bear in mind that even minor tears and flaws can reduce the value of a book, so look over/through books carefully before buying.  

The closer your book is to pristine, the more valuable it will be.

3. Is the author famous or notorious in some way?

A well-known name can bolster the value of a book significantly, as famous authors (and other famous people who’ve written autobiographies etc) will have their own collectors. Bare in mind that if the particular edition of the book you have/are considering buying is not difficult to find, the notoriety of the author probably won’t have much baring on the value.

Another good one is banned books and hoaxes. If you have an early edition of a book that was later banned it might be valuable. Ditto if you have a book that was written as a hoax then pulled from publication. Again, beware, because if these books are still easy to find then they won’t hold much value - you’ll have to wait until they’re scarce, I’m afraid.

4. Does the topic and/or date of the book make it significant in some way?

Example: on Antiques Roadshow the other day, a chap brought in a book about the sinking of the Titanic to be valued. It was in great condition, and was published the year that the Titanic sank. This means that it would be a very attractive object to the huge number of collectors of Titanic memorabilia out there. Thus, it was quite valuable.

Note the coming together of several different factors here. If there were only a few Titanic collectors, the value of the book wouldn’t have been nearly as high as it was, despite the interest and condition of the book. There needs to be a viable market of potential buyers or bidders to give something a hefty price tag.

5. Does it have excellent provenance?

Your book might be an ordinary enough old book, but if it came from Dracula’s Castle or the First Fleet or belonged to John Lennon or Milli Vanilli or something, it would have additional value. Note: You want some kind of proof for this.

6. Is there something else special about it?

Is it signed, or does it have an incredible Art Deco style cover, or was it handmade, or was it pulled from the shelves for some reason? All of these things can have an effect on the final value of a book.

Well, that’s about all I can think of for now, so I’m going to nap and then head back to Fed Square for the finals of ‘Poetry Idol 2008′ and some other vaguely literary tidbits and maybe a hot chocolate. Party on.

There’s a wonderful array of technical terms when it comes to vintatge clothing. And in the whacky terminology stakes, sleeves are right up there. But the exact terms to use when describing them is something I’ve never been 100% clear on, so I’ve scratched around and consulted my sources, and a rough guide follows (bear in mind, I’m not talking about the difference between long, short and three-quarter, as I’m fairly sure you guys are across that):  

Batwing sleeve: One of the finest hangovers from the disco age, this is a long sleeve which has an armhole so long that it goes all the way down to the waist. The sleeve tapers towards the wrist, creating the effect of a batwing (which, when you think about it, is like creating the effect of a thin membrane between your arm and side…gross). 

Bell sleeve: a sleeve that’s close fitting at the shoulder, but flares out into a bell shape. Usually features a soft drapey effect…it’s very soft-focus, pastel day-wear in the 70s. 

Bishop sleeve: Sounds unattractive, like it would have featured heavily in World Youth Day, but this sleeve (long sleeve, loose-ish at the top but fuller at the bottom, and gathered into a firm cuff) is really chic and reminiscent of the 40s (Katharine Hepburn would have worn it with trousers – you know it).  

Cap sleeve: taking the short sleeve to extremes, this one covers a few centimetres on top of the arm, but resembles a sleeveless top on the underside. Does that make sense?

Dolman sleeve (otherwise known as a ‘kimono sleeve’): a less extreme version of the batwing, which can taper to three-quarter length as well as full length.

Gauntlet sleeve: For the Goths, this is where a tight-fitting long sleeve ends in a point extending onto the hand.

Hanging sleeve: where the sleeve has a slit down the side or the front, through which the arm can move.

Juliet sleeve: Yes, it was named after Romeo’s squeeze and was the sleeve du jour of the Renaissance period in Italy. It’s a long, tight sleeve with quite a round puff at the top. You don’t see it much these days, except in wedding dresses. 80s and early 90s party dresses used it heavily, and not in some kind of ironic way either. It was 4-real. 

Leg of mutton sleeve (also known as the ‘gigot’ sleeve, but really, who’s going to say that when L-o-M is an option?), a sleeve that  poufs out from the shoulder and is real wide, but tapers toward the elbow and is then narrow from the elbow downwards. A bit like the Juliet, except for the taper effect.

Poet sleeve: a sleeve that’s fitted at the elbow, but then opens out and drapes downward. Kind of like those medieval-style tops you’d buy at Ishka in the 90s. Ok, those tops I bought at Ishka in the 90s.

Puff sleeve: a sleeve which is basically a puffball, and is gathered at the top and bottom to create maximum puffage.

Raglan sleeve: a sleeve that extends to the neckline – think of those baseball-style tops where the sleeve isn’t sewn into an armhole, but covers the shoulders and is connected to the collar.

Set-in sleeve: a sleeve sewn into an armhole. Ta da!

P.S. For pictures of any of these, just google the sleeve type - the major sewing sites usually have pretty good (if somewhat 80s watercolour style) pictures.