The garment’s arm holes and neckline were hemmed, but the bottom was not. The dress also features an oversized pocket on the lower front of the garment. Donated by costume curator and collector Beverley Birks in 2001, this yellow paper dress features an abstract pink, green, and blue foliage print that seems as if it was applied to the paper hastily. One 1968 multicolored paper jumper by Tuscany is especially emblematic of the 1960s paper garment movement.

They were most likely worn on special occasions in the collection, I also unearthed multiple pret-a-porter paper dresses that were meant for daily wear. These two silver dresses are perhaps more funky and avant-garde instances of paper dresses. “Tuscany” brand paper dress, donated by Beverley Birks Consumers would often buy paper goods that matched their garments, and the expediency of their purchase implied a modern and leisurely lifestyle. They were sold everywhere, from corner stores and pharmacies to boutiques and malls. Occasional velcro detailing rendered them even more Space Age-esque in the public eye.

Thus, they were durable enough to withstand a few wears. Although entitled paper dresses, most were composed of approximately 93% cellulose and 7% nylon or made of “Dura-weave,” which was rayon-reinforced cellulose. They even began to sell jumpsuits, vests, childrenswear, and - believe it or not - swimwear! These paper products could be worn a handful of times, adjusted with scissors and scotch tape if need be, and tossed in a wastebasket by the time a new fad emerged. Mars of Asheville became the most famous producer of paper dresses, selling 80,000 to 100,000 pieces a week. With the demand for paper garments continuing to skyrocket, other designers and manufacturers quickly filled the new void in the industry. sold half a million dresses, and they abruptly ended their campaign they did not want to become clothing manufacturers. Won’t last forever…who cares? Wear it for kicks - then give it the air.” In eight months after the brand’s genesis, Scott Paper Co. Smashingly different at dances or perfectly packaged at picnics. The company marketed their dresses as clothing “created to make you the conversation piece at parties. The “Mars of Asheville” metallic gown in the CCTC was a continuation of a culture that had grown accustomed to disposable paper goods and utensils. The paper dress came in two designs, one that was a black and white op art print, and the other that was a red bandana print. Mocking a culture that was increasingly accustomed to disposable paper goods, Scott Paper Company employed the paper dress as a tongue-in-cheek marketing tool: women could buy the paper dress for one dollar and receive a variety of coupons for other paper goods. invented the paper garment as a promotion gimmick. I wondered why this paper fashion line would design and sell a galaxy-inspired plastic garment that was advertised as a product of one’s garbage can scraps.Įarly examples of paper dresses from the Scott Paper Co. Perhaps the most uncanny aspect of the packaging is the sizing chart, which reads, “Teeny: 4-6, Tiny: 8-10, Bigger: 12-14, Biggest: 16-18.” A clear indicator of the drastically different beauty standards in the 60s, this sizing chart, along with the the garment’s collection name, markets the dress in an almost comical and entertaining manner. Splashed across the top of the label, next to a caricature of a figure glistening in the metallic gown, read “NEW! From The… ‘Waste Basket Boutique’ Collection, The Silverfoil Floor Length Dress.” “Mars of Asheville,” the brand, instructed the wearer to press the gown with a cool iron and shorten it with scissors after all, it is a disposable garment. The metallic plastic almost appears to have a crocodile-skin texture upon close inspection.Īs I stared at this Space Age floor-length paper gown, the labels on the packing were almost as puzzling and abnormal as the garment itself. There are two loose straps on both the left and the right side of the dress, in both the front and the back, allowing for multiple ways of creating strap ties or bows. There are darts from the side seam to bust but no other stitches, folds, or hems. This tubular metallic gown was made of metallic plastic that is essentially a disposable crêpe paper. Perplexed by the unexpected texture in a sea of neon, geometric patterns and retro silhouettes, I pulled out a floor-length, aluminum foil gown wrapped in a crinkled plastic coating. As my fingers skimmed through the funky, pattern-clad dresses hanging from the 1960s aisle in the Cornell Costume and Textile Collection, they suddenly halted when landing upon a rough metallic material.

1960s space age