What Does One Wear to a Ball?
One does not expect to be invited to a ball in the year 2024. At least, it’s not something I ever envisaged for myself. “Will I be forced to dance?” I pondered. “Can I dance?” And the most pressing of questions: “What does one wear?”
The occasion for these questions was the Vienna Opera Ball, a traditional Austrian society event that dates back to 1814. For this year’s, which took place February 8, I was invited as a guest of Hotel Sacher, a Viennese institution and the birthplace of the beloved Sacher-Torte chocolate cake.
Much to my delight, it turned out a ball is one of the few occasions when men are expected to dress in a manner significantly less comfortable than women. “Aha!” I thought. “Take that!”
At the Vienna Opera Ball, men are required to dress in white tie and tails. It’s a chic, albeit challengingly layered, ensemble of exactness. Women, on the other hand, are bound only by the regulation that their gowns be floor-length.
“Wonderful,” I said to myself as my mind scanned the options already in my wardrobe. As someone who has always preferred to shop vintage, I have a plethora of clothing that is completely useless in terms of modern-day activities, but might be well suited to attending an Austrian ball as the guest of a famous hotel-slash-cake.
Do I own a full-length black lace cape? Why, yes—yes, I do. Do I have a vintage velvet hat with a bird’s head and beak shaped onto the peak? Most certainly! My acquisition of vintage is primarily guided by the heart and rarely, if ever, by the mind.
Among my collection of rarities rests a vintage floor-length 1930s gown covered in glittering rhinestone bows that outline the shoulder and the dropped waist of the midnight-blue silk georgette. This particular dress, I purchased about five years ago at a small vintage shop in Milan called Madame Pauline. I first discovered the store years ago, while waiting for a Jil Sander show to start. I peeked in and saw that Hamish Bowles, a fellow vintage collector, had had the same idea and was also sifting through the admirable selection.
On a small rack next to the dressing room, I found the 1930s gown. I had nowhere to wear it, and I wasn’t positive my bank account balance was enough to cover it. But it was love at first sight.
I don’t know if it’s the inherent scarcity, but shopping vintage has always stirred an impulsive sensation within me. “Buy it NOW,” a Joan Crawford–esque voice suddenly screamed inside my head, there at Madame Pauline. Within seconds, my card was swiped, my fingers crossed—and against all odds, the transaction was happily not declined. My new dress came home with me, where it would sit patiently until destiny called.
This particular ball I would be attending, the Vienna Opera Ball, is one of the most important of the season, I was informed. I had imagined a ball to be a stuffy affair and was surprised to learn that not only would it not even begin until 10:00 p.m., it also typically runs well past 5:00 a.m., if not longer.
You need your strength if you’re going to dance all night, so dinner is served beforehand, early-bird style, at 6:30 p.m. at Hotel Sacher. After eating, my friends and I journeyed to the Vienna State Opera House, conveniently located across the street, and ascended the red carpet–lined grand staircase. Having heard about the ball’s reputation as an all-night dance-a-thon, I had opted to wear a pair of black silk satin flats by the Row. Under my vintage dress, I added a lace-trimmed black slip from Prada, which had conveniently come with another dress I’d bought last year.
The ball began with several performances, but the main attraction was the 180 debutante couples who entered the ballroom in a long procession and then danced in perfectly choreographed precision. Watching them glide across the dance floor, I found the contrast between the black tails and the white dresses devastatingly beautiful, and evocative of an optical illusion.
Watching the crowd was almost as satisfying. In attendance were many women wearing what I like to call “cupcake gowns”—dresses built upon endless layers of tulle, in shades of pink so shocking, Elsa Schiaparelli would have winced. There were crystal masks, floor-length sequin gowns, and approximately 10,000 pounds of hairspray. But what really caught my attention was the elegant beauty of the older women. You could see the immense thought they had put into their looks, most likely planning every detail for months, down to the perfect shade of hosiery. One woman I saw was dripping in a stack of pearls thicker than any strands Audrey Hepburn ever wore. They fell gracefully across her back as she admired the debutantes dancing from her balcony.
As is often the case in Europe, the women of the older generation were some of the chicest people I had ever seen. Holding themselves gracefully, they exhibited perfect posture and seemed to be hyperaware of their every movement. This forgotten air of elegance has always drawn me to wearing and collecting vintage.
As our lives become increasingly digital, even attending an event is becoming a “vintage” notion in and of itself. When the easy alternative is to stay home and stare endlessly at our screens, taking the time to coordinate a unique look is an especially beautiful process. The added benefit of choosing something from the 1920s or ’30s—with the freedom of movement that designers like Coco Chanel brought to the period by creating garments that were less constrictive—is the icing on the cake (or in this case, torte).
As I watched the men sweating through their endless stiff layers, my girlfriends and I glided blissfully across the dance floor in our flowing gowns. Comfort, beauty, and individuality—now, isn’t that what style is really all about?
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