The Icons - The Little White Dress

The most ‘little white dresses’ I’ve owned at any one time was, I think, 11. In the last few years as I’ve tried to streamline my wardrobe, I’ve cut it down to six – a remarkable achievement I have definitely overpraised myself for. Every time we start to feel that first spring warmth, I find myself searching for new incarnations of LWDs, both online and in bricks and mortar stores. I don’t need them, but boy do I want them. I have to be turned away like you might distract a toddler from a vending machine. I spent an hour after I first watched The Wicker Man, not filled with worry about the danger of zealotry, but shopping online for similar versions of those perfect pagan wafty dresses. To me, they are a symbol of summer – of sunshine, romance and holidays. The LWD is my sartorial equivalent of that sexy summer fling you once had that feels so right in the context of balmy summer nights; restorative, feel-good folly that makes no sense outside of sunny season.

I can’t remember how I first got into them, but they’ve been a hallmark of my summer wardrobe since I was a teenager. I imagined some of my favorite literary heroines to be wearing differing styles – Cathy from Wuthering Heights charging about the Yorkshire Moors in a grubby nighty-like version with a hardy pair of boots, or the frothy, ruffled gown Scarlett O’Hara wears at the start of Gone With The Wind. Sofia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides and her dreamy, white-dress-wearing protagonists drove me to my local charity shops, desperate to find similar, prairie-style white dresses. Although I bow at the feet of Marilyn Monroe in her halter design in The Seven Year Itch and Liz Taylor in her belted, plunging version in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, it’s always been the floatier, more romantic incarnations that have appealed the most to me. It’s less about what’s slinky or restrictive, and more about billowy, ethereal shapes and floaty fabrics worn with hardy footwear you can adventure in, be it a pair of Teva sandals or biker boots. Jane Birkin in a simple white mini and a basket bag in Paris. Anita Pallenberg in a billowing maxi and silver sandals, thrown together with an up-all-night edge.

I don’t care that they’re impractical. I have never been overburdened with poise or grace, and of course my LWDs have been victimised by Aperol spritzes, grass stains and chocolate gelato. Like laughter wrinkles, these are just a sign you’re having a good time, and I can’t think of a more boring reason not to buy something you love, than it might get stained. I also love that a wafty white dress is really only good for a few precious months a year; it makes it feel more special.

As I’ve grown older, I have moved away from the pagan fairy LWD-energy of my twenties, and towards slightly more restrained versions. Among current favorites is a voluminous puff-sleeve style by &Daughter, while one of my most reliable and hardworking summer pieces is a denim mini pinafore from Gap that I team with Converse, as well as an empire-line strappy style that falls just above my ankle. I love versions that look like an Italian nonna might wear to bed – cotton or linen feminine nighties that you can accessorize with layers of gold chains, a pair of Ancient Greek sandals and a tan. I turn to Ba&sh for prairie-esque styles that aren’t prohibitively expensive; Piece of White for sleek versions that feel fresh and Molly Goddard and Simone Rocha for their frothy but rebellious interpretations.

Regardless of shape or fabric, LWDs are a blank canvas for your summer – ready to be Jackson Pollock-ed by all the excesses of the season.