They take hours and hours to make, and then, when they're finally finished, you can't even wear them. Welcome to the eccentric world of Isabelle de Borchgrave, an artist who creates exquisite replicas of historical dresses, with one material difference - they're paper. By Eithne Farry
Tucked away behind an unassuming double-garage door on a quiet street in Brussels is the beguilingly obsessive world of the artist Isabelle de Borchgrave. Her studio, a big cluttered space with dim light and concrete floors, is dominated by a group of exquisitely dressed mannequins. One is wearing an Elizabethan gown in rich chocolate brown and cream with old gold detailing, baroque pearl clusters and age-worn lace cuffs and ruff. There's a Madonna figure from a Lippi painting draped in a full, blue cloak and red gown, and a dapper page-boy tricked out in a cape of dark brocade with a matching hat. And a larger-than-life figure wearing an ornate wedding dress in taupe silk-taffeta, sprinkled with pearls. They are remarkable costumes, beautifully constructed - and made entirely out of paper.
Tucked away behind an unassuming double-garage door on a quiet street in Brussels is the beguilingly obsessive world of the artist Isabelle de Borchgrave. Her studio, a big cluttered space with dim light and concrete floors, is dominated by a group of exquisitely dressed mannequins. One is wearing an Elizabethan gown in rich chocolate brown and cream with old gold detailing, baroque pearl clusters and age-worn lace cuffs and ruff. There's a Madonna figure from a Lippi painting draped in a full, blue cloak and red gown, and a dapper page-boy tricked out in a cape of dark brocade with a matching hat. And a larger-than-life figure wearing an ornate wedding dress in taupe silk-taffeta, sprinkled with pearls. They are remarkable costumes, beautifully constructed - and made entirely out of paper.
De Borchgrave, in complete contrast to her ornate work, is dressed in a simple blue top and trousers, her hair an unruly mix of short curls. She darts over to the long worktable that runs down the centre of the studio and plucks a piece of white paper from a pile. 'It all starts from this,' she says. This is not an expensive sheet of deluxe parchment from a Parisian papeterie, but a rustling scrap of pattern paper that you could pick up for a couple of pounds in the John Lewis haberdashery department. It takes de Borchgrave and her assistants 'hours and hours and hours' of painting, playing, scrunching, gilding and gluing to transform plain paper into a dress that evokes a red, pleated Fortuny Delphos dress or a trompe l'œil Marie Antoinette gown. 'It's magic,' de Borchgrave says, 'a dream.'
The atmosphere in the studio is, indeed, one of dreamy industry. One of de Borc
hgrave's assistants is painstakingly constructing a pair of boots with layer upon layer of paper, while another is printing a 'shower of hail spots' on to three and a half metres of lens-cleaning paper. 'It's a veil to go with the wedding dress,' Dora explains, as she stencils the spots on with a roller. The veil is light and pretty with painted scalloped edges, but it's not exactly practical.
The atmosphere in the studio is, indeed, one of dreamy industry. One of de Borc
hgrave's assistants is painstakingly constructing a pair of boots with layer upon layer of paper, while another is printing a 'shower of hail spots' on to three and a half metres of lens-cleaning paper. 'It's a veil to go with the wedding dress,' Dora explains, as she stencils the spots on with a roller. The veil is light and pretty with painted scalloped edges, but it's not exactly practical.
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