The piano sat in the middle of the room, on an expansive, tattered persian rug. The instrument itself wasn't in much better shape—the long black body was chipped and scuffed, the ivory of the keys roughly worn from years of heavy use.  I assumed my customary position, laid flat on the floor under its hollow belly, and waited.  The first chords of "In A Sentimental Mood" reverberated deep inside my chest as my grandfather leaned over the keyboard, nimbly fingering the notes with deft flourishes and soulful grace.  I could lay on the floor and listen to him play jazz standards forever, and had spent many hours of my childhood holed up under the baby grand letting the music of his youth shape the sounds of my own. 

As the final notes petered out, he paused.  "Have I ever told you how I met your grandmother?" he asked.  

I laughed, "Only a few hundred times… You had seen her singing at a club in New Orleans when you were on leave from Corpus Christi, and wanted to impress her.  So you and your army buddies stole an old butcher's white duck to bring to the club as a present for her…" I recited, in mock rote form.  "But the butcher chased you through the entire French Quarter, brandishing his cleaver and yelling…"

"Yes,but did I ever tell you how beautiful she looked?" He asked. "Did she ever show you the dress she was wearing that day?  I think she saved it…"

This was a revelation to me.  How had I lived twenty five years without seeing the dress my vision of a grandmother was wearing the day a goofy-grinned strainer burst through the doors of the smoky jazz club where she was a torch singer, white duck clutched in outstretched hands?  I clambered out from under the piano, and insisted on seeing it. 

Tucked away on a high shelf in a basement closet, in a musky blue box that required a step stool and significant effort to retrieve, was the dress.  Lifting it out of the box, I was surprised by its relative plainness—a sturdy, black woven silk shift, well-tailored, with short sleeves and an asymmetrical neckline. No low back or daring neckline,nothing pleated or tucked—just a plain black jazz era dress.  I must have looked a little disappointed, holding it in my lap unbelievingly(and I was,  having imagined my grandmother as a knockout in a couture gown); my grandfather rested one hand on my shoulder and from under the tissue in the box extracted a photograph.  It was of my grandmother. There she was, wearing the dress, and looking more gorgeous than Coco Chanel, radiating confidence and elegance.  Looking longingly at the photograph, he sighed, "Her great secret, I think, was that she never let a dress wear her…"

We created the Jazz Age line as a tribute to a time when dressing was easyand always show-stopping.  A collection of little black dresses and statement pieces in simple, timeless silhouettes made of utterly wearable stretch sateen and finished with contemporary details, the Jazz Age proves that looking elegant can be accomplished without an abundance of sequins, or skin.  We hope you find your own wardrobe show-stopper among their ranks.