![]() A thirty-one-year-old American who grew up mostly in London, Diamond came up with the idea for Hill House Home while she was working as an analyst at Deutsche Bank, and cultivating a personal aesthetic that she refers to as “Victorian ghost.” “I walked into that trading floor full of all of these men in their Patagonia vests,” she said. In fact, she began developing the Nap Dress two years ago, and trademarked the name in January, when the coronavirus in this country still seemed a distant threat. of Hill House Home, the company that makes the Nap Dress, told me recently, over Zoom, that she has been accused of opportunistically naming the garment for quarantine, when so many people are jittery and pacing their own hallways, and loungewear is one of the few things sure to sell. The Nap Dress, on the other hand, suggests a cheeky indulgence for one’s body, and a childlike return to waking up bleary-eyed hours before dinner. A housedress is about forgetting the self, or at least hiding it under layers of quilted fabric. It is not a housedress, which we tend to associate with older women shuffling onto the stoop to grab the morning paper, the curlers still in their hair. (For one, it is opaque enough to wear to the grocery store.) It is not the same thing as a caftan, which, though often luxurious, is more shapeless and more grown-up. One could theoretically wear a Nap Dress to bed, but it is decidedly not a nightgown. Since sleeping through the night was not happening, I figured an outfit specifically designated for daytime dozing might be just the thing. I purchased it in the wee hours of the morning, during one of my frequent bouts of pandemic-induced insomnia. I finally succumbed to this dress last month, not only because of its incessant presence on my feed but because of its alluring name: the Nap Dress. It looked as light and sweet as meringue. It looked like a dress that the young heroine of a Frances Hodgson Burnett novel might pull out of a steamer trunk, or like something that a tubercular patient might wear to recuperate in a Swiss facility in the nineteen-tens. The bodice was smocked in soft, accordion-like fabric, creating the gentlest suggestion of corseting. It was covered in nubbly swiss dots and had a fey little ruffle adorning each thick shoulder strap, like the edges of a conch shell. It was made of semi-sheer white cotton and hit at the mid-calf. Photograph by Amy Lefevre / Hill House Homeįor about a year, a dress stalked me on Instagram. The Nap Dress offers the twin promise of beauty and sleep.
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