Winter is coming.
To our nation’s capital.
Now, you can, and should, cuddle up with some seasonally appropriate Game of Thrones, a hottie (hot water bottle and/or person – count your blessings if both), and a big old mug of tea/mulled wine/hot chocolate.
But, there is another strategy you can adopt to minimise seasonal chill. That strategy, my friends, is the Daggy Jumper Part-ay.
(In the context of Daggy Jumpers, the normal spelling of party just doesn’t carry enough cringe: a hyphen just has to happen here).
Hipsters have been All About The Daggy Jumper Part-ay for a fair while now. I remember, distinctly, my first encounter with a Hipster Daggy Jumper Part-ay member. This encounter was at an actual party (normal spelling), complete with all requisite winter-in-Canberra’s-Inner-North party activities, circa 2007: goon of fortune, people dancing in circles around piles of coats in a bare living room, representation from three different political parties (and factions within parties), and at least one emotional minidrama involving a love triangle and a certain young lady blowing her nose on someone else’s pashmina.
Yes, that was me. Soz.
During some post-tears circle dancing around coats, a fellow partygoer joined me in my interpretive dance moves to Architecture in Helskini’s ‘Places Like This’ (if you need a visual: imagine me waving of arms in the manner of a floaty willow tree, add in some Gumby legs). Said partygoer, otherwise unremarkable, was wearing a baggy grey handknit with an appliquéd koala bear on the front, chomping on a eucalyptus leaf (the appliquéd koala, not my wavy-arms-dance companion).
At the time, I called bullshit on his Daggy Jumper Part-ay, picked up my coat from the middle of the circle, and went outside to check out goon of fortune.
Now, six years and a whole lot of other parties after the fact, I’ve come around to the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Big Time, as one of my boyfriends from the 2007 vintage (a good year) would say.
Sourcin’
The trick to having a Daggy Jumper Part-ay, as opposed to just a Daggy Jumper, is to mix a bit of high culture with your low culture (hollah at me Adorno: Bourdieu, you, ain’t heavy, you my bro).
By this, I mean, choose a daggy jumper in luxe fibres: babysoft lambswool, buttery cashmere, so-fluffy-you-float angora, and a bit of lurex for doing the Fancy.
Sounds expensive, right? Wrong. Second hand stores are teeming with Daggy Jumper Part-ay specimens. Admittedly, you need some time on your hands and the guidance of your inner shopper intuition, but anybody with a couple of hours to spare on a Saturday can make good at their local Vinnies, Salvos or op-shop and come out with some Daggy Jumper Part-ay gold.
Just remember to check the fibre content label: you can usually tell by feel if you’re dealing with poly blend or something a bit more special, but it always pays to double check when you’re all about bigging up the luxe.
You can also ask your family and elderly friends if they have any Daggy Jumper Part-ays they can pass on to you, to keep the family’s stylin’ trads alive. Or, if a trip to Vinnies and Granny’s doesn’t turn up anything, pop into Country Road, they happen to be doing some very convincing vintage repros at the mo.
Prepin’
Once you get your Daggy Jumper Part-ay home, it pays to invest in some pre-wear prep. A gentle handwash will remove any lingering scent of dead people/menthol cigarettes/shop assistants/home brand sherry/naphthalene, and any suspicious stains that may have emanated from a previous owner’s body.
Handwashing using my chosen brand of laundry soap (Lux) also imparts a delicious scent that will make people want to cuddle you (huzzah for cuddles).
Again, check the fibre content label, but allow me to lay down the best way, by far, to handwash:
1) dissolve a small amount of Lux flakes in hot water, top up your bucket/sink/basin with cold water, and dunk your jumper thoroughly
2) watch an ep of Game of Thrones
3) empty the soapy water, refill your bucket/sink/basin with plain cold water
4) watch another ep of Game of Thrones
5) empty bucket onto pot plants/garden, pop your jumper into your washing machine, and run it through on a Rinse and Spin cycle
6) place on a flat surface to dry
7) watch eps of Game of Thrones until your Daggy Jumper Part-ay is dry
This last step is optional, but I highly recommend it: Peter Dinklage is a stone cold fox.
Stylin’
It’s absolutely pointless, in most cases, to try and achieve a slim, streamlined silhouette. Most Daggy Jumper Part-ays, especially if they’re vintage, are cut with comfort and warmth, rather than flattery, in mind. Consequentially, channel Notorious and embrace the B-I-G. Let your winter belly rolls luxuriate in the warm, non-judgemental embrace of your Daggy Jumper Part-ay.
You may wish to pair your Daggy Jumper Part-ay with a fitted jean and boots, to prove to the world at large that your form has shape. But, I don’t think the fitted jean is an essential for styling the Daggy Jumper Part-ay. Really, you could wear whatever you want on your bottom half (except shorts, because they’re weird, even more so in a Canberra winter).
Basically, no-one is going to notice what’s going on south of your belly button: they’re going to be too excited by your amazing jumper, and wondering why they’re experiencing the urge to cuddle (that’s the power of Lux).
Cautionz
One further word to the wise: if you have a penchant for black fluffy Daggy Jumper Part-ays, like I do, be aware of the lint issue. It tends to gather in places that will shock you when you look in the mirror (underarms, backs, and belly buttons, oh my). It can be quite confronting, more so if you were de-Daggy Jumper Part-ay-ing in front of some lucky guy or girl (I’d imagine).
You can solve this issue by wearing a tee shirt underneath, but if that idea doesn’t appeal, consider yourself forewarned and forearmed about the armpit lint, and make sure you do a quick lint check pre boudoir.
Now, go forth, and Daggy Jumper Part-ay, because winter is coming.
Showing posts with label Vintage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vintage. Show all posts
Friday, June 7, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Vintage Kicks
Turning 26 is a wonderous thing.
OK, OK, the Wrinkle of Incredulity on my forehead is deepening; I’ve got some fine lines growing around my eyes. My knees make that wet-cardboard creaky sound, and I’m doing lots more ‘reflective listening’ at noisy pubs, clubs and house parties. Not because I’ve become mature and wise and patient, but because I can’t actually hear what’s being said (years of earphone abuse), so I settle for ‘mm hmms’, ‘oh’s’ and what I hope is a thoughtful expression.
But back to what’s wonderous about being 26.
Being 26 means that I’ve been an Adult Woman, physiologically at least, for ten years, and have a wardrobe that is well established enough that I can pull together pieces that are, to borrow Maggie Alderson’s term, ‘Vintage Me’.
‘Vintage Me’ means clothes and accessories you’ve had for many a moon. ‘Vintage Me’, in my book, carries the ultimate styling cred. Why? Well, not only were you spectacularly chic, you are, still, spectacularly chic, AND had the foresight to keep great pieces even when they weren’t trending.
Basically, ‘Vintage Me’ = Swag + +
Particularly when the ‘Vintage me’ piece has swag already. Enter my two pairs of Doc Martin Kicks.
I bought my kicks when I started college (year 11 and 12, to all you non-ACT peeps). My college didn’t have a uniform, and, as such, 2003 was a great year for me, stylistically. My crew were rolling an early 90s look (and our own cigarettes) long before it was cool to do so.
(Insert your favorite hipster insult here)
My first pair of kicks – the classic Doc Martin boot, in an abstract black and white printed leather, purchased at Redpaths in Garema Place – were a momentous purchase, my first steps into the grungy look that would see me wear corsets, crochet cardigans, and torn, graffiti'd jeans to school.
Those kicks, along with the cherry red pair my parents bought me for Christmas, were my footwear of choice through 2003 and 2004, and well into my first year at uni. During the middle of my degree, my look took a turn towards the ladylike: my kicks were replaced by the highest of heels (my favorites: pale blue crushed velvet, gold trim, channeling Marie Antoinette). Moving out of home into cold, draughty houses and flats, I grew to love knee high boots, in all their manifestations: flat, heeled, elasticated, zippered.
Now, as a Young Professional (worst term ever – blergh) I’ve come to appreciate a Sensible Pump and Ballet Flat on a 9-5, Monday to Friday basis. But on my weekends, I’m all about putting the Sensible Pumps and Ballet Flats on one side, embracing my inner rebel and kicking it to the man - at least until 8am on Monday.
And there’s no better shoe for kicking it to the man than kicks. Particularly when said kicks are ten years old, and still kicking on.
OK, OK, the Wrinkle of Incredulity on my forehead is deepening; I’ve got some fine lines growing around my eyes. My knees make that wet-cardboard creaky sound, and I’m doing lots more ‘reflective listening’ at noisy pubs, clubs and house parties. Not because I’ve become mature and wise and patient, but because I can’t actually hear what’s being said (years of earphone abuse), so I settle for ‘mm hmms’, ‘oh’s’ and what I hope is a thoughtful expression.
But back to what’s wonderous about being 26.
Being 26 means that I’ve been an Adult Woman, physiologically at least, for ten years, and have a wardrobe that is well established enough that I can pull together pieces that are, to borrow Maggie Alderson’s term, ‘Vintage Me’.
‘Vintage Me’ means clothes and accessories you’ve had for many a moon. ‘Vintage Me’, in my book, carries the ultimate styling cred. Why? Well, not only were you spectacularly chic, you are, still, spectacularly chic, AND had the foresight to keep great pieces even when they weren’t trending.
Basically, ‘Vintage Me’ = Swag + +
Particularly when the ‘Vintage me’ piece has swag already. Enter my two pairs of Doc Martin Kicks.
I bought my kicks when I started college (year 11 and 12, to all you non-ACT peeps). My college didn’t have a uniform, and, as such, 2003 was a great year for me, stylistically. My crew were rolling an early 90s look (and our own cigarettes) long before it was cool to do so.
(Insert your favorite hipster insult here)
My first pair of kicks – the classic Doc Martin boot, in an abstract black and white printed leather, purchased at Redpaths in Garema Place – were a momentous purchase, my first steps into the grungy look that would see me wear corsets, crochet cardigans, and torn, graffiti'd jeans to school.
Those kicks, along with the cherry red pair my parents bought me for Christmas, were my footwear of choice through 2003 and 2004, and well into my first year at uni. During the middle of my degree, my look took a turn towards the ladylike: my kicks were replaced by the highest of heels (my favorites: pale blue crushed velvet, gold trim, channeling Marie Antoinette). Moving out of home into cold, draughty houses and flats, I grew to love knee high boots, in all their manifestations: flat, heeled, elasticated, zippered.
Now, as a Young Professional (worst term ever – blergh) I’ve come to appreciate a Sensible Pump and Ballet Flat on a 9-5, Monday to Friday basis. But on my weekends, I’m all about putting the Sensible Pumps and Ballet Flats on one side, embracing my inner rebel and kicking it to the man - at least until 8am on Monday.
And there’s no better shoe for kicking it to the man than kicks. Particularly when said kicks are ten years old, and still kicking on.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
Drama
I’m posting a little early this week. Firstly because I have some wonderful visitors coming this weekend and, consequentially, will miss my usual Friday-night-writing-sesh. And, secondly, because tonight is the last episode of Offspring and I need something to keep me occupied while I wait till 8.30pm. I have written before about my addiction to TV shows. So, my need for writerly distraction while I wait to find out…
WHAT WILL HAPPEN WITH NINA AND PATRICK?? AND BILLY AND MICK?? AND MICK AND ROSANNA?? AND ZARA, JIMMY, AND BABY ALFIE?? WILL CLEGG AND CHEREE GET IT ON AGAIN??? WHY AREN’T DARCY AND GERALDINE TOGETHER?? WHAT ABOUT ADAM-OF-THE-AWESOME-BEARD-AND-SUPER-NICENESS?? OH MY GOSH THERE’D BETTER BE A SEASON FOUR!!!
…should come as no surprise.
As tribute to Offspring’s Nina, this post is about a conflict I’m facing deep within my soul, an inner turmoil I’ve tossed around, played out, and visualised, Nina-style, for, ohhh, far longer than I care to admit.
Tonight’s emotional mini drama: I have this fabulous Country Road early 90s dress. It’s silk, with a small cream print on a navy background, and I picked it up for $9 at the Salvo’s last summer, so it’s got a great story.
Yet, I’ve never worn it. Why has this cute, savvy find been mouldering in my closet? Because, I cannot make up my mind about its length.
You see, the dress finishes mid calf. I know mid calf is trending massively, but, if you look carefully, mid calf skirts which work are cut full and in fabric with some body and drape, or close-hug your body all the way down, so much so that walking is an impossibility (who needs to walk anyway?).
My dress is neither of those things. Instead, the skirt hangs there, limp, half arsed, neither here nor there. A bit like Dr Patrick Reid, truth be told.
While the top half of this dress’s moderately low cut is best accessorised by a navy cardi and a peachy bosom, the bottom half’s mumsy wishywashyness is best accessorised by a Mormon braid and two sister wives waiting at home.
Yes, I’ve watched Big Love. Four times. Moving on.
The dilemma is this: do I chop the skirt at my knees, making the dress a more flattering length? Or, do I leave the dress as-is, in the name of preserving its early 90s glory, and toughen up the wishy washy with decidedly non-Mormon red high heeled boots?
I mean, it’s not as if I’m a serious vintage collector. I feel no obligation to preserve my pieces. I wear all of my vintage items, and I like to think I add to their stories by wearing them, circle-of-life style.
But, could I be unduly swayed by notions of stylistic correctness that relate in no way to reality? And, will I regret, later on, my choice to chop, a choice I can never take back?
I suspect that, like tonight’s episode of Offspring, my drama will not be easily resolved. At least, not within the space of a 45 minute episode. But I guess that’s why there’s a next season, to tie up all loose threads, and make room for fresh dramas, in my wardrobe and Nina’s life.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some TV to watch…
Monday, December 20, 2010
Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.
N.B. This was originally supposed to be an excited post about a wonderful new dress that I recently acquired. It was going to be full of beautiful photos, capturing sumptuous fabric, vintage styling, and va-va-voom shaping, and would make you all green with envy. I’d been thinking about it all week.
Monday comes around. I position said dress on hanger, in front of some artfully arranged flowers, because that’s how I roll. And proceeded to shoot.
Oh dear.
Pride comes before a fall.
Multiple falls, as you can see.
No matter what I did, the dress looked awful. The only way that I was going to take a half decent photograph of it was to put the damned thing on, and photograph myself. But, of course, this blog is based on me being anonymous (like a fashion superhero, remember??) and so a photograph of the dress would, on account of the charming neckline detailing, result in a photograph of my face. Which ruled it out as an option.
Although this seems like a bit of a blah thing to happen on a Monday, it’s actually proved something I’ve long suspected. Photographs are not representative of the real world – or rather, they represent it, but often poorly. I swear to you, this dress looks amazing in real life. Maybe the inability to capture its amazingness lies in my photographic naivety. Be that as it may. But it proves the point that I have been stressing to many of you – and you know who you are – that my reluctance to be photographed is not entirely down to self consciousness, but to the fact that I actually don’t translate well into film, as an objective fact rather than a distorted self-perception.
Now that I have a top-five ranked dress that’s in the same boat as me, I feel a lot better about this. Because I’ve proven, once and for all, that beautiful things can look pez in photographs.
The only thing for me to do, dear readers, is to tell you the story of how I met this dress, excluding the photographs I originally imagined, and let you use your imaginations…
I’d just finished a particularly gruelling fieldwork session when I got one of those wonderful instinctual nudgings.
For some people, their instinctual nudgings take the form of warnings about impending disasters, or loved ones in peril. For me, 99 times out of 100, these instinctual nudgings are shopping related. They go something like this:
‘Behold, blessed child, and praise the name of style, for, in the hallowed halls of David Jones, await pair of shoes. Make haste and rejoicing, for they will be in your size and on sale. But hark, on the morrow they shall be vanished, and all that remains will be dust and size sevens.’
Or, alternately:
‘BE NOT AFRAID, oh sanctified stylist, for that thing-you-need-but-do-not-know-as-yet-that-you-need, is nigh! Look to your left – no, the other left – and ye who have eyes shall see that fabulous vintage bread bin on ye exalted shelf.’
Some people think that hearing voices means you’re insane, but I like to believe it just makes you a bit special. Kind of like the wise men in the Christmas story.
Anyway, I have long learnt to listen to these voices, as they are always – without fail – correct on all matters of purchasing. So, when I heard said voice:
‘Glad tidings to you, wanderer in the wilderness of an Unnamed Fieldwork Location. Under the distant star of Fyshwick, in the little town of Down Memory Lane, awaits a dress. Oh come, all ye faithful, and be joyful in the triumph of the perfect vintage dress.’
I knew that, in spite of my gnawing hunger, tired feet, and field notes that would grow expodentially the more hours I left between end of fieldwork and typing them up, I had no choice but to do as the voice said. So, off I trundled to Fyshwick.
Again, I wish to stress that this blog is in no way sponsored, and, just like last week’s post about the farmer’s markets, this is purely a savvy tip from one shopper to another, but you really must go to Down Memory Lane. Located at the very end of Geelong St in Fyshwick (just keep driving, when I say it’s at the very end I mean the absolute absolute very end), Down Memory Lane is a treasure trove of antiques, collectables, clothes, books and furniture. I make a point of going at least once a month, a whole lot more in the lead up to Christmas, and always come away with something wonderful at a bargain price. It’s also one of the cleanest and most organised establishments I know of, which makes shopping there doubly nice – no need to disinfect the new-to-you goods when you get them home.
Arriving at DML, as I’m abbreviating it, I dutifully listened to the voice in my head and started trawling the racks of vintage clothing. There was a lot there which I liked, but nothing that I LOVED. Nothing, that is, that I was moved enough to get naked for. I always think that you should apply the same rules to shopping for clothes as you do with boys. If you’re moved enough by them that you’re ready and willing to get naked for them, then it – the dress or the boy – will probably reward the time and the effort of disrobing.
I was beginning to think, after a good quarter hour trawl, that my instincts had failed me, and that perhaps my subconscious was merely generating a phantasmic excuse to get me out of some fieldwork that had boarded the train to headache land. I turned in the direction of the hat rack.
But then, ladies and gentlemen, I saw it. I want to avoid the cliché of the dress buried under a mound of others, shoved at the end of the rack, amongst a swathe of dresses that were extra small, but I can’t here, because it’s one hundred percent true. A chink of rich brown fabric poked out from between some pasty florals. I investigated, and my investigations were rewarded with the following:
An Australian made, early 60's, chocolate brown pure wool double-knit jersey boucle fitted sheath with rear vent.
Sing, chiors of angels, sing in exultation. I don’t need to add any more to the description above, because I’m sure you’ve got the picture in your mind. It’s the pinnacle of vintage perfection.
I raced to the change room, threw the dress over my head, and slid the zipper up my back.
Ding dong merrily on high, it fitted! Perfectly! A centimeter shorter than ideal, but the hem, being generous, could be adjusted. I couldn’t get back into my normal clothes and hand over my cash fast enough.
Driving back to write up my fieldnotes, I almost had an accident, so adoringly was my gaze focused on the parcel occupying the passenger seat. I like to think that the fashion gods were smiling down on me then, and protected me from a rather unfortunate incident. Which, for any parties concerned about my driving, was actually the fault of another vehicle to give way – I was just a bit slow activating my defensive driving skills on account of reverent worship.
It all worked out in the end, and the dress is now hanging on the drying rack, gently dropping its hem without the harsh assistance of a hot iron and steam. I will hem it, and wear it, and love it, all the days of my life, or at least until it falls off my back in tatters. Amen.
Monday comes around. I position said dress on hanger, in front of some artfully arranged flowers, because that’s how I roll. And proceeded to shoot.
Oh dear.
Pride comes before a fall.
Multiple falls, as you can see.
No matter what I did, the dress looked awful. The only way that I was going to take a half decent photograph of it was to put the damned thing on, and photograph myself. But, of course, this blog is based on me being anonymous (like a fashion superhero, remember??) and so a photograph of the dress would, on account of the charming neckline detailing, result in a photograph of my face. Which ruled it out as an option.
Although this seems like a bit of a blah thing to happen on a Monday, it’s actually proved something I’ve long suspected. Photographs are not representative of the real world – or rather, they represent it, but often poorly. I swear to you, this dress looks amazing in real life. Maybe the inability to capture its amazingness lies in my photographic naivety. Be that as it may. But it proves the point that I have been stressing to many of you – and you know who you are – that my reluctance to be photographed is not entirely down to self consciousness, but to the fact that I actually don’t translate well into film, as an objective fact rather than a distorted self-perception.
Now that I have a top-five ranked dress that’s in the same boat as me, I feel a lot better about this. Because I’ve proven, once and for all, that beautiful things can look pez in photographs.
The only thing for me to do, dear readers, is to tell you the story of how I met this dress, excluding the photographs I originally imagined, and let you use your imaginations…
I’d just finished a particularly gruelling fieldwork session when I got one of those wonderful instinctual nudgings.
For some people, their instinctual nudgings take the form of warnings about impending disasters, or loved ones in peril. For me, 99 times out of 100, these instinctual nudgings are shopping related. They go something like this:
‘Behold, blessed child, and praise the name of style, for, in the hallowed halls of David Jones, await pair of shoes. Make haste and rejoicing, for they will be in your size and on sale. But hark, on the morrow they shall be vanished, and all that remains will be dust and size sevens.’
Or, alternately:
‘BE NOT AFRAID, oh sanctified stylist, for that thing-you-need-but-do-not-know-as-yet-that-you-need, is nigh! Look to your left – no, the other left – and ye who have eyes shall see that fabulous vintage bread bin on ye exalted shelf.’
Some people think that hearing voices means you’re insane, but I like to believe it just makes you a bit special. Kind of like the wise men in the Christmas story.
Anyway, I have long learnt to listen to these voices, as they are always – without fail – correct on all matters of purchasing. So, when I heard said voice:
‘Glad tidings to you, wanderer in the wilderness of an Unnamed Fieldwork Location. Under the distant star of Fyshwick, in the little town of Down Memory Lane, awaits a dress. Oh come, all ye faithful, and be joyful in the triumph of the perfect vintage dress.’
I knew that, in spite of my gnawing hunger, tired feet, and field notes that would grow expodentially the more hours I left between end of fieldwork and typing them up, I had no choice but to do as the voice said. So, off I trundled to Fyshwick.
Again, I wish to stress that this blog is in no way sponsored, and, just like last week’s post about the farmer’s markets, this is purely a savvy tip from one shopper to another, but you really must go to Down Memory Lane. Located at the very end of Geelong St in Fyshwick (just keep driving, when I say it’s at the very end I mean the absolute absolute very end), Down Memory Lane is a treasure trove of antiques, collectables, clothes, books and furniture. I make a point of going at least once a month, a whole lot more in the lead up to Christmas, and always come away with something wonderful at a bargain price. It’s also one of the cleanest and most organised establishments I know of, which makes shopping there doubly nice – no need to disinfect the new-to-you goods when you get them home.
Arriving at DML, as I’m abbreviating it, I dutifully listened to the voice in my head and started trawling the racks of vintage clothing. There was a lot there which I liked, but nothing that I LOVED. Nothing, that is, that I was moved enough to get naked for. I always think that you should apply the same rules to shopping for clothes as you do with boys. If you’re moved enough by them that you’re ready and willing to get naked for them, then it – the dress or the boy – will probably reward the time and the effort of disrobing.
I was beginning to think, after a good quarter hour trawl, that my instincts had failed me, and that perhaps my subconscious was merely generating a phantasmic excuse to get me out of some fieldwork that had boarded the train to headache land. I turned in the direction of the hat rack.
But then, ladies and gentlemen, I saw it. I want to avoid the cliché of the dress buried under a mound of others, shoved at the end of the rack, amongst a swathe of dresses that were extra small, but I can’t here, because it’s one hundred percent true. A chink of rich brown fabric poked out from between some pasty florals. I investigated, and my investigations were rewarded with the following:
An Australian made, early 60's, chocolate brown pure wool double-knit jersey boucle fitted sheath with rear vent.
Sing, chiors of angels, sing in exultation. I don’t need to add any more to the description above, because I’m sure you’ve got the picture in your mind. It’s the pinnacle of vintage perfection.
I raced to the change room, threw the dress over my head, and slid the zipper up my back.
Ding dong merrily on high, it fitted! Perfectly! A centimeter shorter than ideal, but the hem, being generous, could be adjusted. I couldn’t get back into my normal clothes and hand over my cash fast enough.
Driving back to write up my fieldnotes, I almost had an accident, so adoringly was my gaze focused on the parcel occupying the passenger seat. I like to think that the fashion gods were smiling down on me then, and protected me from a rather unfortunate incident. Which, for any parties concerned about my driving, was actually the fault of another vehicle to give way – I was just a bit slow activating my defensive driving skills on account of reverent worship.
It all worked out in the end, and the dress is now hanging on the drying rack, gently dropping its hem without the harsh assistance of a hot iron and steam. I will hem it, and wear it, and love it, all the days of my life, or at least until it falls off my back in tatters. Amen.
Monday, December 6, 2010
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas…
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas at chez Peggy. And I couldn’t be happier.
I think the only people who get more excited about Christmas than I are, in order, department store CEO’s, children under five, and mixed fruit manufactures.
If you, like the Dreamboat and several other people I could mention but won’t, don’t particularly get your knickers in a twist about the fact that it’s NOW ONLY NINETEEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS, I promise I won’t be striking you off my Christmas card list. I can see the logic in not being too keen on all the enforced jollity, relating to relatives you’d rather not be related to, and carpark traumas at every major shopping outlet in the ‘berra.
But then, when you really boil it down, the way we celebrate Christmas is about things that I fundamentally love: family, food and drink, shopping for gifts, and decorating. Topped off with a speech from a real live queen, as opposed to a drag one.
Yes, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.
So, in this time of hustle and bustle, here are some musings from me on the things that I fundamentally love about Christmas, complete with pictures.
Family tops the list of things that make Christmas special for me. Going shopping with Papa-K for Mama-K’s Christmas presents and watching him agonise over what she would like best. Mama-K’s cooking – which, every year, she attempts to cut back on but actually ends up doing more of, because she can’t resist adding some new recipes to the Christmas classics.
Big Little brother and his lovely girlfriend’s early Christmas surprises, both of which are gracing my tree very handsomely. Little Little brother’s preferences for certain unorthodox Christmas gifts – he once bought me a blind spot mirror and a can of mushy peas. True story.
And then there’s the food. So much food. Food in amounts that at other times of the year would be considered obscene, but, for some strange reason, seems perfectly moderate at Christmas time. There are so many foods I could write about – stuffing, almond pears, trifle, prawns, oysters, rumballs…but I’ll pick my favourite Christmas food for sharing with you here. Christmas isn’t Christmas without shortbread.
It’s so simple, but somehow so satisfying, to see a little fleet of vintage shortbread tins (my packaging of choice this year) filled and ready to be gifted away.
Batches and batches of shortbread are made at Christmas time, to the point where I’m almost too sick of it to eat any – almost. One year I worked out I’d made nineteen batches…this year I think I’ll try and keep it to a more moderate fifteen. Although, with the help of a couple of mama-k’s particularly deadly Santa’s Little Helpers, the traditional family Christmas cocktail, I may become slightly more ambitious in my shortbread making. The dangers of the demon drink…
On to other addictions, Christmas is a time for shopping. Shopping with gay abandon. Shopping is something that I adore, but, as mentioned before on this blog, it’s something I have to be rather disciplined about, with the budgetary constraints common to all students. However, Christmas is a time to release all those pent up shopping urges that have been simmering away all year.
And the best bit is, no-one will think any less of you for shopping a lot at Christmas, because you’re not shopping for yourself, you’re shopping for gifts.
I may have to put a little boast in here: I’ve actually already done all of my shopping, except for perishables and a couple of small afterthougthy things. Some people would say that this is a symptom of being very organised: yes, that’s true. Mainly, though, starting shopping in October is a symptom of how much I enjoy it – by starting sooner, I can luxuriate in the pleasures of shopping for that little bit longer. Oh, and for those of you who hate shopping and can’t face the mall or the high street from Mid-November onwards? Go online. There are some fabulous sites – Nordic Fusion, Heart and Heim, and, of course, Etsy – where I have no doubt you’ll be able to locate that perfect gift without having to locate a carpark.
So, the family have been assembled, the menu decided, the presents shopped for and wrapped – now it’s time to decorate. I have a horrible feeling that one day, when I’m really old, I’ll live in a nice quiet cul de sac – AND DECK MY HOUSE OUT IN SO MANY FAIRY LIGHTS I CAUSE DAILY BLACKOUTS OF THE ENTIRE SUBURB. Just kidding...for the moment.
Christmas decorating is a whole lot of fun, and why restrict yourself to just a tree? With a little bit of invention, you can include (tasteful) touches of Christmas all around you. The apartment I live in, being so small, means that wherever you are, you can see the Christmas tree – but that still hasn’t stopped me from decorating the entrance way, the microwave, the bookshelf, and the window ledge above the sink. I wonder what Virginia Boots will say when she gets back from Melbourne?
In all seriousness, I will add a note of caution with Christmas decorating. Avoid further seasonal hassles by placing your decs in disused spaces around your home – tops of microwaves, bookshelves and window ledges are great for this reason. Mama-K once had the genius idea of hanging a series of red baubles from the door lintel. Ever single time I walked through the door, I copped a dong to the head. Not great, when coupled with the after-effects of a Santa’s Little Helper.
I think it’s going to be impossible to stop me from writing more about Christmas between now and the big day, but for now I’ll leave you with these above thoughts, and hope that you are enjoying your pre-christmassing as much as I am, and that you’re all looking Christmassy Fabulous.
I think the only people who get more excited about Christmas than I are, in order, department store CEO’s, children under five, and mixed fruit manufactures.
If you, like the Dreamboat and several other people I could mention but won’t, don’t particularly get your knickers in a twist about the fact that it’s NOW ONLY NINETEEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS, I promise I won’t be striking you off my Christmas card list. I can see the logic in not being too keen on all the enforced jollity, relating to relatives you’d rather not be related to, and carpark traumas at every major shopping outlet in the ‘berra.
But then, when you really boil it down, the way we celebrate Christmas is about things that I fundamentally love: family, food and drink, shopping for gifts, and decorating. Topped off with a speech from a real live queen, as opposed to a drag one.
Yes, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year.
So, in this time of hustle and bustle, here are some musings from me on the things that I fundamentally love about Christmas, complete with pictures.
Family tops the list of things that make Christmas special for me. Going shopping with Papa-K for Mama-K’s Christmas presents and watching him agonise over what she would like best. Mama-K’s cooking – which, every year, she attempts to cut back on but actually ends up doing more of, because she can’t resist adding some new recipes to the Christmas classics.
Big Little brother and his lovely girlfriend’s early Christmas surprises, both of which are gracing my tree very handsomely. Little Little brother’s preferences for certain unorthodox Christmas gifts – he once bought me a blind spot mirror and a can of mushy peas. True story.
And then there’s the food. So much food. Food in amounts that at other times of the year would be considered obscene, but, for some strange reason, seems perfectly moderate at Christmas time. There are so many foods I could write about – stuffing, almond pears, trifle, prawns, oysters, rumballs…but I’ll pick my favourite Christmas food for sharing with you here. Christmas isn’t Christmas without shortbread.
It’s so simple, but somehow so satisfying, to see a little fleet of vintage shortbread tins (my packaging of choice this year) filled and ready to be gifted away.
Batches and batches of shortbread are made at Christmas time, to the point where I’m almost too sick of it to eat any – almost. One year I worked out I’d made nineteen batches…this year I think I’ll try and keep it to a more moderate fifteen. Although, with the help of a couple of mama-k’s particularly deadly Santa’s Little Helpers, the traditional family Christmas cocktail, I may become slightly more ambitious in my shortbread making. The dangers of the demon drink…
On to other addictions, Christmas is a time for shopping. Shopping with gay abandon. Shopping is something that I adore, but, as mentioned before on this blog, it’s something I have to be rather disciplined about, with the budgetary constraints common to all students. However, Christmas is a time to release all those pent up shopping urges that have been simmering away all year.
And the best bit is, no-one will think any less of you for shopping a lot at Christmas, because you’re not shopping for yourself, you’re shopping for gifts.
I may have to put a little boast in here: I’ve actually already done all of my shopping, except for perishables and a couple of small afterthougthy things. Some people would say that this is a symptom of being very organised: yes, that’s true. Mainly, though, starting shopping in October is a symptom of how much I enjoy it – by starting sooner, I can luxuriate in the pleasures of shopping for that little bit longer. Oh, and for those of you who hate shopping and can’t face the mall or the high street from Mid-November onwards? Go online. There are some fabulous sites – Nordic Fusion, Heart and Heim, and, of course, Etsy – where I have no doubt you’ll be able to locate that perfect gift without having to locate a carpark.
So, the family have been assembled, the menu decided, the presents shopped for and wrapped – now it’s time to decorate. I have a horrible feeling that one day, when I’m really old, I’ll live in a nice quiet cul de sac – AND DECK MY HOUSE OUT IN SO MANY FAIRY LIGHTS I CAUSE DAILY BLACKOUTS OF THE ENTIRE SUBURB. Just kidding...for the moment.
Christmas decorating is a whole lot of fun, and why restrict yourself to just a tree? With a little bit of invention, you can include (tasteful) touches of Christmas all around you. The apartment I live in, being so small, means that wherever you are, you can see the Christmas tree – but that still hasn’t stopped me from decorating the entrance way, the microwave, the bookshelf, and the window ledge above the sink. I wonder what Virginia Boots will say when she gets back from Melbourne?
In all seriousness, I will add a note of caution with Christmas decorating. Avoid further seasonal hassles by placing your decs in disused spaces around your home – tops of microwaves, bookshelves and window ledges are great for this reason. Mama-K once had the genius idea of hanging a series of red baubles from the door lintel. Ever single time I walked through the door, I copped a dong to the head. Not great, when coupled with the after-effects of a Santa’s Little Helper.
I think it’s going to be impossible to stop me from writing more about Christmas between now and the big day, but for now I’ll leave you with these above thoughts, and hope that you are enjoying your pre-christmassing as much as I am, and that you’re all looking Christmassy Fabulous.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Woman’s World
It was rainy here in the ‘Berra this weekend. One of those grey days where the only sensible thing that you can do is curl up with a good book and a nice cup of tea, or, failing that, go book shopping. My housemate, Virginia Boots, and I, are frequent habitués of the particularly excellent second hand bookshop across the road from our apartment. For those of you who haven’t visited ‘Beyond Q’ at the Curtin shops, it’s worth the trip down the stairs to this treasure trove, not only for the quality merchandise, but for the wonder of discovering the curios that the owners specialise in.
This weekend, I found a particular treasure, a tome titled ‘Woman’s World’, from, I guestimate, the sixties. Divided into nine sections, it deals with the following: Beauty, Fashion, That Something Extra (including how to avoid something called ‘Phone Boners’ – I’ll leave you to imagine what that term may have meant in the sixties), Cooking, Every Wise Woman ( i.e, money and catching a man), Love and Marriage, The Home, The Family, and Interests and Hobbies (‘Let’s Write a Letter!’). It gave me laugh-out-loud giggles in the store, and, knowing that at least two girlfriends could use some of the camp common-sense that this book dispenses (‘You must cherish your looks if you want to be cherished’ ‘It takes a bright girl to keep a job, but if you never get inside the door, how can you prove you’re bright?’), I simply had to buy it.
All Sunday was spent, with various lovely people, chortling over the staged yet somehow naieve colour photographs. The book certainly paid for itself in laughs. It goes without saying that we allowed ourselves that (post?) feminist moment of self congratulation: Baby, We’ve Come A Long Way. Particularly when comparing out lives with the limited focus offered in the pages of this book.
It was only this evening, after a particularly exciting and strenuous fist day of fieldwork, that I actually sat down and had a good read of this book. When I looked past the giggles, and past the self congratulation, I found myself thinking about the woman (women?) who might have read this book over the years, and their serious hopes and aspirations for the things that my girlfriends and my mum found so funny.
I could tell, from the outset, that this mystery woman was much neater than I, for the book is in immaculate condition. And, she didn’t like to write in her books – the nameplate was left blank. I gleefully filled my own name in – possibly my favourite part of a new book purchase.
But what really pulled at my heartstrings, and made me feel a bit shabby for my mocking laughter, were three teeny tiny crosses, made in pencil, against some names on the list of Names for Baby Boys (is there anything this book doesn’t cover?). What little else I know about this woman who came before me, and whether she followed the advice of this book to the letter or perhaps if she threw it out the window in favour of a smaller and punchier book by Ms Greer, I know that she liked Brendan, Gavin, and Malcolm as names for boys. Knowing this about her, and knowing that she must have felt these three names were important enough to grab a sharp pencil and mark them in her immaculately kept book, made her so much more real, and my gentle mockery somehow wrong and mean.
This book was written for, and read by, women whose hopes were as real as mine, who were as excited and anxious about how best to live their lives. Maybe I’m a little too quick to dismiss books like this, or to have a giggle, because it’s too close to home. Maybe, Baby, it’s best not to think of women as having Come A Long Way, at point B as opposed to point A, but working on the same things, albeit form different angles. And, as always happens when we look in the margins, between the lines, beyond the sixties typeface, we can see women, and lives, infinitely more complex and rich than a series of instructions and paper-cut-out dollies.
This weekend, I found a particular treasure, a tome titled ‘Woman’s World’, from, I guestimate, the sixties. Divided into nine sections, it deals with the following: Beauty, Fashion, That Something Extra (including how to avoid something called ‘Phone Boners’ – I’ll leave you to imagine what that term may have meant in the sixties), Cooking, Every Wise Woman ( i.e, money and catching a man), Love and Marriage, The Home, The Family, and Interests and Hobbies (‘Let’s Write a Letter!’). It gave me laugh-out-loud giggles in the store, and, knowing that at least two girlfriends could use some of the camp common-sense that this book dispenses (‘You must cherish your looks if you want to be cherished’ ‘It takes a bright girl to keep a job, but if you never get inside the door, how can you prove you’re bright?’), I simply had to buy it.
All Sunday was spent, with various lovely people, chortling over the staged yet somehow naieve colour photographs. The book certainly paid for itself in laughs. It goes without saying that we allowed ourselves that (post?) feminist moment of self congratulation: Baby, We’ve Come A Long Way. Particularly when comparing out lives with the limited focus offered in the pages of this book.
It was only this evening, after a particularly exciting and strenuous fist day of fieldwork, that I actually sat down and had a good read of this book. When I looked past the giggles, and past the self congratulation, I found myself thinking about the woman (women?) who might have read this book over the years, and their serious hopes and aspirations for the things that my girlfriends and my mum found so funny.
I could tell, from the outset, that this mystery woman was much neater than I, for the book is in immaculate condition. And, she didn’t like to write in her books – the nameplate was left blank. I gleefully filled my own name in – possibly my favourite part of a new book purchase.
But what really pulled at my heartstrings, and made me feel a bit shabby for my mocking laughter, were three teeny tiny crosses, made in pencil, against some names on the list of Names for Baby Boys (is there anything this book doesn’t cover?). What little else I know about this woman who came before me, and whether she followed the advice of this book to the letter or perhaps if she threw it out the window in favour of a smaller and punchier book by Ms Greer, I know that she liked Brendan, Gavin, and Malcolm as names for boys. Knowing this about her, and knowing that she must have felt these three names were important enough to grab a sharp pencil and mark them in her immaculately kept book, made her so much more real, and my gentle mockery somehow wrong and mean.
This book was written for, and read by, women whose hopes were as real as mine, who were as excited and anxious about how best to live their lives. Maybe I’m a little too quick to dismiss books like this, or to have a giggle, because it’s too close to home. Maybe, Baby, it’s best not to think of women as having Come A Long Way, at point B as opposed to point A, but working on the same things, albeit form different angles. And, as always happens when we look in the margins, between the lines, beyond the sixties typeface, we can see women, and lives, infinitely more complex and rich than a series of instructions and paper-cut-out dollies.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Loving to Hate but Hating to Love
Vintage.
It’s a term I love to hate and hate to love. Being one of the most influential and prolific terms banded about in popular and highbrow writing on fashion, I feel that it deserves a blog post in its own right.
As generations to come look back on all these crazy things we’ve worn and are wearing in the naughties, the aesthetic which will be most enduringly associated with us will be the vintage look. Of course, there is nothing new in fashion borrowing looks from the past, re-imagining a particular period in history in a new time and a new place. Take, for instance, the ‘grecian’ styles popularised in the regency period – all those lovely, cottony, jane-austeny frocks were modelled on what was imagined and understood to be the ‘classical’ mode of dress.
What makes our modern notion of ‘vintage’ radically different is that it’s not referencing a single style or era, like the neo-classical look of the regency period. Rather, it is the idea that anything old – from any era – is fair game, fashion wise. ‘Vintage’ looks, as we know them now, borrow stylistically from every decade of the 20th century, and take some flavours from earlier still. It’s all a bit of a hodge podge, one that can result in some rather baffling looks. Just see Alana Hill for a pictorial representation. Girlfriend sooooooo went through granny’s closet after one too many disco biscuits, let me tell you…
The other interesting thing in the way that we do ‘vintage’ nowadays is the privileging of ‘authentic’ vintage over ‘reproduced’ vintage – at lest if you are a TRUE fashionista (whatever that is supposed to mean) you are not supposed to wear reproduction pieces from Diva, but unearth them from flea markets, preferably in Paris or Portobello. Of course, if your travels tend to take you more to Penrith than the aforementioned ‘P’ destinations, you may have a problem with this. Historically, this penchant for the genuine article is something quite unique. Whenever any trend in the past has referenced another period, it has almost always done so on its own terms – ie by remaking and remodelling new versions of old looks, rather than actually ferreting about finding the old and crusty relics in their original format. Perhaps the popularity of ‘real’ vintage is a response to our throwaway culture – that, because mass produced goods are so widely available, we value the unique, the old, and the unusual.
As anybody who has read any previous post on this blog knows, I will always be a champion of all things daring. And vintage, worn well, is often is just that. However, I feel that we’ve forgotten something very important in our quest for all things authentically vintage…that sometimes things from the past should stay there for very good reasons. SOME THINGS ARE HIDEOUS AND SHOULD BE FORGOTTEN. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s okay to wear it, even if the lens that fashion is looking through is framed by a pair of vintage ray-bans. Case in point: at a terribly groovy house party last year, a terribly groovy young man was wearing a terribly groovy ‘vintage’ Kathy Day-Knight jumper. With appliqué koala and eucalyptus leaf detail and authentic moth holes. Need I say any more?
I think the prevalence of hideous vintage blunders like Koala Boy indicates a very real truth about vintage, particularly the quest for authentic vintage: that it’s really challenging to find good stuff. Aside from raiding the wardrobes of relations, which have yielded some wonderful finds, in particular mama-k’s glomesh bags and a couple of romantic eighties wonders, I have very few vintage pieces in my wardrobe. Of note is a fantastic rust-coloured seventies shirtwaist with a charming mini maple leaf print, courtesy of my fabulous friend MiMi Goss who unearthed it at a local boutique’s closing down sale, as well as the fantastic blue enamel choker I found one day at Landspeed in amongst all the dross.
My wardrobe’s paucity of vintage is not for want of trying. It’s simply because, if you’re after truly fabulous vintage, you have to look long, and you have to look hard. There’s an awful lot of wallpaper coloured mui-muis and very few rust coloured shirtwaists in the world, more’s the pity. Although it does make sense when you think about it. When you’re looking at an antique or vintage clothing store, you’re looking at a random sample of the clothes that people wore twenty, thirty and forty years ago. If you took a similar sample of what people on the street are wearing today, and time capsuled it, you would find a similar ratio of chaff to wheat that you find in most op shops or vintage stores. Therein lies the reason why the quest for the perfect vintage dress/bag/coat is rather akin to that for the holy grail – long, arduous, and with no guarantee of a reward at the end.
To a certain extent, this just makes it even more wonderful when you unearth a gem. But it can also be incredibly frustrating – if you love the idea of wearing authentic vintage, for the stylistic cache it carries as well as for the environmental benefits of recycling, it’s hard not to get disheartened by the amount of crap that is out there. If you tend to be of the curvier persuasion, this problem tends to be exacerbated. Due to the fact that we’re better nourished and/or larger than our female ancestors, be prepared for vintage clothing to be in a narrower size range. Another factor going against the larger sized fashionista is that vintage clothes, particularly vintage clothes from the fifties, are so wonderfully flattering on a curvy figure that those rare larger sized pieces in good condition are either a) handed down to grateful granddaughters who should thank their lucky stars and their mamas for what they gave them or b) are snaffled up by the dedicated vintage shopper or merchant. Tough but true. A final word on vintage sizing: clothing was often fitted quite different in eras gone by. Even up to the nineteen seventies, it was common practice for women to wear restrictive girdles, and clothing, even that designed for curvier women, operated from the assumption that the waist would be nipped in and supported by a tight girdle. Breathing and eating being two important and pleasurable bodily experiences, I think it best not to attempt to recreate the girdled waist at home, don’t you?
What all of the above means for the curvier vintage fashionista is that she’s just going to get a bit more creative. For instance, I very rarely expect to find clothes that fit my size fourteen frame, or shoes to fit my size ten feet. Even when I do find clothes that fit my body, they are often too short, particularly in the arms – we often forget that women were not only smaller, but also shorter in the past than they are now. What I can do, though, is get the vintage look through non-sized accessories – costume jewellery, bags, hats, scarves, and sometimes coats – or take a vintage piece that I adore, but doesn’t fit, and customise it. A longer vintage dress can often have enough fabric to cut a simple skirt. That requires some skill with the sewing machine, and some confidence in drafting a pattern, but even the most undomesticated of the female species can and should be able to sew on a button, right? So, if that’s you, and you find a wonderful vintage garment with fabulous buttons, snip them off the vintage piece and replace the existing buttons on a cardigan or a coat with the vintage ones.
The other thing to be aware of is that, although authentic vintage is wonderful for so many reasons, there’s actually no shame in fauxing it. Just so long as the fauxing is done well – ie, you choose pieces that look genuine – no one will be any the wiser. This can also be a more cost effective way of doing vintage if you’re on a budget, as most of the chain jewellery stores stock vintage-style pieces at pocket-money prices. A word of advice though – if you are fauxing it, embrace the fact that the most successful faux vintage pieces will be more aligned with the kitsch rather than the classic. For instance, don’t try and faux vintage diamonds, pearls and other precious stones – the poor workmanship will be obvious and will give the game away. Instead, faux it up all the way to town when it comes to imitation enamel, Bakelite plastic, gold or silver tone jewellery and no-one will know that that fantastic red flower ring which is so mid century is actually $9.95 from Diva.
One final word of advice on vintage. I said above that I loved to hate and hated to love it. That’s because, when styled well, vintage fashion is brilliant and will set you apart from the pack, but, when styled badly, it looks like what it is at the very heart of the matter – old clothes. Some of you may beg to differ, but my attitude to wearing vintage – either genuine or faux – is to pastiche, and not to parrot, a particular era or feel. There’s something quite sad in seeing someone who looks like they time travelled walking down the street. Again, it’s a lack of creativity – to parrot the look of another era is to negate one’s own creativity. Rather, what is fantastic is when you see vintage items pastiche into a look that is completely the wearer’s own – so, for instance, a vintage dress, contrasted with uber modern but stylistically sympathetic Melissa heels, and a bold colourful bag, looks fantastic because we can see that the wearer has put their stamp on the outfit. And that’s when I can say, without reservation or qualification, that I love vintage.
It’s a term I love to hate and hate to love. Being one of the most influential and prolific terms banded about in popular and highbrow writing on fashion, I feel that it deserves a blog post in its own right.
As generations to come look back on all these crazy things we’ve worn and are wearing in the naughties, the aesthetic which will be most enduringly associated with us will be the vintage look. Of course, there is nothing new in fashion borrowing looks from the past, re-imagining a particular period in history in a new time and a new place. Take, for instance, the ‘grecian’ styles popularised in the regency period – all those lovely, cottony, jane-austeny frocks were modelled on what was imagined and understood to be the ‘classical’ mode of dress.
What makes our modern notion of ‘vintage’ radically different is that it’s not referencing a single style or era, like the neo-classical look of the regency period. Rather, it is the idea that anything old – from any era – is fair game, fashion wise. ‘Vintage’ looks, as we know them now, borrow stylistically from every decade of the 20th century, and take some flavours from earlier still. It’s all a bit of a hodge podge, one that can result in some rather baffling looks. Just see Alana Hill for a pictorial representation. Girlfriend sooooooo went through granny’s closet after one too many disco biscuits, let me tell you…
The other interesting thing in the way that we do ‘vintage’ nowadays is the privileging of ‘authentic’ vintage over ‘reproduced’ vintage – at lest if you are a TRUE fashionista (whatever that is supposed to mean) you are not supposed to wear reproduction pieces from Diva, but unearth them from flea markets, preferably in Paris or Portobello. Of course, if your travels tend to take you more to Penrith than the aforementioned ‘P’ destinations, you may have a problem with this. Historically, this penchant for the genuine article is something quite unique. Whenever any trend in the past has referenced another period, it has almost always done so on its own terms – ie by remaking and remodelling new versions of old looks, rather than actually ferreting about finding the old and crusty relics in their original format. Perhaps the popularity of ‘real’ vintage is a response to our throwaway culture – that, because mass produced goods are so widely available, we value the unique, the old, and the unusual.
As anybody who has read any previous post on this blog knows, I will always be a champion of all things daring. And vintage, worn well, is often is just that. However, I feel that we’ve forgotten something very important in our quest for all things authentically vintage…that sometimes things from the past should stay there for very good reasons. SOME THINGS ARE HIDEOUS AND SHOULD BE FORGOTTEN. Just because it’s old doesn’t mean it’s okay to wear it, even if the lens that fashion is looking through is framed by a pair of vintage ray-bans. Case in point: at a terribly groovy house party last year, a terribly groovy young man was wearing a terribly groovy ‘vintage’ Kathy Day-Knight jumper. With appliqué koala and eucalyptus leaf detail and authentic moth holes. Need I say any more?
I think the prevalence of hideous vintage blunders like Koala Boy indicates a very real truth about vintage, particularly the quest for authentic vintage: that it’s really challenging to find good stuff. Aside from raiding the wardrobes of relations, which have yielded some wonderful finds, in particular mama-k’s glomesh bags and a couple of romantic eighties wonders, I have very few vintage pieces in my wardrobe. Of note is a fantastic rust-coloured seventies shirtwaist with a charming mini maple leaf print, courtesy of my fabulous friend MiMi Goss who unearthed it at a local boutique’s closing down sale, as well as the fantastic blue enamel choker I found one day at Landspeed in amongst all the dross.
My wardrobe’s paucity of vintage is not for want of trying. It’s simply because, if you’re after truly fabulous vintage, you have to look long, and you have to look hard. There’s an awful lot of wallpaper coloured mui-muis and very few rust coloured shirtwaists in the world, more’s the pity. Although it does make sense when you think about it. When you’re looking at an antique or vintage clothing store, you’re looking at a random sample of the clothes that people wore twenty, thirty and forty years ago. If you took a similar sample of what people on the street are wearing today, and time capsuled it, you would find a similar ratio of chaff to wheat that you find in most op shops or vintage stores. Therein lies the reason why the quest for the perfect vintage dress/bag/coat is rather akin to that for the holy grail – long, arduous, and with no guarantee of a reward at the end.
To a certain extent, this just makes it even more wonderful when you unearth a gem. But it can also be incredibly frustrating – if you love the idea of wearing authentic vintage, for the stylistic cache it carries as well as for the environmental benefits of recycling, it’s hard not to get disheartened by the amount of crap that is out there. If you tend to be of the curvier persuasion, this problem tends to be exacerbated. Due to the fact that we’re better nourished and/or larger than our female ancestors, be prepared for vintage clothing to be in a narrower size range. Another factor going against the larger sized fashionista is that vintage clothes, particularly vintage clothes from the fifties, are so wonderfully flattering on a curvy figure that those rare larger sized pieces in good condition are either a) handed down to grateful granddaughters who should thank their lucky stars and their mamas for what they gave them or b) are snaffled up by the dedicated vintage shopper or merchant. Tough but true. A final word on vintage sizing: clothing was often fitted quite different in eras gone by. Even up to the nineteen seventies, it was common practice for women to wear restrictive girdles, and clothing, even that designed for curvier women, operated from the assumption that the waist would be nipped in and supported by a tight girdle. Breathing and eating being two important and pleasurable bodily experiences, I think it best not to attempt to recreate the girdled waist at home, don’t you?
What all of the above means for the curvier vintage fashionista is that she’s just going to get a bit more creative. For instance, I very rarely expect to find clothes that fit my size fourteen frame, or shoes to fit my size ten feet. Even when I do find clothes that fit my body, they are often too short, particularly in the arms – we often forget that women were not only smaller, but also shorter in the past than they are now. What I can do, though, is get the vintage look through non-sized accessories – costume jewellery, bags, hats, scarves, and sometimes coats – or take a vintage piece that I adore, but doesn’t fit, and customise it. A longer vintage dress can often have enough fabric to cut a simple skirt. That requires some skill with the sewing machine, and some confidence in drafting a pattern, but even the most undomesticated of the female species can and should be able to sew on a button, right? So, if that’s you, and you find a wonderful vintage garment with fabulous buttons, snip them off the vintage piece and replace the existing buttons on a cardigan or a coat with the vintage ones.
The other thing to be aware of is that, although authentic vintage is wonderful for so many reasons, there’s actually no shame in fauxing it. Just so long as the fauxing is done well – ie, you choose pieces that look genuine – no one will be any the wiser. This can also be a more cost effective way of doing vintage if you’re on a budget, as most of the chain jewellery stores stock vintage-style pieces at pocket-money prices. A word of advice though – if you are fauxing it, embrace the fact that the most successful faux vintage pieces will be more aligned with the kitsch rather than the classic. For instance, don’t try and faux vintage diamonds, pearls and other precious stones – the poor workmanship will be obvious and will give the game away. Instead, faux it up all the way to town when it comes to imitation enamel, Bakelite plastic, gold or silver tone jewellery and no-one will know that that fantastic red flower ring which is so mid century is actually $9.95 from Diva.
One final word of advice on vintage. I said above that I loved to hate and hated to love it. That’s because, when styled well, vintage fashion is brilliant and will set you apart from the pack, but, when styled badly, it looks like what it is at the very heart of the matter – old clothes. Some of you may beg to differ, but my attitude to wearing vintage – either genuine or faux – is to pastiche, and not to parrot, a particular era or feel. There’s something quite sad in seeing someone who looks like they time travelled walking down the street. Again, it’s a lack of creativity – to parrot the look of another era is to negate one’s own creativity. Rather, what is fantastic is when you see vintage items pastiche into a look that is completely the wearer’s own – so, for instance, a vintage dress, contrasted with uber modern but stylistically sympathetic Melissa heels, and a bold colourful bag, looks fantastic because we can see that the wearer has put their stamp on the outfit. And that’s when I can say, without reservation or qualification, that I love vintage.
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