What greater weekend pleasure is there than the Saturday paper, a plunger of coffee, and some peace and quiet? I am religious about few things, but my weekend paper ritual is one to which I am a fanatical adherent. No matter how topsy turvy the preceding week has been, or how deep the shadows cast by the looming week, the forty five minute oasis of my Paper Ritual makes me feel calm and well equipped to deal with Life and whatever it may bring. The Saturday Paper Ritual has been in place since I was old enough to read. As a child, mama-k and papa-k would turn the house upside down looking for Good Weekend, only to discover that I’d squirreled it and myself away to the loo for a nice quiet read. In honour of this, my parent’s housewarming gift to me was a subscription to the Sydney Morning Herald and The Sun Herald, to continue my weekend ritual – and no other gift I received warmed my cold, uninsulated house more.
Sometimes, though, the perfection of my ritual is spoilt by something monumentally stupid and offensive being put into print. Take this morning, for instance.
I shouldn’t have been surprised by which particular columnist was the party pooper in question. OF COURSE it was Maggie Alderson. As mentioned above, my relationship with the SMH stretched back a long way, as does my relationship with Maggie. Over the years, it has gone from befuddlement, to admiration, to love-hate, and, over the last couple of years, to YAWN. Part of the reason this blog was born was to exeroscise the nagging feeling that I could do what Maggie did, only better. After all, I have more things to write about than My Adorable Child, Fashion When I Was A Gal, and The Agonies And Ecstasies Of Dieting – Maggies’ three principal column topics.
Occasionally, though, she pulls out something that shakes me out of my lethargy.
In today’s column, ‘Chewing the Fat’, she takes aim at nude plus size models. I would recommend that you get your hands on a copy of the column, if you can, to read and judge for yourself.
As I read this column, my emotions, if represented on a scale of YAWN to ASTRONOMICALLY HIGH BOOD PRESSURE COMPLETE WITH NOSTRIL FLARING, went from the former to the latter in the space of a few inches of newsprint.
It would appear that Ms Alderson has taken issue with nude plus size models, and their use in fashion spreads, in the most bizarre and backward of ways. Credit where credit’s due, however: I actually found myself nodding moderate agreement with her in the first part of her column, where she suggests that the usage of large naked ladies is tokenistic. Indeed, it is. Just as many other groups in society are treated tokenistically by the fashion industry. However, I think there has to be a start somewhere – and if there’s just a few images of a variety of beautiful bodies out there, then that’s enough to start people thinking and questioning the status quo. So, I agree with Maggies’ suggestion that it’s tokenistic, but, rather than see tokenism as an end point, I choose to see it as the beginning of something potentially quite radical. You know, longest journeys, smallest of steps and all that jazz.
Then, to use a Supernatural-ism, Maggie Jumps The Shark. It would appear that her issue isn’t just with the tokenistic use of larger models, it’s with the fact that they’re naked. Que? I thought, as I could feel my blood pressure starting to rise. What’s wrong with a naked plus size model? Well, according to Maggie, the only reason why they are naked it because, and I quote, ‘fat women often look better with no clothes on’. Well, yes. Four out of five ex lovers recently polled agree on this point. Maggie, however, seems to hold the view that naked ‘fat’ women, to use her more direct ‘n derogatory parlance, are less liberated than clothed ‘fat’ women.
Consider, for a moment, Maggie’s previous contention: that ‘fat’ models are used tokenistically. Implying that they are used in ways other than ‘normal’ models in magazines. Let’s have a think about how ‘normal’ models are portrayed in fashion shoots. Mostly, they are – shock, horror – naked, or nearly so, posed in all manner of outlandish scenarios. ‘Oh yes, of course I surround myself with designer leather luggage, sprawling about in a thong, whilst sipping espresso – don’t you?’ seems to be the concept behind many advertising shoots for high end labels. So, I would argue, the very nudity of many of the plus size models – indeed, as Maggie points out, showing themselves off at their best – counters the tokenism that Maggie accuses many plus size photo shoots of, because the ‘fat’ models are being treated like any other model – i.e. stripped bare, posed with bizarre objects, and with a photographer undoubtedly standing over them shouting things like “You’re a ferret, baby. No, a meerkat. No, a sea otter! Give me SEA OTTER! Make me FEEL it, baby, YEAH. And I’m spent.”.
(O.k., so my perception of photo shoots may be heavily coloured by the Austin Powers trilogy).
Maggie appears, also, to have missed the point about the inclusion of ‘fat’ women in fashion shoots. Rather than being used to sell clothes, the inclusion of ‘fat’ models, however cynically or tokenistically by editors, is about recognising the beauty of different bodies. It’s a celebration of flesh, rather than fabric. Hence, nudity – artistically posed, beautifully photographed – makes perfect sense in shoots that revel in the appreciation of abundant flesh.
An interesting aside: as I read in Good Weekend’s Number Crunch last weekend, men, on average, nominate a size fourteen as the most sexually desirable size. Perhaps the frequent exposure of ‘fat’ model’s rude bits is instead catering to the male gaze, starved as it is for beautiful images of larger female bodies. This is something Maggie appears to have forgotten – that men look at women, and men have opinions about how women look. And it would appear that men like the look of ‘fat’ models, which may go some way to explaining the dearth of clothing in many ‘fat’ shoots.
But back to Maggie’s column.
Please imagine, dear readers, the scene here. By this stage I’m midway though the column, huffing and puffing, steam pouring from the ears and from my second plunger of freshly brewed coffee. Thusly, so far so terrible, right? Couldn’t get any worse? Here’s the direct quote that resulted in metaphorical brain splatters from my head decorating the kitchen cabinets:
‘He’s (Karl Largerfeld) Living proof that in most cases – not all, but way most – the difference between being a size 10 and a size 18 comes down to two things: self control and giving a sh**. In other words, having “being slim” on the top of your priorities list…It has to be the main thing you think about, requiring constant planning and effort.’ (Alderson, March 27, 2010. Sorry, PhD student, can’t help but reference).
It has to be the main thing you think about, the top of your priorities list. Really, Maggie? REALLY?
Not only, Maggie, have you Jumped The Shark, you have Eloped To Vegas To Wed The Shark In The Little White Chapel With An Elvis Impersonator Officiating.
To begin with. My concerns. With the above statement. Are manifold. (Short. Sentences. Breathe. Peggy. Breathe.). What sort of world is Maggie living in when a modern woman can, and should, have ‘being slim’ at the top of her priorities list, the main thing she thinks about? Whatever happened to being a good person, love, kindness, family, friends, an education, good health, a career, as priorities and things to think about? On a more basic level, what about the stuff of life that we all have to give due diligence to every day of our lives – rego payments, essays to grade, washing machines to install, vacuuming to be done? What kind of a woman can place ‘being slim’ at the forefront of her mind and her life?
According to Naomi Wolf, in her famous epistle on this very subject (The Beauty Myth – READ IT), this is exactly the manifestation of patriarchal oppression that characterises the lives of modern Western women. Rather than discovering cures for cancer, painting masterpieces, and writing The Great Australian Novel, Wolf argues that women are taught to limit themselves and their opportunities by placing, as Maggie seems to suggest, ‘being slim’ at the top of our life priorities list. Because we devote so much time and energy to ‘being slim’, Wolf argues, we can’t possibly live as equals with men, because we’re just too darn tired and hungry from all that slimming and feeling bad about slimming. Essentially, we stop ourselves from being our best because we think we will never be good enough until we’re skinny. Although Wolf’s work is extreme, polemical, and impassioned, I’m inclined to agree with the gist of her argument. Especially, as we can see from Maggie’s latest offering, the Beauty Myth is alive and well.
As we’ve read from her numerous columns on My Adorable Child, Maggie has a little girl, who I can’t help but feel desperately sorry for. Surely as a mum of a little girl, Maggie should want a world where women’s priorities should be extended beyond ‘being slim’. A world in which a woman whose priority in life is ‘being slim’ is perceived as the great and tragic loss of human potential that it surely is. A world where plus size nudity is celebrated as the beautiful and sexually desirable thing. Indeed, a world where all female bodies – plus size, skinny, pregnant, post childbirth, post fifty, of all different shapes, sizes and quirks – are seen and celebrated.
This is a world that is a long way off. We can see, however, the beginnings of change, in the way that men relate (and, arguably, have always related) to women’s bodies, and in the way that some cynical and tokenistic, or possibly just socially minded, designers, photographers and editors are gradually shifting the goalposts on what sort of women’s bodies can be lauded as beautiful.
But while I’m waiting for this change…
I threw Maggie’s hateful column in the recycling, and went about my day, full of the miscellaneous stuff of a woman’s life. Being skinny didn’t enter into my thoughts or my priorities at all.
And everything was right with the world again.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Secrets and Lies
As it’s been almost a year since I started this wee blog, I thought it might be time to correct a few assumptions that you, readers, may have made about me. You could be forgiven for thinking, reading this blog, that I am impeccably stylish and pleased with what I wear most of the time, and that, being someone who blogs about style, I have no secrets.
How wrong you are, and how remiss of me not to tell you before now about my Top Ten Shameful Style Secrets and Lies…
Number Ten: I want to wear red lipstick every day, but don’t.
Number Nine: I wear track pants. Out of the house. Often out of the house. Often down to the shops to collect dinner ingredients. Often tracksuits with holes in dangerous places – the term crotchless being appropriate.
Number Eight: I stress out about wearing the same outfit to two tutorials in the same semester, least my students judge me as a poor postgraduate with no clothes.
Number Seven: I spend entire weeks wearing sarongs and pregnant-style tops in summer.
Number Six: I shop at target. Even when I have money.
Number Five: I envy girls who look amazing wearing jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails.
Number Four: I myself wear jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails, and do not look amazing.
Number Three: I don’t feel like myself without make up.
Number Two: I’m never happy with my hair. Ever.
And – drumroll please – the final, most hideous confession.
Number One: I wear crocs. ALL THE TIME.
P.S. you may have noticed some changes to the blog of late – I hope you like them as much as I do! Although it’s taken the best part of a year to work out the intricacies of Blogger, I think my inner luddite is suitably conquered. Love, Peg.
How wrong you are, and how remiss of me not to tell you before now about my Top Ten Shameful Style Secrets and Lies…
Number Ten: I want to wear red lipstick every day, but don’t.
Number Nine: I wear track pants. Out of the house. Often out of the house. Often down to the shops to collect dinner ingredients. Often tracksuits with holes in dangerous places – the term crotchless being appropriate.
Number Eight: I stress out about wearing the same outfit to two tutorials in the same semester, least my students judge me as a poor postgraduate with no clothes.
Number Seven: I spend entire weeks wearing sarongs and pregnant-style tops in summer.
Number Six: I shop at target. Even when I have money.
Number Five: I envy girls who look amazing wearing jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails.
Number Four: I myself wear jeans, uni sweaters, and ponytails, and do not look amazing.
Number Three: I don’t feel like myself without make up.
Number Two: I’m never happy with my hair. Ever.
And – drumroll please – the final, most hideous confession.
Number One: I wear crocs. ALL THE TIME.
P.S. you may have noticed some changes to the blog of late – I hope you like them as much as I do! Although it’s taken the best part of a year to work out the intricacies of Blogger, I think my inner luddite is suitably conquered. Love, Peg.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Breast Dressed
N.B: this blog is somewhat of a companion to my ‘Panty Problems: Just Say No’ post from about a year ago. If talk of lovely lady lumps and the like offends, please tune out. Now. Love, Peg.
Travel is a real eye opener. New sights, new sounds, new discoveries (square sausage, black pudding and haggis FOR THE WIN).
And, of course, new shops, trends, and dress norms to explore.
Discovery #1: Uggs cost 60 POUNDS in Scotland and thus are highly coveted sartorial status symbols.
Discovery #2: Scottish women are impervious to cold and will attend a February wedding (read: 2 degrees celcius, fog and light mist) in a summer cocktail frock.
Discovery #3: the boobs of the UK are the Best Dressed Breasts the world over.
Why, might you ask?
Well, there’s just so much CHOICE in terms of bras. Walking into a lingerie shop, or a lingerie department in a major department store, is like walking into a candy store of lace, silk, and general delectability. Everything – and I mean everything – is lovely – and, more importantly, available in all sizes. What could be more heavenly, I ask you?
It’s as if British manufacturers have taken a good look out the window, around the office, and at the nearest girl’s night out and stumbled upon a powerful truth that I wish they’d exported to the antipodes along with convicts, rabbits, noxious weeds like thistles.
That truth being that boobs come in all sizes and shapes, and so should bras.
Historically, my relationship with bras, and my breasts, has been long and somewhat tortured. I developed early – I can’t really remember what life was like B.B. (Before Boobs). My first bras, which MamaK sensibly insisted were fitted by a trained professional, were rather plain and boring, with no fancy embellishments or anything vaguely resembling prettiness. At the time, this made bra-wearing anything but fun (although I am actually thankful that I could save the discovery of sexy lingerie until I was old enough to appreciate it in its proper context – i.e. sixteen, and doing everything that girls of that age are supposed to…). Coupled with change room teasing through primary and high school – contrary to popular mythology, girls who develop well and early are not always placed on a lofty pedestal of developing womanliness by their young peers – this potent combination of ugly bras + ugly people meant that I drew the only conclusion I could at the time: breasts, specifically mine, were ugly.
I spent most of my teenage years wishing my breasts away, desperately envious of girls who could get away with nothing under their tee-shirts whilst I needed industrial strength scaffolding to stay afloat. I think, in the chronology of my relationship with my breasts, these were The Wilderness Years.
Then, something wonderful happened: I went to college. In the ACT system, college is where students go in years 11 and 12 – so you’re a YOUNG ADULT at a school with other YOUNG ADULTS where you’re treated like a YOUNG ADULT and you can talk about YOUNG ADULT stuff like SEX and DRUGS and ROCK AND ROLL. Or, more like, your aspirations towards those three lofty goals of YOUNG ADULThood. It was there, in that heady, sweaty mix of all of us working out who we were and who we wanted to be, that I realised two things: that boys like boobs, and that boys like boobs FULL STOP. No matter how big, how little, how round or high or wide, boys LIKE THEM, quite possibly more than they like anything else on God’s green earth.
Being perfectly honest, and at risk of being a Bad Feminist, this meant that I could finally begin to entertain the possibility that maybe I might like my breasts too, if I gave them half a chance. Giving my breasts half a chance meant setting them free from their functional scaffolding, and looking for other options that supported not only my breasts but my fledgling and fragile self esteem.
I can still remember the thrill of purchasing my first Really Sexy Bra and Knickers. As mentioned above, I was sixteen, and doing all those things that sixteen year olds do. As I’ve said many times before on this blog, we don’t always dress in a way that reflects who we are in the present moment, but who we are becoming, and who we want to be. And although I was confused and had a lot of growing up to do at that point, I wanted something that would make me feel strong, sexy, and powerful – and nothing was more a reflection of who I wanted to be than a chocolate brown French lace balconette bra and knickers set from Elle Macpherson Intimates. It cost me a weeks’ pay, but the boosts it gave were worth it.
Over the years, I’d estimate that my spending on lingerie would have been enough to have placed a down payment on a small apartment, but, no matter how poor I was, I always felt as though good – in both the practical and the aesthetic sense – lingerie was never a waste of money. Which is just as well because in Australia, you’d be hard pressed to find lingerie that fits both of those categories – practical and pleasing to the eye – without relaxing the purse strings considerably. This was something I was always happy to do, even if it meant having only one or two bras, and repairing them until it really was time to pension them off to the back paddock. This was fine whilst my breasts were in the ‘normal’ cup size range – from A to D – but, in my Honours year, whilst the rest of me stayed the same, my boobs jumped two cup sizes, into an E. Overnight. Literally. I went to bed with D’s and woke up with E’s.
Sometimes the universe burdens us in the strangest of ways.
Having breasts that were suddenly outside of Australian clothing’s ‘normal’ range meant that I was in for a rude shock. Whereas previously the lingerie world was my oyster, I was thrust into the barren wasteland of Full Figure Lingerie. My first ever foray into a specialist stockist of Full Figure Lingerie (a euphemism I grew to hate – why not call a spade a spade and just say Bras for Big Boobs?) involved tears in the change room. The sales girl did her best, but when I asked her for something sexy, all she could produce was a hackneyed red and black number so massive that it encroached into my décolletage and flattened my breasts into two squarish blobs. I bought the bra, in the two colour ways available, because it was the best of a bad lot. There were other, prettier bras available in E cups – but they were out of stock, on backorder with a two month wait list, and completely beyond my financial means.
The second period of Wilderness commenced. This was only slightly better than the last Wilderness, as I at least knew in my heart of hearts that my breasts were indeed lovely, but this knowledge made shopping for bras more frustrating – I felt as though all of my breast’s loveliness was literally being squished out of them. Some days I even went bra-less, because it was simply too depressing to contemplate putting on some of the horrors that now comprised my lingerie wardrobe. After much thought, I decided that the problem with the Full Figure Lingerie industry was that their Ideal Breast, for which they designed all their bras, was a completely different shape to mine, with completely different needs. My problem was that my breasts, due to my large bone structure and impressive set of pectoral muscles (if I do say so myself – it’s carrying all those textbooks under my arm, I tell you) were actually firmer and higher than the Ideal Full Figure Breast, meaning that the bras available in Australia in an E+ cup were far far too supportive and rigid, with way more scaffolding than was necessary for someone with my frame and muscle structure. Whilst a very supportive, ridged bra, with a wide central panel and full cup coverage, would be ideal on a woman with a small rib cage, little muscle tissue and lots of boob, it was absolutely hopeless for me, and, what’s more, made my breasts look dreadful and made me feel dreadful.
There was an end, however, in sight. Mama-K, on a trip to Mother England midway through my honours year, came back with stories of an oasis of beautiful lingerie – in all shapes, sizes and colours – at Marks and Spencers. Being unsure of my exact size, and understandably feeling a bit awkward about shopping for sexy lingerie for her daughter, she bought me home just two Marks and Spencer’s bras to try. Although E cups, they looked…just like a lovely, ordinary lacy bra, complete with a low front profile, delicate straps, and transparent lace. I wore those two bras until they were grey with over washing, desperately hoping that one day I would make it to the promised land of Marks and Spencers, to rejoice in the loveliness of sexy bras in 14 E-F.
One Day finally came a few weeks ago, in Scotland, and it was better than I ever imagined.
The greatest thing about M&S was that there was no specialist section for Fuller Figure Bras – rather, most of their ranges just ran up to a G cup as a matter of course. This means no scarily wide centre panels, no full coverage cups, and no scary thick straps. No opportunity for manufacturers to charge through the nose because they’ve cornered the Full Figure Lingerie market – because all boobs are already catered for as a matter of course. M&S, as the locals call it, even stocks a range of post-mastectomy bras – something which, in Australia, you would have to hunt around specialty stores to find. You can even get scary huge squashy bras if that’s what floats your boat – everyone’s a winner. Here’s the bottom line: to buy a nice, lacy bra and pants in Australia, the outlay would be close to $150 at RRP, and your choices would be black and porny, pink/red and porny, or cream and virginal – just try and tell me that the Madonna/Whore paradox is dead! In the UK, shopping at M&S, the MAXIMUM you’d be looking at would be 50 pounds RRP – that’s about $100 in our money – and you can choose from dozens of lovely bras, with many levels of subtle graduation between vampish seductress and daisy fresh innocent. I won’t tell you how many sets of lingerie accompanied me home – but, to give you a ballpark figure, it’ll be at least a week before The Dreamboat has seen the full gamut of my UK purchases.
And the best thing of all? You can shop M&S online, and stand alongside me in my boycott of ugly, expensive Full Figure Lingerie that is all that’s available in Australia, or just ugly, expensive lingerie in whatever size you wear, because all breasts are beautiful and deserve to be dressed accordingly. Let’s not settle for lingerie that only uplifts our busts – rather, let’s strive for lingerie that uplifts our sometimes flagging and fragile egos, and elevates us to a higher plane of bodily acceptance and love. At least, I know that’s now where my personal bra bar is set, and I think you’re all, dear readers, worth a similarly high standard of support.
Travel is a real eye opener. New sights, new sounds, new discoveries (square sausage, black pudding and haggis FOR THE WIN).
And, of course, new shops, trends, and dress norms to explore.
Discovery #1: Uggs cost 60 POUNDS in Scotland and thus are highly coveted sartorial status symbols.
Discovery #2: Scottish women are impervious to cold and will attend a February wedding (read: 2 degrees celcius, fog and light mist) in a summer cocktail frock.
Discovery #3: the boobs of the UK are the Best Dressed Breasts the world over.
Why, might you ask?
Well, there’s just so much CHOICE in terms of bras. Walking into a lingerie shop, or a lingerie department in a major department store, is like walking into a candy store of lace, silk, and general delectability. Everything – and I mean everything – is lovely – and, more importantly, available in all sizes. What could be more heavenly, I ask you?
It’s as if British manufacturers have taken a good look out the window, around the office, and at the nearest girl’s night out and stumbled upon a powerful truth that I wish they’d exported to the antipodes along with convicts, rabbits, noxious weeds like thistles.
That truth being that boobs come in all sizes and shapes, and so should bras.
Historically, my relationship with bras, and my breasts, has been long and somewhat tortured. I developed early – I can’t really remember what life was like B.B. (Before Boobs). My first bras, which MamaK sensibly insisted were fitted by a trained professional, were rather plain and boring, with no fancy embellishments or anything vaguely resembling prettiness. At the time, this made bra-wearing anything but fun (although I am actually thankful that I could save the discovery of sexy lingerie until I was old enough to appreciate it in its proper context – i.e. sixteen, and doing everything that girls of that age are supposed to…). Coupled with change room teasing through primary and high school – contrary to popular mythology, girls who develop well and early are not always placed on a lofty pedestal of developing womanliness by their young peers – this potent combination of ugly bras + ugly people meant that I drew the only conclusion I could at the time: breasts, specifically mine, were ugly.
I spent most of my teenage years wishing my breasts away, desperately envious of girls who could get away with nothing under their tee-shirts whilst I needed industrial strength scaffolding to stay afloat. I think, in the chronology of my relationship with my breasts, these were The Wilderness Years.
Then, something wonderful happened: I went to college. In the ACT system, college is where students go in years 11 and 12 – so you’re a YOUNG ADULT at a school with other YOUNG ADULTS where you’re treated like a YOUNG ADULT and you can talk about YOUNG ADULT stuff like SEX and DRUGS and ROCK AND ROLL. Or, more like, your aspirations towards those three lofty goals of YOUNG ADULThood. It was there, in that heady, sweaty mix of all of us working out who we were and who we wanted to be, that I realised two things: that boys like boobs, and that boys like boobs FULL STOP. No matter how big, how little, how round or high or wide, boys LIKE THEM, quite possibly more than they like anything else on God’s green earth.
Being perfectly honest, and at risk of being a Bad Feminist, this meant that I could finally begin to entertain the possibility that maybe I might like my breasts too, if I gave them half a chance. Giving my breasts half a chance meant setting them free from their functional scaffolding, and looking for other options that supported not only my breasts but my fledgling and fragile self esteem.
I can still remember the thrill of purchasing my first Really Sexy Bra and Knickers. As mentioned above, I was sixteen, and doing all those things that sixteen year olds do. As I’ve said many times before on this blog, we don’t always dress in a way that reflects who we are in the present moment, but who we are becoming, and who we want to be. And although I was confused and had a lot of growing up to do at that point, I wanted something that would make me feel strong, sexy, and powerful – and nothing was more a reflection of who I wanted to be than a chocolate brown French lace balconette bra and knickers set from Elle Macpherson Intimates. It cost me a weeks’ pay, but the boosts it gave were worth it.
Over the years, I’d estimate that my spending on lingerie would have been enough to have placed a down payment on a small apartment, but, no matter how poor I was, I always felt as though good – in both the practical and the aesthetic sense – lingerie was never a waste of money. Which is just as well because in Australia, you’d be hard pressed to find lingerie that fits both of those categories – practical and pleasing to the eye – without relaxing the purse strings considerably. This was something I was always happy to do, even if it meant having only one or two bras, and repairing them until it really was time to pension them off to the back paddock. This was fine whilst my breasts were in the ‘normal’ cup size range – from A to D – but, in my Honours year, whilst the rest of me stayed the same, my boobs jumped two cup sizes, into an E. Overnight. Literally. I went to bed with D’s and woke up with E’s.
Sometimes the universe burdens us in the strangest of ways.
Having breasts that were suddenly outside of Australian clothing’s ‘normal’ range meant that I was in for a rude shock. Whereas previously the lingerie world was my oyster, I was thrust into the barren wasteland of Full Figure Lingerie. My first ever foray into a specialist stockist of Full Figure Lingerie (a euphemism I grew to hate – why not call a spade a spade and just say Bras for Big Boobs?) involved tears in the change room. The sales girl did her best, but when I asked her for something sexy, all she could produce was a hackneyed red and black number so massive that it encroached into my décolletage and flattened my breasts into two squarish blobs. I bought the bra, in the two colour ways available, because it was the best of a bad lot. There were other, prettier bras available in E cups – but they were out of stock, on backorder with a two month wait list, and completely beyond my financial means.
The second period of Wilderness commenced. This was only slightly better than the last Wilderness, as I at least knew in my heart of hearts that my breasts were indeed lovely, but this knowledge made shopping for bras more frustrating – I felt as though all of my breast’s loveliness was literally being squished out of them. Some days I even went bra-less, because it was simply too depressing to contemplate putting on some of the horrors that now comprised my lingerie wardrobe. After much thought, I decided that the problem with the Full Figure Lingerie industry was that their Ideal Breast, for which they designed all their bras, was a completely different shape to mine, with completely different needs. My problem was that my breasts, due to my large bone structure and impressive set of pectoral muscles (if I do say so myself – it’s carrying all those textbooks under my arm, I tell you) were actually firmer and higher than the Ideal Full Figure Breast, meaning that the bras available in Australia in an E+ cup were far far too supportive and rigid, with way more scaffolding than was necessary for someone with my frame and muscle structure. Whilst a very supportive, ridged bra, with a wide central panel and full cup coverage, would be ideal on a woman with a small rib cage, little muscle tissue and lots of boob, it was absolutely hopeless for me, and, what’s more, made my breasts look dreadful and made me feel dreadful.
There was an end, however, in sight. Mama-K, on a trip to Mother England midway through my honours year, came back with stories of an oasis of beautiful lingerie – in all shapes, sizes and colours – at Marks and Spencers. Being unsure of my exact size, and understandably feeling a bit awkward about shopping for sexy lingerie for her daughter, she bought me home just two Marks and Spencer’s bras to try. Although E cups, they looked…just like a lovely, ordinary lacy bra, complete with a low front profile, delicate straps, and transparent lace. I wore those two bras until they were grey with over washing, desperately hoping that one day I would make it to the promised land of Marks and Spencers, to rejoice in the loveliness of sexy bras in 14 E-F.
One Day finally came a few weeks ago, in Scotland, and it was better than I ever imagined.
The greatest thing about M&S was that there was no specialist section for Fuller Figure Bras – rather, most of their ranges just ran up to a G cup as a matter of course. This means no scarily wide centre panels, no full coverage cups, and no scary thick straps. No opportunity for manufacturers to charge through the nose because they’ve cornered the Full Figure Lingerie market – because all boobs are already catered for as a matter of course. M&S, as the locals call it, even stocks a range of post-mastectomy bras – something which, in Australia, you would have to hunt around specialty stores to find. You can even get scary huge squashy bras if that’s what floats your boat – everyone’s a winner. Here’s the bottom line: to buy a nice, lacy bra and pants in Australia, the outlay would be close to $150 at RRP, and your choices would be black and porny, pink/red and porny, or cream and virginal – just try and tell me that the Madonna/Whore paradox is dead! In the UK, shopping at M&S, the MAXIMUM you’d be looking at would be 50 pounds RRP – that’s about $100 in our money – and you can choose from dozens of lovely bras, with many levels of subtle graduation between vampish seductress and daisy fresh innocent. I won’t tell you how many sets of lingerie accompanied me home – but, to give you a ballpark figure, it’ll be at least a week before The Dreamboat has seen the full gamut of my UK purchases.
And the best thing of all? You can shop M&S online, and stand alongside me in my boycott of ugly, expensive Full Figure Lingerie that is all that’s available in Australia, or just ugly, expensive lingerie in whatever size you wear, because all breasts are beautiful and deserve to be dressed accordingly. Let’s not settle for lingerie that only uplifts our busts – rather, let’s strive for lingerie that uplifts our sometimes flagging and fragile egos, and elevates us to a higher plane of bodily acceptance and love. At least, I know that’s now where my personal bra bar is set, and I think you’re all, dear readers, worth a similarly high standard of support.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Juvenile Success
In honour of the 52nd Annual Grammy awards, Sammy Compton, sister of my special housemate Sookie, threw a lovely Grammys party, complete with many of my favourite things – tea, curry, and a dress-to-impress code. Of course, being a PhD student, which is just a nicer way of saying ‘I hide under a rock and eat a lot of lentils’, and having a rather strong attachment to the music of my childhood – they just don’t make songs like they did in the nineties – I wasn’t entirely au fait with all the celebrities strutting the carpet. I am, however, au fait with all things sparkly (again, as a result of that other 90s childhood staple – Baz Lurhman’s Strictly Ballroom), and felt thusly qualified to get my critiquing groove on.
And boy, was there plenty of sparkle and swagger. Some good (Katie Perry and Beyonce, USHER O.M.G. I LOVE RIGHT DOWN TO THE CREAM PIPING ON YOUR SUIT), some bad (Jennifer Hudson, YOU HOT, BUT NOT IN THAT DRESS), some ugly (Taylor Swift – NUFF SAID) and some just fracking weird (RHIANNNA. LOVE. HIRE A STYLIST).
But the show this year was really stolen by the under-four-foot crowd – and no, Rosie Bon Jovie, I’m not talking about the midgets – I’m talking about the kiddies. Of course, Beyonce and Jay Z’s nephew, who accepted the Grammy for Run This Town in the stead of Kanye (because if we learnt anything from the VMA’s, kids, it’s that Kanye, a mike and an award show do not mix) stole the show in his baby tux – but there were plenty of other kiddies, so much so that I wondered if Lady Gaga’s frock would be commandeered as some sort of playpen kiddycreche.
Perhaps this is the logical extension of our youth obsessed culture, but kids have become, suddenly, the new frontier of cool. The prevalence of beautiful celebrities with their beautiful babies is indicative of this. Whilst I think it’s great that we’re now moving towards a celebration of childhood, it also gives me the worries sometimes. Particularly when these celebabies (a celebrity baby – geddit???) are dressed as extensions of their mums and dads (Gewn Stefani, Brit Brit and Mr and Mrs Becks, report to my office immediately).
To betray my closet academic interest (and a terrible pun – closet meaning both SECRET and WARDROBE!), children’s clothing has, almost always, been a replica of the clothing of adults. It’s interesting to look at the way that children’s clothing through the ages denotes the way that they were related to by the rest of the community. In the not-too-distant past, for instance, babies and young children up to the age of about six were dressed all alike, irrespective of gender, in simple white frocks, and weren’t given proper ‘clothes’ until they started their schooling at about six or seven. Fashion theorists postulate that this is, in no small part, to do with shocking rates of infant mortality – that it didn’t serve anyone well to get too attached to an infant or very young child, or to view them as a person in their own right, and this extended to the clothing of children. Once one had passed through the hazardous years of infancy and early childhood, it was possible to be regarded as a potential adult – and thus, dressed exactly like one. For poor people, children were dressed in the hand-me-downs rags of older siblings and cousins, or wrapped in swaddling cloths – again, because why spend what little money you may have on clothes for a baby who, in all likelihood, would be carried away.
It wasn’t until the beginning of the 20th century that upper and middle class parents began to dress their kiddies as…kiddies. Not as infants in swaddling cloths, and not as micro adults, but as something in between – as children. Of course, what age ranges constitute ‘child’, or what ‘child’ even means, have been up for negotiation ever since, and perhaps this latest incarnation of children as an extension of their parent’s look is simply the latest perambulation of our cultural attitudes to children and childhood.
But I can’t help but hark back to the brief moment a couple of decades ago – from the late 60s to the end of the 80s – where there was a certain playfulness and whimsy to children’s’ clothing – where children were encouraged to dress in clothes that they chose, that they liked, and that made them look – well, like kids. This was how I was dressed when I was growing up. For sure, I remember many a violent tantrum at mama-k’s insistence that I wear GREEN PLAID rather than PINK TULLE WITH SPARKLES AND LACE. But, at the end of the day, I was pretty much allowed to dress how I wanted to, and in a way that was entirely my own - not like a grown up, very much like a kid, and with a degree of personal latitude and creativity.
It makes me sad to think that, in our efforts to make our kids look just like us, we don’t give them the opportunity to look just like them. As much as I look forward to picking out outfits for the little tykes in my life, I look forward even more to seeing what they pick out for themselves. Case in point, and returning to the sister-themed origins of this blog post, Clementine Kemp’s little sister, and my absolute favourite six year old, LuLu, has perfected this art of dressing exactly like herself. With her artful draping of floral fabrics, held together with hairclips, she was a delight to behold at a recent afternoon tea at my house, and an example from which all of us could learn. Indeed, when children, left to their own devices, come up with the most ingenious creations, it makes me wonder why we’re not copying them, rather than trying to get them to copy us.
And boy, was there plenty of sparkle and swagger. Some good (Katie Perry and Beyonce, USHER O.M.G. I LOVE RIGHT DOWN TO THE CREAM PIPING ON YOUR SUIT), some bad (Jennifer Hudson, YOU HOT, BUT NOT IN THAT DRESS), some ugly (Taylor Swift – NUFF SAID) and some just fracking weird (RHIANNNA. LOVE. HIRE A STYLIST).
But the show this year was really stolen by the under-four-foot crowd – and no, Rosie Bon Jovie, I’m not talking about the midgets – I’m talking about the kiddies. Of course, Beyonce and Jay Z’s nephew, who accepted the Grammy for Run This Town in the stead of Kanye (because if we learnt anything from the VMA’s, kids, it’s that Kanye, a mike and an award show do not mix) stole the show in his baby tux – but there were plenty of other kiddies, so much so that I wondered if Lady Gaga’s frock would be commandeered as some sort of playpen kiddycreche.
Perhaps this is the logical extension of our youth obsessed culture, but kids have become, suddenly, the new frontier of cool. The prevalence of beautiful celebrities with their beautiful babies is indicative of this. Whilst I think it’s great that we’re now moving towards a celebration of childhood, it also gives me the worries sometimes. Particularly when these celebabies (a celebrity baby – geddit???) are dressed as extensions of their mums and dads (Gewn Stefani, Brit Brit and Mr and Mrs Becks, report to my office immediately).
To betray my closet academic interest (and a terrible pun – closet meaning both SECRET and WARDROBE!), children’s clothing has, almost always, been a replica of the clothing of adults. It’s interesting to look at the way that children’s clothing through the ages denotes the way that they were related to by the rest of the community. In the not-too-distant past, for instance, babies and young children up to the age of about six were dressed all alike, irrespective of gender, in simple white frocks, and weren’t given proper ‘clothes’ until they started their schooling at about six or seven. Fashion theorists postulate that this is, in no small part, to do with shocking rates of infant mortality – that it didn’t serve anyone well to get too attached to an infant or very young child, or to view them as a person in their own right, and this extended to the clothing of children. Once one had passed through the hazardous years of infancy and early childhood, it was possible to be regarded as a potential adult – and thus, dressed exactly like one. For poor people, children were dressed in the hand-me-downs rags of older siblings and cousins, or wrapped in swaddling cloths – again, because why spend what little money you may have on clothes for a baby who, in all likelihood, would be carried away.
It wasn’t until the beginning of the 20th century that upper and middle class parents began to dress their kiddies as…kiddies. Not as infants in swaddling cloths, and not as micro adults, but as something in between – as children. Of course, what age ranges constitute ‘child’, or what ‘child’ even means, have been up for negotiation ever since, and perhaps this latest incarnation of children as an extension of their parent’s look is simply the latest perambulation of our cultural attitudes to children and childhood.
But I can’t help but hark back to the brief moment a couple of decades ago – from the late 60s to the end of the 80s – where there was a certain playfulness and whimsy to children’s’ clothing – where children were encouraged to dress in clothes that they chose, that they liked, and that made them look – well, like kids. This was how I was dressed when I was growing up. For sure, I remember many a violent tantrum at mama-k’s insistence that I wear GREEN PLAID rather than PINK TULLE WITH SPARKLES AND LACE. But, at the end of the day, I was pretty much allowed to dress how I wanted to, and in a way that was entirely my own - not like a grown up, very much like a kid, and with a degree of personal latitude and creativity.
It makes me sad to think that, in our efforts to make our kids look just like us, we don’t give them the opportunity to look just like them. As much as I look forward to picking out outfits for the little tykes in my life, I look forward even more to seeing what they pick out for themselves. Case in point, and returning to the sister-themed origins of this blog post, Clementine Kemp’s little sister, and my absolute favourite six year old, LuLu, has perfected this art of dressing exactly like herself. With her artful draping of floral fabrics, held together with hairclips, she was a delight to behold at a recent afternoon tea at my house, and an example from which all of us could learn. Indeed, when children, left to their own devices, come up with the most ingenious creations, it makes me wonder why we’re not copying them, rather than trying to get them to copy us.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Boys Watch the Girls While the Girls Watch the Boys Who Watch the Girls Go By…
It’s occurred to me, looking through the archives of this blog, that there’s an awful lot about the ladies – but almost nothing at all about the gentlemen - a sore oversight on my part, which I will seek to redress in this here post.
Perhaps one of the reasons why I haven’t written much this year about men’s style is that I always thought that men’s style was much more straightforward than women’s. On account of the absence of breasts, hips and thighs, I’ve always held a firm belief that men have a much easier time dressing themselves – i.e., put on a pair of decent jeans, a button down, and a jacket, and you’re ready to rock the kazbar.
However, recent and close observation of the males in my life has lead me to conclude that men can be just as fabulous, if not more so, than us ladies. (Recently there has also been a lot of close – cough- ‘observation’ - of males who are not in my life, more’s the pity, at gigs and on sidewalks, but that’s a homily for another time).
I think we don’t notice male style dilemmas as they are played out on a more subtle level than female ones. As mentioned above, the fact that there are simply less shapes and styles of clothes for men to choose from means that there’s going to be less plurality in male dressing – it’s hard to break away from the pants and shirts model when it’s socially unacceptable to wear anything else. However, within, and perhaps because of, these confines, there are some spectacularly stylish men whom I feel it is my duty to valorise on this humble blog.
I ought to start with the inspiration for this post. On Saturday, Rosie Bon Jovie and I had the immense privilege and pleasure of listening to a brilliant indie-rock-folk band, The 45, at Ainslie Hall. The lead singer of said band, apart from having a voice like Nick Cave and the lyrical talents of Geoff Buckly, was a brilliantly stylish man, a light on the hill to which all of you gentlemen out there should aspire. Aside from a brilliantly scuffed pair of workboots and authentically worn-in jeans, this young rocker had perfected the waistcoat-shirt-tie-hat combo. This is territory where many have strayed and failed spectacularly, particularly in the first year of an arts degree at university. Proving that old fashion maxim about wearing your clothes rather than letting them wear you, this muso demonstrated that what I had once dismissed as wankwear can, and is, fabulously stylish when it’s done with a sense of integrity and reality – with a sense of owning the clothes rather than the clothes owning you.
My fabulously stylish friends, Jordan Hawthorne and Brody Leon, demonstrate, in their different approaches to style, that there are many ways for men to be fabulous on a tighter than tight shoestring budget. Jordan Hawthorne’s approach is to focus on quality accessories. Although Jordan looks similar whenever I see him, he always looks good, on account of having a capsule wardrobe of jeans and a few shirts coupled with brilliant accessories. Of note are his choice in glasses frames – which are always just noticeable enough to make you comment, but not so outrageous as to make him a laughing stock – and his signature satchel. I covet this satchel, not only for its innate beauty and practicality, but because of its quality and the feeling that it gives of being timeless. Which makes sense, given that Jordan picked up this particular piece of fabulousness in the middle east, during a year overseas. Again, like the abovementioned rocker, Jordan’s style works because, in addition to being well thought out and classically well accessorised, it is all his own, and speaks to his interests and his experiences.
In contrast to Jordan Hawthorne’s understated style, Brody Leon encapsulates all that is good about flamboyant-old school-vintage-student-chic. His endless and cheerful parade of tweed jackets always brighten the ANU campus. Never one to shy away from more flamboyant vintage numbers, Brody has numerous fabulous pieces, the highlight of which is his tuxedo jacket with tails – an authentic twenties number, I believe, and a piece which those not endowed with natural style would be swamped by. I have also heard tell that Brody Leon has come into possession of a particular pair of red Cuban heels…having not seen them with my own eyes I cannot pass judgement, but I’m sure they are as stylish as everything else in Brody’s wardrobe.
There are so many other stylish men that I know, I could go on for ages. I haven’t touched on Jimmy Henry’s board short collection, or Pete Morrisey’s burgundy velvet 70s blazer, or Hugo Kirkham’s leather jacket. If I had to draw a common thread that unites all these fabulously stylish men together, however, it would be their sense of stylistic integrity – of staying true to what they know is fabulous. Something which, in spite of my earlier reticence, is worth an honourable mention on this blog.
Perhaps one of the reasons why I haven’t written much this year about men’s style is that I always thought that men’s style was much more straightforward than women’s. On account of the absence of breasts, hips and thighs, I’ve always held a firm belief that men have a much easier time dressing themselves – i.e., put on a pair of decent jeans, a button down, and a jacket, and you’re ready to rock the kazbar.
However, recent and close observation of the males in my life has lead me to conclude that men can be just as fabulous, if not more so, than us ladies. (Recently there has also been a lot of close – cough- ‘observation’ - of males who are not in my life, more’s the pity, at gigs and on sidewalks, but that’s a homily for another time).
I think we don’t notice male style dilemmas as they are played out on a more subtle level than female ones. As mentioned above, the fact that there are simply less shapes and styles of clothes for men to choose from means that there’s going to be less plurality in male dressing – it’s hard to break away from the pants and shirts model when it’s socially unacceptable to wear anything else. However, within, and perhaps because of, these confines, there are some spectacularly stylish men whom I feel it is my duty to valorise on this humble blog.
I ought to start with the inspiration for this post. On Saturday, Rosie Bon Jovie and I had the immense privilege and pleasure of listening to a brilliant indie-rock-folk band, The 45, at Ainslie Hall. The lead singer of said band, apart from having a voice like Nick Cave and the lyrical talents of Geoff Buckly, was a brilliantly stylish man, a light on the hill to which all of you gentlemen out there should aspire. Aside from a brilliantly scuffed pair of workboots and authentically worn-in jeans, this young rocker had perfected the waistcoat-shirt-tie-hat combo. This is territory where many have strayed and failed spectacularly, particularly in the first year of an arts degree at university. Proving that old fashion maxim about wearing your clothes rather than letting them wear you, this muso demonstrated that what I had once dismissed as wankwear can, and is, fabulously stylish when it’s done with a sense of integrity and reality – with a sense of owning the clothes rather than the clothes owning you.
My fabulously stylish friends, Jordan Hawthorne and Brody Leon, demonstrate, in their different approaches to style, that there are many ways for men to be fabulous on a tighter than tight shoestring budget. Jordan Hawthorne’s approach is to focus on quality accessories. Although Jordan looks similar whenever I see him, he always looks good, on account of having a capsule wardrobe of jeans and a few shirts coupled with brilliant accessories. Of note are his choice in glasses frames – which are always just noticeable enough to make you comment, but not so outrageous as to make him a laughing stock – and his signature satchel. I covet this satchel, not only for its innate beauty and practicality, but because of its quality and the feeling that it gives of being timeless. Which makes sense, given that Jordan picked up this particular piece of fabulousness in the middle east, during a year overseas. Again, like the abovementioned rocker, Jordan’s style works because, in addition to being well thought out and classically well accessorised, it is all his own, and speaks to his interests and his experiences.
In contrast to Jordan Hawthorne’s understated style, Brody Leon encapsulates all that is good about flamboyant-old school-vintage-student-chic. His endless and cheerful parade of tweed jackets always brighten the ANU campus. Never one to shy away from more flamboyant vintage numbers, Brody has numerous fabulous pieces, the highlight of which is his tuxedo jacket with tails – an authentic twenties number, I believe, and a piece which those not endowed with natural style would be swamped by. I have also heard tell that Brody Leon has come into possession of a particular pair of red Cuban heels…having not seen them with my own eyes I cannot pass judgement, but I’m sure they are as stylish as everything else in Brody’s wardrobe.
There are so many other stylish men that I know, I could go on for ages. I haven’t touched on Jimmy Henry’s board short collection, or Pete Morrisey’s burgundy velvet 70s blazer, or Hugo Kirkham’s leather jacket. If I had to draw a common thread that unites all these fabulously stylish men together, however, it would be their sense of stylistic integrity – of staying true to what they know is fabulous. Something which, in spite of my earlier reticence, is worth an honourable mention on this blog.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
I Love the Smell of Inspiration in the Monring
I won’t bore you with reasons why I haven’t been giving you the love and attention you and I both know you deserve…ok, I’ll give you some hints…
New house, dramas with new house and their resolution forthwith, 120 undergraduate essays and another 60 still to come, trips to Ikea, Goublburn, Queanbeyan, gardening, breakup with J-man, thesis, tutoring and counselling the kiddies, library fines, an early quarter- life ‘what-the-fuck-am-I-doing’ crisis, and a kicking housewarming.
Don’t you feel exhausted reading all that??? I do too, and I actually did it all!
So, I’m one busy lizzie, as you can see. And, as happens to the best of us, this busyness has left me feeling rather drained, in every way that a body can be. This, of course, extends to the sartorial. I’ve actually fantasised about coming to university in track pants. THE HORROR.
Which got me to thinking – how does one go about recharging one’s batteries – sartorially and spiritually? To who, where and what can one turn for inspiration when that creative kick up the pants is sorely needed?
Any newsstand would have you believe that inspiration, at least in a sartorial sense, comes from buying the latest Mari Claire and gallivanting off to DFO, backed by a cavalry of credit cards at the ready. Of course, being the recesisionista that I am, and also encountering the budgetary challenges of heating bills, this is not an option. Also, to be perfectly honest, I’ve never really been that inspired by fashion magazines. Firstly, they’ve got that styled-within-an-inch-of-their-life ethos, which is hard to put into practice, especially when the clock’s ticking and the hope of finding an available car park at uni is drawing ever closer to a snowballs’ in hell. Secondly, the whole disposable fashion thing raises numerous issues for me, in terms of the social and environmental implications – not to mention the storage ones! And finally, as I’ve said before on this blog, I don’t understand why we would all want to look the same, because then we’d get tired of looking at each other.
So, inspiration from fashion magazines; do not want.
Of course, one could argue that one draws inspiration from The Fabulous – those we admire and get all jelly-in-the-belly thinking about. The fabulous are not confined to the current flavours of the month – rather, they can be from any era, real or imagined, lauded or lampooned for their style. My personal list is too long and varied to go into here, but needless to say, it spans the known history of the world. But back to the point - dressing as a Fleetwood Mac era Stevie Nicks at my housewarming certainly got my creative juices flowing. There’s something mystical about taking on the mantle of another – of borrowing some of their shine – that can boost you even in the most trying of circumstances. Perhaps this is why ‘important’ people wear uniforms, or have ridged dress norms – it’s the hope that in dressing like a judge, a doctor, a rock star, or a politician, one might actually find oneself feeling like one. The same goes for dressing like The Fabulous – in times of inspirational crisis, it’s nice to borrow someone else’s shine for a while, especially when circumstances make it hard to be glossy in your own right.
However, borrowing someone else’s fabulousness can only last so long. It’s like a quick sugar hit – it keeps you ticking over, but eventually you have to take in something more sustaining. It occurred to me this morning, over my low GI nutritionally sounds breakfast of rye tost with tahini and honey, it’s the people we love that are the daily bread which both sustains and inspires me. How would we be creative with our style if there weren’t people at our breakfast tables, ready with the compliments and suggestions that stoke the fire of our sartorial inspiration? How would we continue to be enthusiastic teachers if we didn’t know our student were learning – if we didn’t have to read and grade their essays? And, most importantly dear readers, how would we continue to write if not for the gentle, and not so gentle, nudgings and naggings of our nearest and dearest? And, in a life full of dear ones, inspiration, sartorial or otherwise, is never too far away.
New house, dramas with new house and their resolution forthwith, 120 undergraduate essays and another 60 still to come, trips to Ikea, Goublburn, Queanbeyan, gardening, breakup with J-man, thesis, tutoring and counselling the kiddies, library fines, an early quarter- life ‘what-the-fuck-am-I-doing’ crisis, and a kicking housewarming.
Don’t you feel exhausted reading all that??? I do too, and I actually did it all!
So, I’m one busy lizzie, as you can see. And, as happens to the best of us, this busyness has left me feeling rather drained, in every way that a body can be. This, of course, extends to the sartorial. I’ve actually fantasised about coming to university in track pants. THE HORROR.
Which got me to thinking – how does one go about recharging one’s batteries – sartorially and spiritually? To who, where and what can one turn for inspiration when that creative kick up the pants is sorely needed?
Any newsstand would have you believe that inspiration, at least in a sartorial sense, comes from buying the latest Mari Claire and gallivanting off to DFO, backed by a cavalry of credit cards at the ready. Of course, being the recesisionista that I am, and also encountering the budgetary challenges of heating bills, this is not an option. Also, to be perfectly honest, I’ve never really been that inspired by fashion magazines. Firstly, they’ve got that styled-within-an-inch-of-their-life ethos, which is hard to put into practice, especially when the clock’s ticking and the hope of finding an available car park at uni is drawing ever closer to a snowballs’ in hell. Secondly, the whole disposable fashion thing raises numerous issues for me, in terms of the social and environmental implications – not to mention the storage ones! And finally, as I’ve said before on this blog, I don’t understand why we would all want to look the same, because then we’d get tired of looking at each other.
So, inspiration from fashion magazines; do not want.
Of course, one could argue that one draws inspiration from The Fabulous – those we admire and get all jelly-in-the-belly thinking about. The fabulous are not confined to the current flavours of the month – rather, they can be from any era, real or imagined, lauded or lampooned for their style. My personal list is too long and varied to go into here, but needless to say, it spans the known history of the world. But back to the point - dressing as a Fleetwood Mac era Stevie Nicks at my housewarming certainly got my creative juices flowing. There’s something mystical about taking on the mantle of another – of borrowing some of their shine – that can boost you even in the most trying of circumstances. Perhaps this is why ‘important’ people wear uniforms, or have ridged dress norms – it’s the hope that in dressing like a judge, a doctor, a rock star, or a politician, one might actually find oneself feeling like one. The same goes for dressing like The Fabulous – in times of inspirational crisis, it’s nice to borrow someone else’s shine for a while, especially when circumstances make it hard to be glossy in your own right.
However, borrowing someone else’s fabulousness can only last so long. It’s like a quick sugar hit – it keeps you ticking over, but eventually you have to take in something more sustaining. It occurred to me this morning, over my low GI nutritionally sounds breakfast of rye tost with tahini and honey, it’s the people we love that are the daily bread which both sustains and inspires me. How would we be creative with our style if there weren’t people at our breakfast tables, ready with the compliments and suggestions that stoke the fire of our sartorial inspiration? How would we continue to be enthusiastic teachers if we didn’t know our student were learning – if we didn’t have to read and grade their essays? And, most importantly dear readers, how would we continue to write if not for the gentle, and not so gentle, nudgings and naggings of our nearest and dearest? And, in a life full of dear ones, inspiration, sartorial or otherwise, is never too far away.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Revere, Not Fear
This Thursday, ten am, I teach my first tutorial. This is a moment that, as many of you will no doubt know, I have been looking forward to for quite some time. So, understandably, my chief concern is:
WHAT TO WEAR????
A part of me….heck, no, actually all of me, loves wardrobe firsts. Scientists say that scent is the most evocative sense of all – and, as a fragrance devotee, I certainly don’t underestimate the significance of the olfactory. Perhaps I’m a few steps up the evolutionary ladder, however, because for me, the sartorial is the sense that is most evocative of a particular time, place and moment. Whether it’s first dates, first days of school or uni, or the first time I saw the Sex and the City movie, the outfit I wore is encoded with more sensory memories than anything else associated with the event. Indeed, no matter how hard I try, my navy silk Saba frock will always and forevermore be known in my head and in my heart as The Lifeguard Dress – but perhaps that’s a story for another time. Likewise, yellow and green ribbons always evoke my first day of kindergarten, just as black cardigans bring to mind my first day at uni and the lovely German exchange student who chivalrously returned it to me after I’d abandoned it in my haste to leave the lecture theatre and have a cry in the ladies from COMPLETE NERVOUS EXHAUSTION – again, story for another time. I think perhaps you are getting the idea though – for me, clothes are the defining sense-memory of important events in my life.
For this reason, I’m understandably a little bit hung up about what to wear this Thurs, as my first ever teaching gig will no doubt rank as a keynote day in my life. Professionally, it’s the first actual step down the actual path of what I actually want to do with my actual life in the actual world of actual work. Personally, it’s an important marker of growing up – that the university trusts me, perhaps erroneously, with the little kiddies because they think the munchkins might be able to do some good learning with me. Little old me! Shucks.
Also, as was pointed out to me during a training session last week, we’re in the front line, the trenches (I’m direct quoting, not elaborating), with the students, in the battlefield that is the Australian National University (the bit about the battlefield was an elaboration on my part but it’s nonetheless fitting to extend the metaphor, don’t you think?). According to our instructor, our role as intellectual capitalists, extracting the most brain labour out of the student masses (switching to Marxist metaphors now) means that tutors need to inspire FEAR in their students – not a lot, but enough to keep them one step ahead of a boot up the backside.
Pedagalogicaly, this whole fear thing doesn’t sit too well with me. Yes, I want my students to take me seriously and do as I ask, to get their essays in on time (HA) and to be interested and engaged in the course materials (HA. HAHA. HA). But I’m not necessarily comfortable with deliberately making them afraid of me. After all, as we are continually told, we are their first point of contact with the university – an institution that is scary and alienating enough as it is, never mind my pathetic attempts to instil fear in my students.
It was over a slightly burnt but nonetheless elegant supper (caramelized onion tart and salad) with MiMi Goss that we hit upon the strategy I will employ in my tutorials. Rather than getting the kids to FEAR me, I will instead be aiming to have them REVERE me. Aside from being a nice little rhyme, replacing the fear with revere fits much more nicely with my attitude to teaching. Instead of making the students scared of what I might do if they don’t comply with my direction, I shall instead compel them down the path of good behaviour, critical engagement with the literature, and punctual submission of essays with my own fabulousness as the primary motivator.
When I look back over my little life, it’s the teachers who I’ve wanted to be like, who I’ve admired, worshiped – whom I have revered - that I’ve learnt the most from. All I can remember about the teachers I was afraid of was that I was that I was afraid of them – not the knowledge that they imparted.
So, having worked out my preferred pedagological position from a veritable Karma Sutra of positional options, all that remains is to find the perfect outfit - the outfit that inspires reverence, rathe than fear, indifference, or, worst of all, giggles.
Trouble is, every person has a different take on what this outfit should be. MiMi suggests curve hugging glamour, with clever accessoriation: Sookie Compton and Tara Samson, my new housemates, suggests kooky colour and layers respectively, for reasons of approachability and practicality. Zsuzannah Verona thinks that black and neutrals are a bad idea, and give off an impression of being a part of the staid academy rather than someone forging a new path: Kitty Gilfeather, on the other hand, thinks that black and white with lots of interesting texture and great jewellery sends the message that I’m to be respected as well as liked.
So much good advice, from so many trusted sources, makes for one confused prospective tutor.
Thus, it is in the spirit of collaborative sharing of knowledge and insight that I open the question to you, dear reader. On this most important day in my life – what should I, and should I not, wear?
WHAT TO WEAR????
A part of me….heck, no, actually all of me, loves wardrobe firsts. Scientists say that scent is the most evocative sense of all – and, as a fragrance devotee, I certainly don’t underestimate the significance of the olfactory. Perhaps I’m a few steps up the evolutionary ladder, however, because for me, the sartorial is the sense that is most evocative of a particular time, place and moment. Whether it’s first dates, first days of school or uni, or the first time I saw the Sex and the City movie, the outfit I wore is encoded with more sensory memories than anything else associated with the event. Indeed, no matter how hard I try, my navy silk Saba frock will always and forevermore be known in my head and in my heart as The Lifeguard Dress – but perhaps that’s a story for another time. Likewise, yellow and green ribbons always evoke my first day of kindergarten, just as black cardigans bring to mind my first day at uni and the lovely German exchange student who chivalrously returned it to me after I’d abandoned it in my haste to leave the lecture theatre and have a cry in the ladies from COMPLETE NERVOUS EXHAUSTION – again, story for another time. I think perhaps you are getting the idea though – for me, clothes are the defining sense-memory of important events in my life.
For this reason, I’m understandably a little bit hung up about what to wear this Thurs, as my first ever teaching gig will no doubt rank as a keynote day in my life. Professionally, it’s the first actual step down the actual path of what I actually want to do with my actual life in the actual world of actual work. Personally, it’s an important marker of growing up – that the university trusts me, perhaps erroneously, with the little kiddies because they think the munchkins might be able to do some good learning with me. Little old me! Shucks.
Also, as was pointed out to me during a training session last week, we’re in the front line, the trenches (I’m direct quoting, not elaborating), with the students, in the battlefield that is the Australian National University (the bit about the battlefield was an elaboration on my part but it’s nonetheless fitting to extend the metaphor, don’t you think?). According to our instructor, our role as intellectual capitalists, extracting the most brain labour out of the student masses (switching to Marxist metaphors now) means that tutors need to inspire FEAR in their students – not a lot, but enough to keep them one step ahead of a boot up the backside.
Pedagalogicaly, this whole fear thing doesn’t sit too well with me. Yes, I want my students to take me seriously and do as I ask, to get their essays in on time (HA) and to be interested and engaged in the course materials (HA. HAHA. HA). But I’m not necessarily comfortable with deliberately making them afraid of me. After all, as we are continually told, we are their first point of contact with the university – an institution that is scary and alienating enough as it is, never mind my pathetic attempts to instil fear in my students.
It was over a slightly burnt but nonetheless elegant supper (caramelized onion tart and salad) with MiMi Goss that we hit upon the strategy I will employ in my tutorials. Rather than getting the kids to FEAR me, I will instead be aiming to have them REVERE me. Aside from being a nice little rhyme, replacing the fear with revere fits much more nicely with my attitude to teaching. Instead of making the students scared of what I might do if they don’t comply with my direction, I shall instead compel them down the path of good behaviour, critical engagement with the literature, and punctual submission of essays with my own fabulousness as the primary motivator.
When I look back over my little life, it’s the teachers who I’ve wanted to be like, who I’ve admired, worshiped – whom I have revered - that I’ve learnt the most from. All I can remember about the teachers I was afraid of was that I was that I was afraid of them – not the knowledge that they imparted.
So, having worked out my preferred pedagological position from a veritable Karma Sutra of positional options, all that remains is to find the perfect outfit - the outfit that inspires reverence, rathe than fear, indifference, or, worst of all, giggles.
Trouble is, every person has a different take on what this outfit should be. MiMi suggests curve hugging glamour, with clever accessoriation: Sookie Compton and Tara Samson, my new housemates, suggests kooky colour and layers respectively, for reasons of approachability and practicality. Zsuzannah Verona thinks that black and neutrals are a bad idea, and give off an impression of being a part of the staid academy rather than someone forging a new path: Kitty Gilfeather, on the other hand, thinks that black and white with lots of interesting texture and great jewellery sends the message that I’m to be respected as well as liked.
So much good advice, from so many trusted sources, makes for one confused prospective tutor.
Thus, it is in the spirit of collaborative sharing of knowledge and insight that I open the question to you, dear reader. On this most important day in my life – what should I, and should I not, wear?
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