What I actually wore #0014

Serial #: 0014
Date: 25/12/2008
Weather: Warm
Time Allowed: 15 minutes

It was Christmas Day, and we were going to brunch at the Shangri-La Hotel. I wanted – not unnaturally – to wear something a little festive, and I had plenty of party dresses to choose from. However, it transpired too many of them were too revealing.

I modelled the silver for X, and we agreed that this dress was better left for a house party. While he disappeared to iron his shirt, I slipped into this diagonally striped dress. I’d bought this dress on eBay a while back, but deemed it too pretty and frilly for my city persona. X was much more approving of it though. It was demure, he said, yet still sexy. But my shoulders were bare.

“Perhaps you should cover them until we’re in the hotel,” he suggested.

My options were limited, and this time the chocolate Zara jacket did not make the grade; it looked totally wrong. Instead, I flung this black and silver Lurex shawl around my shoulders, going ‘pattern on pattern’ as fashion editors are forever encouraging their readership to do. Of course, they always say if you stick to the same colour palette, it works. In my case the tenuous connection were my silver sandals, but it meant I could get away with carrying my new black bag.

I had already decided that my other new bag of silver satin did not match the dress, so that left the hard alligator-stamped clutch from Aldo. This evening bag shopping frenzy had been brought on by my forgetting to bring one with me to Dubai; it was this genuine Glomesh bag that I had meant to pack. I had bought it for $12 at the Camberwell Market years ago from a lovely older woman. A brilliant vintage find for me, to her it was an old, unused bag from her youth.

My earrings were found in a shop in Muttrah Souq in Oman, and this was their first outing.

Items:
Dress: Veronika Maine
Shawl: Zara
Bag: Aldo
Shoes: Zoe Wittner
Earrings: Muttrah Souq
Rings: Roun

She, dark angel

She, dark angel lifts her veiled eyes
To the empyrean o’erhead, and sighs,
What sovereign light is that? in thrall
Alas her wings were of glory clipped,
She has no more the strength to soar,
And bitter, rues her untimely fall:
When from the highest perch she slipped.

~

Neither Milton nor Shelley could help me with their notions of angelic beings: they wrote of ministering angels and muses. My poor little dark angel simply finds herself in a plight; no angel of death is she.

So I wrote myself a verse from an epic in the style of these poets. I don’t know the rest of her story, how or why she fell. Perhaps all she needs is a tall mountain to climb, a springboard to launch her back into the heavens from whence she came.

I looked for quotations about angels, and found two lines that intrigued me until I discovered their context. It was interesting to learn that both poets mourn a lost friend, and Shelley was inspired during the writing of his poem by one of Milton’s – the very one I had already considered. I call that a pretty serendipity of sorts.

A purity of form

I always enjoy reading US Glamour. Some of my favourite columns are Michael Kors’ designer tips, and the hilarious Dos & Don’ts page. Jake’s column is always good for a laugh too. However, I rarely sigh with sheer pleasure. When I turned the page and saw this spread though, I did gasp at the white, sculptural minimalism of Francisco Costa’s designs for Calvin Klein Spring 2009 RTW (although I must concur with Style.com’s review). What beautiful purity of form and (non) colour! Those seams remind me of Frank Gehry’s architecture.

These are just the style of clothes I love to wear – although I must be a little more ingenious at finding them with my limited means: young Melbourne designers, vintage, or labels like Veronika Maine or Cue. Of course, I do indulge in sartorial eccentricities upon occasion, but I feel most myself wearing this kind of look.

Some of Glamour writer Kim Bonnell’s words on the subject:

“Costa… stays away from flourishes like major sparkles and outsize buttons and prints, paring down while rethinking the line and structure of a dress, sleeve or collar. [Costa] has mastered this minimal-plus formula, not least of all because he’s an expert tailor. That skill is what allows him to make pieces that, when stripped down to their fabric and thread, are interesting purely because of how they’re curved or seamed.”

“…Costa took photos from his fall runway show and sliced them up, creating patterns for boldly angled sheath dresses with deep origami pleats and long, geometric-sleeve coats.”

“Stick to a mostly monochromatic palette, but vary textures… Keep accessories neutral… Show skin in a calculated way with sheer materials and one-shoulder silhouettes. And above all, seek out strikingly contoured pieces, whether a jacket with a big collar or a bubble skirt.”

I suddenly feel inspired to spring-clean my wardrobe … and start afresh for autumn.

From US Glamour, February 2009. Photographs: Walter Chin.

Slav to fashion

Late last year my sister and niece went on a trip to Europe. I was thrilled to see photos of my parents’ house in Croatia, abandoned since they fled it 40 years before; gone to romantic rack and ruin and grown over with shrubs. I also immensely enjoyed hearing them argue which was the front entrance and which the side as they poured over the photos. (It was hard to tell with all the vines.)

Another remarkable souvenir was this photograph of my great-grandmother Mary. My niece took a snap of it at the home of a relative. Unfortunately, little is known of Mary, but the faint, enigmatic smile on her lips fascinates me.

My mother is not sure of her age, but by a convoluted route starting with my mum, about 14, asking her grandmother’s age, about 60, we arrived at the conclusion that this photo was taken some time in the 1920s – no later than 1930, dad insisted – and my great-grandmother is probably about 30. Perhaps we should have the photo carbon dated.

Unfortunately, little is known of Mary, but the faint, enigmatic smile on her lips fascinates me.

Mary is dressed in her best clothes, an embroidered underskirt and blouse, with the apron and shawl over the top. Note the coin necklaces and cross. A pious Catholic lady, I think she is clasping a Bible here. I suspect she had long hair that would have been plaited and then wound into a bun under that scarf – that’s how my own grandmother wore her hair right into old age.

My mum remembers her grandmother piercing her ears when she was about four. Her own mother came home, was properly horrified, and promptly removed the offending gold jewellery much to my mother’s disappointment. I’ve also been told that Mary’s husband apparently was not a nice man: his neighbours disliked him enough to accuse him of some unknown crime. He was taken away by the Partisans in the middle of the night and was never seen nor heard from again.

I do adore Mary’s traditional costume though, with all the embroidery and mismatched patterns – it was probably quite brightly coloured. In the photo at left, my aunt (centre) and two friends wear similar garments on some special occasion, in 1967. I dearly wish I had one of these outfits. Unfortunately, my mother did not bring any with her to the land of milk and honey. (I have, however, inherited two of my grandmother Amanda’s enormous pillows, stuffed with Yugoslavian duck down – don’t tell AQIS.)

So, I am excited about all the ethnic-inspired fashion I’ve seen in shop windows recently. For a week I admired this dress whenever I walked past Country Road on my way home, before finally giving in to temptation. I was told stock had only been in the store for a day or two and had nearly all been sold.

I’ve worn the dress as a tunic, teaming it with my Ali-baba pants for a Russian Cossack look. However, I am reading Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott here, and I do wonder what Mary would think of my mustachios! Perhaps she would merely smile enigmatically and shake her head at the folly of youth.

Truth, Love, and Roses

A few days ago I had a conversation on Messenger with X that went a little something like this (well, er, exactly like this – typos included):

Me i'll let you know now as well, because I'm sure now it hasn't occurred to you…
Me i'm not expecting anything for Valentine's Day
Me (that's this special day that many western couples spend together
Me going to dinner,
Me sending flowers
Me buying cards, chocolate…
Me that sort of thing)
X don't tell me you celebrate valentines day..
Me it's very commercialised
X :(
Me uh
X yuck...
Me If you read the above
X girl germs...
Me I said I'm NOT expecting anything
X oh...
Me just clariftying
X k...
X no flowers... check
X no card... check.

So these flowers did not come from X via Interflora. Nor did I buy them for myself. No, some romantic chap sent five bouquets to a friend of mine – one for each year he had been in love with her – and being the lovely lass she is, she decided to share the joy rather than greedily carry them all home for herself. Unfortunately for him, the besotted young man’s love remains unrequited.

This is a true story.

So no chocolates; no flowers; no heart-shaped, lace-trimmed card; no serenade on your doorstep at midnight? Cheer up, it really could be worse. Happy Valentine’s Day.

Love,
Princess.
xx