Dreaming in Chinoiserie

I have always admired Oriental embroidery. I find it so lush and decorative; it always makes me think of the decadence of nineteenth century decorative arts, when a craze for Orientalism swept Europe.

In the past I have owned a gorgeous silk kimono – I donated it to the Salvation Army, alas. Although I have visited Hong Kong and China’s mainland twice, on neither occasion was there time to have a silk robe made to measure, and I certainly did not see any ready-made that came anywhere near to fulfilling my fantasies. So on my recent trip to Vietnam (famed for its tailors), I determined that I would have one made.

On my first night in Saigon I was browsing in a tailor’s chosen at random, and came across some sumptuous brocades that made my heart go pitter-pat. What astonishing colour and detail! Fat roses burst into bloom and rioted in glorious richness all over heavy swathes of silk. And over the flowers were birds of paradise with wings spread, picked out delicately in pale gold – like line drawings over watercolour. I dithered over the various colourways, but in the end could not but choose my favourite turquoise. The brocade was so special that I had to put down a larger deposit than was usual so the tailor could purchase it.

…over the flowers were birds of paradise with wings spread, picked out delicately in pale gold…

We lingered over the plain silks, trying to choose the best colour for the lining. In the end I went with a bright lime, (the exact shade of gold I wanted was not to be had), although afterwards I wished I had gone for the paler yellow. By the time I reached this conclusion, I was floating down the Mekong and it was too late to change my mind.

Length of the skirts and sleeves were discussed in detail, and then the tailor briskly measured me up; took a deposit and told me to return in three days. Perfect. While my brocade was being cut up and my kimono assembled, I would be discovering the delights of the Mekong Delta.

Despite the three-quarter sleeves, my kimono is warm enough for the deep-freeze of a Melbourne winter… I just need some glamorous pyjamas to match.

The backdrop is of the Kowloon Walled City Gardens.

If in doubt, throw it out

I look cute in this dress, I was told. Cute? Ugh. I needed no more criteria than that to decide it must be immediately culled from my wardrobe.

A little while ago I cleaned out my wardrobe – all those long-unworn items were ruthlessly tossed from their hangers.

I undertake this task periodically, and sometimes decision-making can be difficult: “But it’s really cute!” (devil on shoulder) … “But you haven’t worn it in three years!” (angel on other shoulder). In these thorny situations I dust off my old motto: If in doubt, throw it out.

This dress was an error right from its inception. I bought it on eBay after trawling through a search for items from Cue. I thought it was cute. Kinda 1920s. And I loved the putty colour combined with silvery-grey; the fabric is a kind of dull metallic taffeta. I knew my size in Cue. No problem, I thought. I pipped several other bidders at the post.

I must have been suffering from F.B.B.F. (Fashion Bargain Brain Fever).

But I had overlooked something. The problem became evident when the dress arrived: out of laziness, I had neglected to check its length, and I found it to be extremely short. Disgrace would be inevitable if I merely bent over to pick up a dropped pen.

I thought about having it altered, but I didn’t want to throw good money after bad. Finally, the solution I arrived at was to wear a slip under it. I wasn’t happy with this stop-gap measure, but my vintage petticoat features a scalloped hemline, and I decided to trust to ‘cuteness’ to carry it off.

Well, seemingly it worked. But I was … cute. No. Non, nein, nyet! What had I been thinking? I must have been suffering from F.B.B.F. (Fashion Bargain Brain Fever). It was a lost cause; it was time to throw in the towel and admit defeat.

Out of eBay it came; to eBay it must return.

Tomb Raider

(Above) Indian glass beads from a boutique in Greville St; Egyptian-style collar bought at the Camberwell Market years ago; base metal curvaceous necklace bought from Hobnob in Sassafras just a fortnight ago.

“I don’t like gold jewellery,” I used to loftily declare to my friends when I was young. I had developed this opinion because I didn’t like most of it that I saw when I was a teen in the 80s. It was very convenient, too, since it was far more expensive than silver and I couldn’t afford to buy it anyway.

Certainly I scorned the fake stuff: it went black and turned your skin green. The real gold jewellery some girls wore in high school I thought was common: chunky chains with twee little charms; plain round bangles; modest hoop earrings. They were usually gifts from their parents. And the pale yellow versions were worst of all.

But then one day something changed. I realised I actually adored gold. IF – and only if – it was the bright yellow, 22K stuff. The real deal. The sort of thing Indian brides wear. If it jingled that was just a bonus.

I realised I actually adored gold. IF – and only if – it was the bright yellow, 22K stuff… If it jingled that was just a bonus.

I have always admired jewellery from the ancient world: Egyptian, Etruscan, Greek, Persian, Roman, but particularly Egyptian. I loved the glass and stone beads, the scarabs, the ornate collars and so on. Jewellers at that time used gold in preference to any other metal: it was precious, didn’t tarnish, and its softness made it easy to work with.

Of course, I can’t afford to purchase these archaeological finds either.

A couple of years ago I saw a pair of 22K gold earrings from ancient Iran (Persia) in Gazelle, a jewellery boutique in the city. They were going for the modest sum of $700. I sighed, and admired them from behind the glass.

That was when I decided fake was good.

Qui a vu Coco dans l'Trocadéro

A film about a fashion designer? I’m there! … So the weekend saw me at a cinema, and I saw Coco Avant Chanel.

I didn’t know a great deal about Chanel’s history prior to her fame as a fashion designer, so the film was interesting as a biography of her early years. Of course, the filmmakers play fast and loose with the facts as they all tend to, but certainly Chanel did herself, so that is quite apt. But it’s quite true that she earned her nickname from a song that she sang as a cabaret dancer, about a little dog called Coco.

Although there is not a great deal depicted of her evolution as a fashion designer throughout the film, there are many lovely touches that hint at the revolutionary ideas Chanel was forming about the female figure. But the small glimpses one has of her atelier; of Coco cutting fabric and fashioning hats; of models wandering around in magical garments… they all left me hungry for more!

Fortunately there is another film about Chanel due for release at the end of the year, I read in an interesting article on the Telegraph’s website.

In the meantime, go and enjoy the beautiful cinematography and art direction (not to mention the costumes), and the charm of Audrey Tatou as Coco Chanel.

The Grand Entrance

I’m a little crazy about hats, and it must be said this hat is a little crazy. It’s big. It’s OTT (pun not intended). It looks like something a grand dame might have worn out on a morning call a hundred years ago.

I’ve never actually worn it out in public, but when I first saw it in Scally & Trombone in Fitzroy years ago, I decided I simply had to have it in spite of the equally enormous price tag. The designer’s name was Sandy F (with a cute zebra drawing on the label), about whom I can find out nothing now.

…the only thing my hat seems to have in common with Kate’s is sheer size…

The woman presiding over the shop however, told me the designer was inspired by the hat Kate Winslet wore in Titanic. From memory I think she referred to the scene when Kate makes her grand entrance with her darling husband-to-be dangling from her arm, a role played with aplomb by the dishy Billy Zane. However, as these pictures below show, the only thing my hat seems to have in common with Kate’s is sheer size – and the ability to have someone’s eye out if one is not careful.

Nor is my outfit quite as glamorous as Kate’s costume, but I rather like the Belle Époque silhouette. Though I think the coat, which I unearthed at Camberwell Sunday Market, dates from the 1940s rather than the 10s.

(NB. See me ham it up a little more in the Out-takes & Extras gallery.)