Out Of Granma’s Dusty Yurt

I quite like ethnic jewellery when it is quirky and interesting — preferably old, if not antique — and definitely not of airport souvenir ilk.

This necklace is actually made up of two separate pieces that originated on different continents, but they suit each other perfectly.

Woven from white seed beads, the necklace is vintage 1940s; I found it years ago at the Camberwell Sunday Market. I avoid wearing it with my hair down however, because it tends to get tangled in the tiny gaps between the beads. It immediately came to mind when I first held the tassel and pondered how to wear it. 

An Afghani vintage piece and one of a pair, the 20cm tassel pendant is from Palm Beads, a jewellery boutique I often browse in. These decorative tassels were originally worn by nomads, often in the hair. Some were hung in the yurt (to ward off the Evil Eye), although they, and other ethnic embroideries, are now viewed as rather old-fashioned.

I disagree, but I am not a nomad of course. For me it is a striking piece that conjures up exotic lands and times, rather than granma’s dusty yurt!

Love it? Here is another for sale.

What I Actually Wore #0036

Serial #: 0036
Date: 25/12/2009
Weather: forecast 31°, it reaches 26° at lunchtime
Time Allowed: days of forethought!

We like to dress up in my family for Christmas Day lunch. Actually, I should amend that to: the women in my family like to dress up for Christmas Day lunch. We tend to plan our outfit days or weeks ahead.

In the lead up to the big day, along with the standard questions of “Who’s hosting this year?” and “What dishes are you bringing?” is “What are you wearing?” Sometimes my sisters, nieces and I may have more than one option, depending on Melbourne’s unpredictable weather (it often storms on Christmas Day).

Invariably, the men merely turn up in shorts and t-shirts, ready for any eventuality such as tending barbecues, playing cricket in the backyard, and dealing with pet poop. (One dog got sent home in disgrace last Christmas.)

…I don’t think I have ever specifically gone shopping for a Christmas outfit:
I like to let serendipity decide.

However, I don’t think I have ever specifically gone shopping for a Christmas outfit: I like to let serendipity decide. Last November or December whilst browsing in the Salvos (a common pastime), I saw this lovely mint chiffon dress hanging up high on the wall. I immediately requested the salesgirl to retrieve it for me, and was in ecstasies when I discovered it fit me perfectly.

The salesgirl and another shopper (a stylist or costumier or the like) oohed and aahed in equal reverence. The stylist offered to fight me for it, but upon a casual reference to my taekwondo training, he laughed nervously and instantly backed away. Another shopping foe vanquished.

The shoes I found in an equally fluke-ish way in another charity shop. Normally I shy away from synthetics, but red satin peeptoes for $12! How could I resist them? And the vintage pearl shoeclips were found on another op-shop counter for $10. They were perfect for the red shoes. The red grosgrain headband is from Alannah Hill.

I do love mint and bright red together; it’s a classic combination, and a subtler take on the traditional Christmas theme.

Items:

Dress: vintage, Collette After 5
Headband: Alannah Hill
Rings: Roun
Watch: Kenneth Cole
Shoes: Barkins
Shoeclips: vintage; check out Emmersen

In: Polkadots. Out: Lace.

Sob. Another coveted belonging destroyed, this time by the elements.

Last year I was holidaying in Vietnam, the end of my trip coinciding with the start of the monsoon season.

Of course the rains started early and I have not a few memories of being caught out in them, most notably riding down a mountain through a dangerous rockslide on the back of a motorbike. A more pleasant recollection: sitting inside an icecream parlour, sipping on delicious lychee syrup with orange icecream, and watching Pasteur St become so flooded the water quite literally lapped at my toes.

[I was] sitting inside an icecream parlour … watching Pasteur St become so flooded the water quite literally lapped at my toes.

I had already bought and discarded one nasty umbrella, and in Saigon I realised I needed to purchase another. I found a pretty fold-up umbrella with a lace pattern in blue and beige – right up my alley – in MNG.

About a week after I returned home, there was a wild storm in Melbourne. I unfortunately chose that very afternoon for a jaunt into the city to replenish my art supplies. Foolishly I opened my new umbrella in the midst of a gale: a disastrous decision. One of the spokes immediately snapped.

In denial, (I hate it when souvenirs break), I repaired the damage by means of wire and some gaffa tape. Since then, a second spoke has snapped, and I was forced to admit it was done for.

A ludicrously frivolous replacement has been found: candy pink, with ruffles and polka dots. The label: Michiko Koshino; the source: a new boutique called Lion in Love. I am almost scared to use it; it is as fragile and light as its predecessor, and probably doomed to be as short-lived.

…sometimes I feel like Mary Poppins, about to take off in a high wind…

Ever opened a vintage umbrella? The spokes are made from steel, and there are always twice as many as their modern counterparts. Alright, so sometimes I feel like Mary Poppins, about to take off in a high wind, but they are robust.

They just don’t make them like they used to. Yet another example of the capitalist conspiracy against consumers: make ’em breakable, and replaceable. If it wasn’t for the fact we desperately need the rain, I’d be praying for good weather!

The Big Tragic Hole

A favourite pair of wool trousers – chocolate brown with thin pink pinstripes – sported a big tragic hole in the knee. I had fallen over while racing for a train. It was apparently imperative I catch that particular train, not the one that was due to arrive two minutes later.

As I ran up the ramp, one foot was caught up in the flapping trouser of the opposite leg, and down I went. And all I got for my pains was a bloody knee and an enormous hole in my pants.

Did I at least make the train, you ask? I actually can’t recall – the mental affliction of the ruined trousers has obliterated any other memory of that day.

…one foot was caught up in the flapping trouser of the opposite leg, and down I went.

However, I decided I couldn’t possibly throw these pants out before attempting their repair. (I have done this in the past with other holey trousers to my regret. But then, those holes were chewed by moths, and I cannot be held accountable for fashion-rage caused by evil winged creatures of the night.)

So I sat down one evening recently and inspected the hole. It was, I saw (at about the size of a 15¢ piece, if such a coin existed), too vast a chasm to simply sew the edges together. The hole would have to be filled with something.

I trimmed the frayed edges and made the hole even bigger. My heart dropped. I brought out the iron and placed some brown ‘iron-on mend-it’ material (the fabric equivalent to spak-filler) on the inside. The heat of the iron forged the nice wool and ugly mending fabric into one.

Next I brought out an assortment of frills and furbelows and sundry other fripperies. Giant poodle? Cute, but No. Pretty cream lace flowers? They stood out like the proverbial, and besides, were not big enough to hide the eyesore. Black lace leaf it would have to be. At about 3cm wide and 2 high, it would just cover the atrocity.

I took pains to sew it on with the smallest stitches I could muster. It wasn’t easy I can tell you. I had to stuff one hand up the rolled trouser leg and force the needle through several thicknesses of fabric. I got quite sweaty and cross, but many pin-pricks and a sore neck later, voila! Ze trousers, she is finished!

The final result is much more subtle than the picture shows; one doesn’t notice the patch at first glance. (Although the first few times I wore them, I kept going to brush off the black thing attached to me.) I have decided they are fine: just a little quirky. After all, nobody’s perfect. 

All Angles

Geometric Hat, The Vintage Hat Series. Rosil, New York City.A black, wool felt hat alights like a streamlined angular bird on my head: a poetic description for an unusual and dramatic 1940s hat. At every turn of the head, a completely different silhouette emerges; am I Napoleon, or a heroine from a Forties movie in it?

It fits sweetly like a cap on the back of the head, while the brim, fanning out a bit like a bonnet, is trimmed with an olive green ostrich feather. Then there is the dashing flap that kicks out on the right temple, as though the hat wants to proclaim, “It might be wartime, but I sure got a whole lotta style”.

During the war years, when women’s fashionable propensities were curtailed by rationing, hats were one of the few items from a woman’s wardrobe that were not – perhaps because they were locally made, one source online suggests. Although fabrics were rationed, many trims used in millinery were not.

(Left) Hats from 1941 and (right) 1943. Images from www.fashion-era.com.

However, showing untoward interest in the fripperies of fashion was in considerably bad taste. A simplified style in dress was essential if a woman wanted to appear patriotic: short, straight skirts and boxy jackets, inspired by the uniform so many wore. So we have a dichotomy in hat styles: the severe military look with little trim (if any), versus tiny tilt hats, and variations on the beret that explode with a multitude of ribbons, feathers, netting and fabric flowers.

A woman’s serious suit might declare it to be wartime, but her jaunty hat could proclaim, “Where there’s life, there’s hope.”

Read more about 1940s hats here, and click here to view a great selection of pages from 1930s-50s French Marie-Claire.