Shirt Tales

I am very rarely a shirt wearer. Shirts make me feel hemmed in, like I am suffering a slow death by strangulation. You could build a prison entirely from a white shirt. In fact, they have: it’s called a straight jacket. Yep, I am here to officially debunk the myth that it is essential to own a classic white shirt.

This shirt by She’s Beck I am wearing, with its widely spaced beige pinstripes, is the closest thing I have that would qualify. It has a giant concertina pleat in place of a shoulder seam, ruched sleeves, and waistcoat-style front closure. Altogether it encapsulates a witty take on the harried office-worker. Therefore, not your typical white shirt, and it just passes muster on these grounds. Yet it’s still a shirt, and I can seldom bring myself to wear it.

You could build a prison entirely from a white shirt. In fact, they have: it’s called a straight jacket.

Shirts also smack too much of offices and accountants and busy little worker ants scuttling around on their repetitive and tedious tasks in strict time to the telephone. Not to mention school. And who wants to be reminded of that when you’re dressing up to go out?

The white shirt connotes regimentation; uniformity; rigidity. I don’t care if Audrey wore one stylishly* (as one blogger rhapsodised). That hackneyed phrase ‘the classic white shirt’ just makes me yawn.

Spread your wings: how fab is this shredded white shirt that isn’t a shirt? It’s by Stacey J. Lee.

Fortunately for me, my chosen career path has not lead me to employment with companies with restrictive dress codes – the kind where you are also obliged to wear beige pantyhose at the height of summer, and only natural shades of hair colour are permitted. (Not that I want to dye my hair pink, but I might one day. So it’s just nice to know I have that option.)

I have therefore always pooh-poohed fashion editors’ pushing the essential, classic, perfect white shirt. And I don’t at all subscribe to that slight sense of guilt one feels reading those prescriptive lists of all the ‘classic’ items we should harbour in our wardrobe, but don’t.

Cool unclassic white shirts from Palmer//Harding. These are really blouses: see, no collar!

While we’re on the subject, I don’t much like classic white t-shirts either – mainly because I utterly loathe and despise crew necks for the same reason I dislike shirts: I feel like I am slowly being throttled. Plus, they make me look like a pinhead. On the other hand, blouses are fine – because they don’t have collars. They are usually soft and unstructured and make me feel languorous rather than hot and bothered and wanting to smack someone out of Shirt Rage.

I’ve managed to muddle through life quite nicely thank you – shirtless, and lived to tell the (shirt) tale.

* In Roman Holiday

Mayday, May Day Already!

Heavens, it’s the first of May already! That means it’s May Day spring festival … only it’s the last month of autumn here in old Melbournetown, so I’ll be celebrating falling leaves instead of spring blossoms. And I’m going to do it with this gorgeous photo out of the family archives, of my sister Blossom and her husband in 1973 (I think this may have been taken when they were living in Canada). I remember loving this photo when I was a child, and I still do.

Blossom was such a style queen – I love looking at photos of her in those days. Check those big sunglasses, and the totally teal skivvy and navy shoes – such a 70s colour palette she’s wearing. And dig those flares on my bro-in-law! 

The Black Onyx Bangle That Went Astray

Although I don’t go in for black clothes much, I do have a black bangle that I adore. A few weeks ago while holidaying with my sisters in Sorrento (Victoria, not Italy, alas), we spent a delightful hour or so browsing in Rosebud’s Vintage Bazaar. I took an armload of garments into the changing room to try on, chief among them a divine black lace 1930s dress. (Yes black, in spite of the fact I opened this story talking about my indifference to black, but 1930s black lace is quite another matter. However, that’s a tale for another time.)

The buttoned cuffs on the blouson sleeves of this dress were quite narrow, and the fabric delicate, so I had to remove the bangle to withdraw my hand from the sleeve (I was too lazy to undo all the buttons). I put it down on a side table in the large dressing room. There was much deliberation and discussion of my proposed purchase of the dress with my talented seamstress sister Blossom, because it needed quite a bit of repair work; and hemming and hawing on the part of the owner who was reluctant to name a price because she didn’t really want to sell it because she hoped to one day fit into it. (But I fit into it now!) Finally I flounced out (with the dress).

It wasn’t until the next afternoon when I was packing my bags prior to our departure for Melbourne that I suddenly thought,

WHERE IS MY BLACK BANGLE?

I could not remember the last time I saw it. Frantically I scrabbled through my bags, searching all the pockets, the bathroom, the closet, my coat pocket, the bag, the tallboy drawers, my handbag … before I had to face the gruesome fact: my bangle was nowhere to be found.

Did I mention that I really love this bangle? It was a souvenir from a holiday in Vietnam four years ago. I wore it nearly every day, even though it drove me bonkers, clattering on my desk whenever I used my keyboard. It was so nice and shiny and glossy and perfectly symmetrical and smooth. I loved this bangle. Some cogitation dredged up the memory of removing it from my wrist in the bazaar. How could I have been so stupid as to LEAVE IT BEHIND IN A CHANGING ROOM of a VINTAGE STORE with no inventory of its stock?

… I had to face the gruesome fact: my bangle was nowhere to be found.

Correct hand position for prayers of fashionLuckily I had kept their business card, and fortuitously we would be passing through Rosebud on our way home. There was no answer to my phonecall the first time, but I left a slightly panicked message on the machine. When I rang back later I spoke to a woman who said she would try to contact the girls who’d been working the previous day to find out if they knew anything. I lamented to my sisters that I had already successfully smashed two onyx rings, and Lily suggested perhaps that I was not meant to own any onyx jewellery. I instantly eschewed this infamous notion.

Many anxious, nail-biting moments later we arrived in Rosebud, and whilst Lily callously elected to go for a stroll along the beach, Blossom and I walked to the bazaar. During that long walk, I prayed that my bangle would be found, like the lost sheep.

… I prayed that my bangle would be found, like the lost sheep.

I raced to the changing room, and threw myself to my knees (not to pray this time, but to search the floor under the sundry furnishings in the changing room). All I found for my trouble was dustballs.

Disconsolately, I made my way back to the front desk, where I could see Blossom talking to a salesperson. The woman had her hand in the air. 

JOY TO THE WORLD! She was waving my black bangle, and tearfully I claimed it, pressing kisses … No, I exaggerate. (But only slightly.) It was dear, dear Blossom in fact, who had rifled through a box of junk by the register and found it. I was so happy to have my bangle return to the fold. And this tragedy all came about through my laziness to undo buttons. Let that be a lesson to me.

But all’s well that end’s well, eh?

A Fair Lady

Well, since I was talking about that legendary dress yesterday, here is the one and only Audrey Hepburn, all dressed up for Royal Ascot. She’s in costume for My Fair Lady. The dress I saw in Grandma Take A Trip was white with black polka-dots, and rather shorter, but it possessed something of the lively spirit of this lace gown. (Though I can’t help but shudder at how dirty the hems of ladies’ dresses must have got once upon a time!)

What spectacular costumes Cecil Beaton did create indeed. No wonder in 1964 he won Academy Awards for Best Art Direction and Best Costume Design.

Tatiana Takes A Trip

At Grandma’s in Surrey Hills :: Watts // Big Up // No flash

I hadn’t been to Sydney for years, particularly with leisure time to go vintage shopping. I had a friend who knew her way about Surrey Hills, but I had a stroke of luck at the airport the morning I left: I purchased the latest issue of Grazia for a pleasant hour’s plane reading material. Serendipitously there was a story on vintage shopping in it. Perfect!

Already familiar with the Melbourne boutiques listed, I was looking forward to checking out some of these legendary names: The Vintage Clothing Shop (very expensive I decided, at least compared with online vintage shopping, as well as with Melbourne prices), Zoo Emporium, Grandma Takes A Trip …

A Beguiling Trip :: Watts // Big Up // No flash

A Visit to the Zoo :: Watts // Big Up // No flash

The prices at the latter pair, as well as a few others I visited in the area, were much more reasonable, and on a par with shops at home. Zoo Emporium had a basement store that had slashed prices storewide by 50% – gotta love that. And at Grandma Takes A Trip I fell in love with an utterly frivolous white and black polka-dotted, ruched 80s party dress. But I already own a black and white polka-dotted tiered 80s party dress, and I really didn’t need to own its polar opposite. I dared not even try it on for fear I would be tempted. (It reminded me of Audrey Hepburn’s race dress in My Fair Lady – enough temptation.) My friend bought a gorgeous pair of impeccable vintage navy leather heels – 60s I think. Lucky, she with her tiny vintage-sized feet.

But I did not come away empty-handed: I scored an enormous hat at Zoo Emporium that I could foresee was going to cause me considerable trouble at the airport … but that’s a tale for another day.

Australian Grazia magazine, (first week of) March 2012 issue. Click image for larger version.