Not a Love Knot

One evening last week I was standing at a tram stop chatting to a friend when the necklace around my neck slithered off like a snake. A jump ring had opened, unfastening the two ends. I coolly slipped the beads into my handbag. (I wouldn’t have been so calm if it had actually been a snake, I assure you.)

The repair was the work of a moment, and simply required a pair of jewellery pliers to open and close the jump ring. It was only afterwards that I saw the beads had entangled themselves into a knot. It looked a bit like a Celtic knot, I thought – a love knot perhaps?

A quick Google and I discovered a love knot is a more complicated affair (much like a love triangle). Celtic knots are intricately interwoven braids, and are perceived to be endless, symbolising eternity – hence the connection to lovers.

Celtic love knot ring from Beyond The Rockz on Etsy (sold)Celtic knot ceramic tile

Originally, interwoven patterns appeared in Roman handcrafts and mosaics, and knotted patterns appeared in the third and fourth centuries AD. The art form spread to the Byzantine, Coptic, Islamic and Celtic cultures, but it was the Celts who truly made the style their own. Knots, spirals, braid, step and key patterns took on rich symbolism, representing the seven creations: man, mammal, plant, insect, bird, fish and reptile.

Now here’s an appealing application: gladiator sandals interwoven with Celtic knots cleverly combine the two cultures from which knot patterns originated From North Italy it was a short hop to Southern Gaul. By the seventh century the braided patterns spread to all of Europe – and Ireland, where the broken and reconnected plaits formed the genuine Celtic knot style. Today it is predominantly associated with the Irish, Welsh and Scottish territories.

Not the kind of knot in my necklace however – that was a silly error. Much like some love affairs, on reflection.

Here’s what the necklace is meant to look like.

Seventies Addition

What sums up a Seventies look, so in this autumn/winter? In this case, I was inspired by a 1973 photo of my sister Blossom and her husband, lounging amongst the autumn leaves.

Just do the math: a headscarf + hoop earrings + big sunglasses + polo neck + chunky cardigan + wide-legged denim + giant tote = 1970s.

I didn’t have to spend a cent to create the right vibe though: I managed to cull a number of items from my regular wardrobe. In fact, all the garments I am wearing are modern, and the beauty of this is they are made of natural fibres: silk, wool, cotton. So many garments of that era that one finds in thrift shops are polyester – not the most comfortable of fibres to wear next to one’s skin.

The tote bag however, may be original Seventies, and it is actually real crocodile skin. I won it at auction on eBay for only AU$40 or so, which I think is an awesome bargain.

For some more inspiration check out this dreamy Australian Vogue fashion editorial The New Skirted You, also dating from 1973. Or click through for marie-claire’s modern interpretations.

Morticia’s Little Sister

Many years ago I owned a 1940s black lace frock with a swirly skirt perfect for dancing. It fitted me exactly. For some reason unbeknownst to man (or woman, namely: me), I culled it from my wardrobe. Ever since I came to my senses, I have been trying to find a replacement.

Dresses of that vintage aren’t easy to come by, especially relatively inexpensive, well-fitting ones. I would periodically trawl online vintage boutiques without much luck. Then this past March in Rosebud, a little Victorian seaside town, I visited a vintage store called Broadway Bazaar.

Hanging high on a wall, I espied what was surely a 1930s black lace dress. I asked to have it taken down, and tried it on. There were a few damaged areas where the lace netting was torn, and I discussed with my sister Blossom how best to repair them.

But then we discovered another catch. Several catches actually. The salesgirls on duty that day did not know the price, and the owner of that particular stall was not in, and couldn’t be reached. We agreed they would hold the dress for me, since I was on the Peninsula for the weekend, and they would let me know the outcome as soon as possible. The salesgirl bundled up the fragile dress and placed it on the floor behind the counter, which nearly drew forth a horrified burst of protest from me. (That’s my dress you’re manhandling there!) I barely managed to contain my emotions and tottered away.

The salesgirl bundled up the fragile dress and placed it on the floor behind the counter …

My three sisters and I continued to browse the store, and before we left I learned that the owner had returned the call. But she couldn’t name her price, and wasn’t sure she wanted to sell the dress. “But … but …” I wanted to stammer, “why on earth had she hung the dress up in full tempting view of potential buyers?!” The salesgirl perceived my speechless astonishment and prevaricated.

Some time later she returned and informed me that the owner had been talked into selling the dress, for she’d had it on display (fading in the sunlight) for several months and she should grab this opportunity. She had named her price, and had been further convinced she should slash it in half (the price, that is – the dress was already in tatters). “Done!” I declared, and rescued it from the floor.

Lace netting is torn along the neckline, and in several areas around the hipsIt transpired that we had to return to the bazaar the next day to make an additional rescue: my black onyx bangle had been left behind. Chatting to the salesgirl – a different one this time – we chanced to discover she was the prior owner of my new acquisition. She told me she had been so torn over the decision to sell it because she had hoped to lose enough weight to fit into it one day. (It fits me now, I wanted to reassure her it was going to a good home, but I didn’t want to rub salt in the wound.)

Blossom and I hurried away, before she could wrest it back from me – not that I was carrying it with me this time, but she could have chased us down to the car and rampaged through my luggage to find it. Who knows with these deranged and desperate vintage dealers.

A rare find, a black lace dress – especially of 1930s vintage – is an icon amongst black dresses …

And now, how to explain how after all I’ve said against black, here I am showing off yet another black garment? It is partly nostalgia for that long-ago lace dress I once owned, but it is special in itself – despite its flaws. A rare find, a black lace dress – especially of 1930s vintage – is an icon amongst black dresses, even if it is a Long Black Dress rather than a Little one.

It is, I think, made entirely from silk, and with such lovely details: pintucked panels between the lace sections, blouson sleeves, and a gorgeous mermaid hem that swirls when I twirl. It’s made for dancing, even if at present I feel like Morticia’s little sister dressed in cobwebs. But one day I shall take it to the ball. 

Spanish Souvenirs

Last year I got lost wandering the streets of Barcelona’s Barri Gòtic. This was a good thing (unlike getting lost in the Fez Medina, which was terrifying), because it is a wonderful way to discover all the hidden nooks and corners of the district, and all the delightful little shops hiding in them.

I spent a wonderful hour or so browsing in the shop Art Montfalcon, and eventually came away with a bundle of ceramic jewellery: a necklace and earring set, as well as two rings (oh, and a cool resin necklace that was supposed to be a gift, and which I, erm, ended up gifting to myself [hangs head in shame]).

The rings I only wear occasionally as they are fragile, but I adore the necklace and earrings and often show them the town. Thin, delicate disks, fashioned like buttons with holes through which the cord is threaded, are painted like textile swatches with different patterns. The colours – mint, chocolate and persimmon – are so pretty. They are Spanish souvenirs I will always treasure.

Widow’s Weeds

Really a Portuguese widow, stalking the treacherous cobbled streets of the Alfama district in LisbonBlack is, and has been for a long time, the colour of mourning in much of the western world, so it is interesting that the picture of a black-garbed, mourning widow is popularly associated with the Italians. Perhaps this is because in some parts of Italy it is customary for a grieving widow to never put off her blacks. In fact, this is also common in areas of Russia, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Portugal, Spain and Mexico.

The original ‘Italian widow’ is of course Queen Victoria, famous for her long grief over the death of her beloved Albert. However, strict social rules regarding mourning dress had been established long before Victoria ascended the throne.

Mourning ensemble, 1870

The Rules

Victorian jet mourning broochA widow was expected to mourn her husband for up to four years, which required her to lead a quiet, sober life as well as don the black apparel that showed respect for the decedent. To put off her blacks earlier was to court scandal and, if she was still young and attractive, risk a tarnished reputation as a loose woman.

During the first year of ‘full mourning’ her costume was black and constructed from matt fabric such as crêpe. Decorative trim too was simple, but especially non-reflective – hence the popularity of jet (gemstones cut from fossilised carbon) in the Victorian age*. Even her accessories were black, from shoes and parasols to fans and handkerchiefs. Frivolous hats were strictly forbidden; in their place simple black bonnets and heavy veils were worn.

Mourning bonnet, 1870s (usually worn with veil attached)

Mourning fan, 1887–89

Mourning dress, 1850s

Mourning coat, 1907Mourning dress, 1880

Mourning cape, 1895–1900

Mourning parasol, 1895–1900After a year had passed, a widow entered ‘half mourning’, and grey and lavender could be introduced into her wardrobe, and the widow could now sedately re-enter society, which had been proscribed to her during full mourning.

Unsurprisingly, a complete wardrobe makeover was costly, particularly for the lower classes, and overdying existing garments was a practical way to reduce the expense.

The rather picturesque term ‘widow’s weeds’ comes from the Old English word ‘waed’, which means ‘garment’ …

The rather picturesque term ‘widow’s weeds’ comes from the Old English word ‘waed’, which means ‘garment’, and it is easy to imagine what a somber vision these ladies must have presented on the streets of London, enveloped as they were in acres of fabric. The weight alone must have bowed their shoulders if grief did not!

Fashion Notes

I have often remarked that I rarely wear all black, and one of the main reasons is that I feel far too somber and funereal in it. The last time I wore this ensemble (many years ago now, with different skirt and shoes and sans veil – basically only the crocheted lace top and silhouette is the same!) a co-worker exclaimed that I looked like an Italian widow. I rather like this little outfit however – perhaps because it is so thematic, rather than everyday wear that happens to be black.

~

Gwyneth Paltrow in Possession (2002) *There is an interesting scene in the film Possession, (adapted from A.S. Byatt’s book of the same name), starring Gwyneth Paltrow, in which her character visits an antiques store in Whitby, England, to trace the origins of a jet brooch. (Incidentally, I really like Paltrow’s costumes in this film.)

Historical costume images from The Metropolitan Museum of Art, except for jet brooch. Click on images for further details on individual pieces.