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.