Princesa Tatiana

Francisco Goya’s Doña Isabel de Porcel, c. 1805Many years ago in a grade 9 art class our teacher gave us the task to copy an old painting. He opened the drawers of a plan press full of prints of old masters, and I pulled out Francisco Goya’s Dona Isabel de Porcel. I thought she was beautiful, with her creamy skin and all the drama of that luscious black lace. I rendered her in soft pastels, and impressed my teacher.

So when I was in Barcelona last year, I hoped to find a few traditional garments: a mantilla and comb, a flamenco skirt and fan, perhaps a piano shawl, but I was sorely disappointed.

The only flamenco skirt I found was made in cheap and nasty polyester, and was expensive to boot. On the last afternoon I discovered a little boutique specialising in Spanish shawls. Of course the ones I liked most were antiques, costing over €500 apiece. I did find a little vintage fan however (I assume it was vintage by the very old box it came in), although I doubt it is any older than the 50s or 60s. 

At home, I researched paintings of Spanish women and cobbled together an outfit from the depths of my closet. The taffeta skirt is vintage 50s; I had found it on eBay some time before and forgotten I had it – I thought it was perfect for a Spanish lady. The blouse is an old favourite, the 40s gloves have been with me for years, and my white ‘mantilla’ is a souvenir from Vietnam. The filigree earrings are actually from Portugal, a cheap imitation of the extremely beautiful sterling silver pieces I admired but didn’t buy.

The crowning touch is the flowers in my hair. I found a wonderful blog entry focussing on strong Spanish women in the art of the 19th and 20th centuries. They don’t all wear black lace, but nearly all are adorned with a flower or three of some sort. Click through to admire them at It’s About Time.

(The backdrop in my image is of the Palácio Nacional de Sintra, Portugal, the only palace in Sintra in which one was permitted to take photographs.)

Gaudi’s Fruitcups

Background image taken at Park Güell

Antonio Gaudi’s gloriously colourful and imaginative architecture epitomises Barcelona for me. Who could fail to gasp at the Sagrada Familia, or be delighted by the whimsical mosaics snaking around the perimeter of Park Güell? Meandering through the giftshops of several monuments to his genius, I looked in vain for suitable mementoes of my visit. It was all ugly, touristy and tacky, I decided, unworthy of my euro (not to mention my miserly baggage allowance). 

Background image taken at Casa Batlló

In tandem with this goal was my desire to find some traditional Spanish costumes to feature in this Foreign Exchange section on SNAP. But I had not anticipated that traditional costumes would not be easy to unearth in Barcelona. I had found an antique white lace blouse, and also a vintage fan, but that was all. On my last day I found some nasty polyester flamenco dresses in an out-of-the-way costume shop, but they too I deemed unworthy of my tourist dollar. 

On the other hand (literally), I had been delighted to purchase some lovely ceramic jewellery, and it dawned on me that the two chunky ceramic rings reminded me of nothing so much as some of Gaudi’s architectural devices, namely those bonbon-like fruitcups soaring high above Sagrada Familia. They would be a fair reminder of Gaudi and this magical city Barcelona, I decided. 

Fruitcup spire on Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia

Fruitcup spire on Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia

And in the few minutes before my departure, I found something else quite by chance. I had already browsed through Custo Barcelona and had seen nothing I particularly liked. I was all too gaudy for me. I really tried though, because after all, the label is named after the city. Killing time, I walked into a duty-free store at the airport, and there on a table I found some sequinned tank tops. One took my fancy: colourful and fragmented, catching and refracting the light, it too reminded me of Gaudi’s mosaics. But it’s particularly the rings that remind me of Barcelona: whenever I wear one of them I smile – the mark of a good souvenir. 

Background image taken at Park Güell

Day Dress

The Vietnamese national costume is the ao dai – a long, tight-fitting tunic worn over trousers – today most commonly worn by women. Having one custom-made was at the top of my list of things to do before I left Saigon.

A Capsule History

The ao dai, pronounced ow-yai in the South where I spent most of my time (ow-zye in the North) has had an interesting history since its inception in the 18th century. It began as a simple long, buttoned coat and trousers, but by the 19th century it became more elaborate: it was looser, with several more layers and favoured by aristocrats.

In 1930, inspired by Paris fashions it was redesigned along Art Deco lines and caused a sensation. But it was in the 1950s that Saigon designers tightened the fit to create the familiar modern version. The communists frowned on it during the 1960s and 70s; economic crisis, famine and war combined to make put the ao dao completely out of favour in the 1980s. It was worn only at weddings and other formal occasions.

A 1989 beauty contest began an ‘ao dai craze’ that lasted for several years… 

In the late 1980s the ao dai had a renaissance, when schools and state enterprise reinstituted the dress as a uniform again. A 1989 beauty contest began an ‘ao dai craze’ that lasted for several years and lead to wider use of the dress as a school uniform. Today the outfit is no longer politically controversial, and is in fact supported by the government and linked to patriotic feeling. During my visit I saw many women wearing it on the street.

Looking for a Tailor

My guidebook highly recommended a tailor on Pasteur St, and I set off on my motorbike taxi. However, the tailor turned out to be a grand boutique; the fabrics designer – with designer prices. The one I chose was a white silk background with a pattern of huge branches of coral all over it. It was quite graphic and very Roberto Cavalli. But the final cost was calculated at over $100. I did not have enough cash on me to pay a deposit, and since they could not accept a credit card, I regretfully left the store.

I decided on a sleeveless tunic, made from a white silk with a stylised chrysanthemum pattern…

Back in the humbler vicinity of my hotel, I found a little tailor where the fabrics were plainer. For US$25 I could have my ao dai tunic and trousers custom-made from silk fabric. I decided on a sleeveless tunic, made from a white silk with a stylised chrysanthemum pattern in black and a smoky blue. The high-waisted trousers traditionally are black or white, but I chose a flowing silver grey silk satin. The lady helping me seemed quite surprised at first, but then she grew enthusiastic as we looked at the fabrics side by side.

She took my measurements and I subsequently had only one fitting, and the ao dai was finished two days later. I love it and feel so elegant wearing it, and will do exactly as suggested by the lady fitting me: wear it to a wedding this March. 

No-one Wears the Pants

Travelling along the Mekong River in Vietnam last year, I visited a Cham village. The Cham are an ethnic group in Southeast Asia, and are the remnants of the Kingdom of Champa, that ruled much of Vietnam from the 7^th to the 15^th centuries; there are smaller populations in Cambodia and Malaysia, and most live in riverside villages.

The society is matriarchal – our guide informed us with a wink that it was the women who wore the pants in Cham society – unlike elsewhere in Vietnam! However, you won’t find anyone actually wearing pants in a Cham village – except perhaps the little children running around.

…you won’t find anyone actually wearing pants in a Cham village…

Traditionally, both sexes wear a sarong-like garment called a batik, which is worn knotted at the waist. I was shown how to wrap and knot my own brightly coloured batik, woven from cotton in the village I bought it from. Men usually wear a shirt over their batiks, and the women close-fitting blouses that are open at the throat and have tight sleeves. Their customary headdress is a turban or scarf (both of which you can see in the snapshots above).

My lilac scarf is triangular, and trimmed in lavender crochet; I was shown how to wrap it around my head and hair by one of the villagers. The linen shirt was tailored to fit me better while I waited in a nearby Saigon café; the leather thongs, various coloured jade bangles and silver earrings were all purchased in local markets. Although not all of the pieces conform strictly to Cham dress, the combination does create a charming effect!

From India With Love

Brightly coloured like the plumage of exotic birds; bejewelled, bemirrored and twinkling in the sun; silken pleats and draperies fluttering in a wayward breeze: the saree is arguably the epitome of Indian fashion – if not culture. I am privileged to watch my friend Anamika robe herself in one, and bedeck herself in gold jewellery.

A saree (not ‘sari’ as is commonly spelled in the West) is an heirloom. Traditionally they are made from silk georgette, satin, lace and cotton-silk blends. The most expensive sarees that are heavy with embroidery and favoured by Bollywood stars can cost up to $5000; a high quality version for a mere earthbound mortal will set her back at least $500 or more (how long is a piece of silk?).

Made from bright coloured pure silk with real gold or silver worked into them, the most embellished is a kanjeevaram: like a Chanel bag it is handed down from mother to daughter and treasured. Made in South India, and up to 9m in length, it is 4–5m longer than the usual saree; it is its sheer weight that usually excludes it from all but the most special occasions.

…like a Chanel bag it [a saree] is handed down from mother to daughter and treasured.

The donning of a saree is not confined to class: any young woman may wear one, beginning around 18 years; traditionally it is a coming-of-age dress. The saree can drape on either shoulder, and a well-fitting bodice and petticoat are worn underneath (and one would never parade in front of men clothed only in these). It is not easy to wrap however. Anamika recalls the first time she wore a saree to a school function when she was 14 years old. It had come undone, and finding it impossible on her own, she gathered up the pleats and ran to her teacher for help!

It is the pleating of the fabric that is the most difficult, Anamika says: the pleats must be the same size; the hem look even, and hang straight. “It’s still difficult,” Anamika chuckles. “Sarees started as a simple drape, and who knows how they got so complicated!” 

Pleating the saree.

When marrying, a young Indian bride would require a bare minimum of 21 sarees in her trousseau, or to be really sumptuous, 101; a few of these could be heirlooms. Whatever the final number, it must end in the auspicious number one. Anamika’s own wedding reception saree was made from stiff silk, and she required the assistance of two people to put it on. “It looks like a draped blanket,” her mother said to her when she tried to wrap it by herself, Anamika remembers.

Anamika only brought three with her to Australia, leaving the others in India with her parents; she, however, never owned more than 20. Nowadays, Anamika prefers a modern twist on a saree, made from lighter fabrics with minimal embroidery. This makes them easier to carry (wear) she says. The few she has kept in her favourite silk georgette drape nicely and are slimming.

On her visits home, Anamika likes to take advantage of the multitude of tailors to design her own sarees with a simple, Western twist, such as the spaghetti straps on this pale rose pink salwaar-kameez. Her sister designed the blue paisley motif on the black. These sets are hand-embroidered and can take 2–3 weeks to complete – or up to six weeks depending on the embroidery.

Today Indian designers like Satya Paul are taking the traditional saree and redesigning it for modern women who, like Anamika, flit from East to West. So new traditions are born.

Many thanks to Anamika for consenting to model and be interviewed for SNAP.