An Eastern European Refugee

How gorgeous does my sister Blossom look in these photos? So youthful and carefree at 15 years of age. When I interviewed her on Father’s Day, she sighed over them. “Oh, to be that young again!”

Her boyfriend bought her this dress because she looked like a refugee from Eastern Europe with no nice clothes. (That’s because she actually was.) It came from a boutique in Oakleigh or Clayton, she says, as did most of her clothes: there were few chain stores back then. The red and white print dress is piped in black, and fondly she pointed out the peasant-style lacing on the bodice.

Her boyfriend bought her this dress because she looked like a refugee from Eastern Europe with no nice clothes.

Of course, to be fashionable back then a girl had to wear a mini. “Lucky you had the legs,” I say, imagining a host of women whose figures would be better served by a more modest hemline.

“There weren’t many really large teenagers back then,” Blossom answered.

She recalled a school friend once remonstrating her for her overly long uniform. Blossom’s response to this unjust criticism was that she couldn’t possibly show the tops of her suspender stockings! As an impecunious refugee, she hadn’t yet moved on to more modern pantyhose.  

I wonder what other delightful memories lurk in Blossom’s head?

Cherry Blossom time

Memory is a funny thing. For years I used to proudly tell my friends about my older sister, Blossom – how cool she was way back before I was even born. I’d tell them how her boyfriend rode a motorbike and bought her clothes from fashionable boutiques in the city. “There’s this photo,” I’d say, “of her sitting on the back of his bike, and she has this purple-chiffon-caftan-thing on, with long black boots.” I had a vivid recollection of this priceless family heirloom in my mind’s eye every time I described it in a gloating voice.

…I race to find the photo and discover that it is nothing like I remembered!

Finally I remembered to ask her if I could immortalise her image here in this journal, and recently she reluctantly handed over an old family album. Imagine my surprise when I race to find the photo and discover that it is nothing like I remembered! “Are you sure this is the only one?” I demanded suspiciously, as though my childhood memory was more to be relied on than my sister’s.

“Yes,” she answered firmly. “This is the only one in existence.”

“Alright, fine,” I say, still dubious. It was a fantastic coat, regardless – heck, it was the quintessential 70s outfit. But then I flip a few pages in the old album; the horizontal lines of gum under the plastic overlay are dark yellow with age. And then I find it:

A purple dress with chiffon sleeves! Obviously I merged the two photos into one romantic image of Blossom on the back of her boyfriend’s motorbike.

These photos were taken on the day of their engagement party (and they’re still happily married). Blossom can’t remember where she bought that dress from, but it was quite a bit longer to start with: below-the-knee… not quite caftan length! Blossom shortened it; to mum’s annoyance. (I have previously mentioned my mother’s disapproval of these dissipated Western fashions.) Sadly, Bloss has no idea what became of that dress.

She didn’t always wear minis though: sometimes she borrowed her boyfriend’s beige cord jeans…

She didn’t always wear minis though: sometimes she borrowed her boyfriend’s beige cord jeans to wear while riding the back of the bike. The coat Blossom wears in the first photo is blue and purple suede, and came from ‘The In Shoppe’ on Bourke St, Melbourne. It originally had a blue star sewn on the back, which she took off because she didn’t like it. Blossom does remember the fate of this coat: it was donated to the poor in Russia, and she likes to fancy some Russian woman wandering around in it once-upon-a-time. And naturally the lace-up boots are leather.

Bloss usually shopped in boutiques in the city, and sometimes department stores like Buckley and Nunn, which was bought out by David Jones. I myself nostalgically remember trips into the city, and the magical doors of Buckley’s. Other shops Blossom frequented were Sportsgirl (“I remember I bought a lot of things from there”); Sussans; Portmans; and Miss Selfridge, which turned into Chelsea Girl. Warms my heart to think her grand-daughter will soon be shopping at those same stores, if she isn’t already.

I asked Bloss how she felt in these clothes: cool, and fashionable? “Of course, all those things,” she answered instantly. And I must say she looks adorable.

Farewell my kimono

There are too many items of clothing I have owned in the past that I have cast from my closet, and now regret the loss of.

There was the divine, watermelon-coloured velvet coat with the ruched collar; the possibly 40s black crepe tie-back, short-sleeved top; and this chartreuse kimono above. It reminds me of nothing so much as Nicole Kidman’s famous Galliano gown.

The kimono was gorgeously and sumptuously embroidered in coloured silk, and I can only surmise I banished it in a fit of misplaced minimalism. I’m very pleased it is here immortalised along with Rapunzel’s long hair on the eve of the Big Haircut. Unfortunately Rapunzel’s tresses obscure the embroidery, but it was very similar to the cushion and the seat covers (one of which is even now draped over my scanner).

Fittingly, the backdrop is my boudoir, another sad loss to the years. Chin-chin!

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.

Rapunzel’s grandmother

On the arm of the chair sits my friend Rapunzel’s grandmother, Anne. Rapunzel has very little knowledge of her as she died when her mother was 16; the latter did not talk about her much except to reminisce how much she adored her.

Anne gave birth to Rapunzel’s mother in the 1940s, when she was about 36, quite old for that era. Judging by the clothing of this trio of girls we guess this photograph was taken (in Wangaratta, as written on the reverse) in the 1910s.

Recalling a black and white photograph of Anne on her mother’s dressing table, she remembers how she gazed at in fascination.

As a child, Rapunzel thought Anne was the most enchanting woman: dressed in a long satin gown, fur bolero and a tiny little hat.

The most glamorous touch was the string of pearls around her neck. Rapunzel fondly imagined she was at a fancy party, but when she saw this photo more recently, she realised Anne was actually standing near a rusty corrugated iron fence. “How Aussie is that?” she laughed to me.

As for me, I was equally fascinated by this relic from Rapunzel’s family archive. A tiny little photograph – half the size of today’s standard – the card thickened with age, I brought it up close to peer at it in delight. The photographs of Julia Margaret Cameron immediately sprang to mind. Although they are from an earlier year (she photographed Alice Liddell, Lewis Carroll’s inspiration for Alice in Wonderland), they have the same soft, gentle quality; portals into a long-vanished world.

These three little Australian girls have a mischievous look in their eyes however, unlike Cameron’s models. Some of the latter adopt an impassive stare; others present their profiles as they gaze into the middle distance, forever lost in their own thoughts. A century later, we can only admire them.