Ensemble Disassembled!

A few weeks ago when I was visiting my sister in the hospital I experienced an unfortunate outfit malfunction: one of the two buttons holding up my suede wrap skirt detached!

“I don’t have a safety-pin to give you,” my sister apologised, but I waved that off, as I would not want to pierce the suede anyway. “Don’t worry,” I declared insouciantly, “I’ll be fine! It’ll stay up.” I tucked it in firmly.

Shortly afterwards, I left her room in the ward to go home and discovered my optimism was misplaced. As I entered the lift, I saw my reflection in the mirrored back wall: the skirt had already come down as demonstrated in the photograph above. Horrified, I quickly hauled it up, hoping none of the other passengers entering behind me had seen me come undone.

Then I remembered what was in the tote bag I was carrying: that morning’s secondhand purchase, a grey wool dress by Australian designer Arthur Galan. I can’t ordinarily afford to shop in that store, so I was quite pleased to have found this merino wool dress in a Red Cross op shop for a fraction of what must have been its retail cost. (Red Cross op shops are one of the more expensive chains however, so at $30 it wasn’t super-cheap, though inexpensive for what it was.)

While I have long loved pleats and draping, I had been a bit hesitant about this purchase, as the dress was baggier than I would normally choose to wear. But, I reasoned, it was wool, and warm and a stone grey that I liked (grey is my black) and its roomy fit made it a good choice for those days when one desired a comfortable, relaxed silhouette. So I bought it. I certainly didn’t expect to be so grateful so soon! I made a quick change in the bathroom on the ground floor, and luckily the dress worked with the other elements of my outfit.

Grey dress to the rescue indeed – thank you very much!

Photos: July 2016

All Buttoned Up

One of my amazing vintage finds recently was this 1950s emerald green shantung jacket. The label reads ‘Lynn SA, Melbourne’, but there is no other information. I am not sure if the fibre is silk or rayon, but it does have a very rich feel and lovely weight. It’s so beautifully lined there is not even anywhere to snip a piece of fabric to conduct a burn test without making an unsightly hole.

The jacket is tailored and fits me exactly (which is always an extraordinary experience with vintage); the only problem was that it was missing all the buttons. The other extraordinary thing was that it was priced at only $5, most likely because the buttons were missing. It’s unusual to find a vintage item from that era priced so low, even in an op shop.

Choosing buttons at Buttonmania, Melbourne

Sewing on the new buttons with matching fine rayon thread

Here was another Vintage Rescue project! I of course bought it, and knew exactly where I would go to find replacement buttons for it: Buttonmania, formerly in the Nicholas Building on Swanston Street in Melbourne, but now further out in Highett where I have not yet been. This old shop was such a lovely place to visit, and the staff were very helpful – and zealous about finding just the right button for you!

I looked at quite a few different buttons, mainly from the 1940s, but eventually decided to go with the most discreet ones – the buttons that matched the emerald fabric perfectly rather than contrasted with it. I bought five for $2 each, which I thought a very good price.

The emerald buttons are pressed casein, which is a type of plastic made from milk protein that was developed in Europe at the close of the nineteenth century. The casein was ground into powder then mixed into a paste, which was then hardened by prolonged immersion in formaldehyde. Thick slabs could take nearly a year. This plastic was hard and could take a good polish, and importantly was easily coloured to imitate natural materials such as horn, ivory and tortoiseshell. In France and Germany casein was known as galalith (Greek for ‘milk stone’). The bangle I am wearing (above) is made from transulucent galalith, coloured with black and brown splotches that look like ink blots.

While jewellery and also fountain pen casing were made, casein found its niche in buttons. Production however began to be reduced in the 1960s, and manufacture was almost completely phased out by the 1980s. Today, a small amount of buttons continue to be made, and also knitting needles, which are prized for their tactile qualities.

I have worn the jacket here with a 1960s black crêpe dress that I have had for many years, a black straw beret – possibly 1980s or 90s – and a relatively new pair of suede sandals with awesomely-shaped banana heels by Wittner.

Photos: April 2016

High-Waist, Wide-Leg, Low-Risk

One of my fashion holy grails is a Forties-style high-waisted, wide-leg pant. I prefer a drapey style rather than a cut that clings, and love the swoosh of voluminous fabric as I walk (although this can prove dangerous when paired with heels and negotiating stairs – they have proved my downfall at least once). So I am always on the lookout for them when I go op-shopping.

When you go thrifting, you must always remember to check a potential purchase for flaws, and decide whether the financial outlay plus the cost of any required alterations make the garment in question worth the investment.

In the case of these polka dot pants, the waistband had a huge hole in it as though a belt loop had been ripped out, and fabric pooled around my feet; I would certainly have to have them professionally altered. (I am not on cordial terms with my sewing machine.)

In the change room I considered the trousers dubiously: I could repair the hole myself, and besides once the long fabric belt was tied, my mending would be obscured. The fabric was certainly very nice too, 100% viscose. Though I admit silk crepe would be even nicer, viscose is made from wood cellulose, so it is a natural fibre, which is always a plus. Moreover, they were only $5. This was virtually no-risk fashion!

Moreover, they were only $5. This was virtually no-risk fashion!

When I took the pants to my tailor a few days later (taking with me the pair of shoes I intended to wear with them), the tailor observed there were a couple of extra inches in the waistband, so it would be easy to repair the hole. With the waist sitting in the correct position, the pants were not as overly long as I originally surmised. Still, the tailor – who thought they were fine as is – agreed to take them up another inch to pacify me. They still look a bit too long for my liking in the still photographs, but seem less so when I’m walking, as they swish around.

The only problem, I told my tailor, was that they were too long to wear with walking shoes on my commute, which is a half-hour walk each direction. They’d drag in the dust. I would have to wear heels all this way! My tailor was extremely unsympathetic and told me that was the price of fashion.

In the end, I spent around $30 on repairs and alterations. Even on top of the cost of the trousers, this still makes a bargain!

Photos: This week

Cinderella’s Sisters’ Closets

When you go op shopping (opportunity shopping, or thrifting), one of the most important things you need to take with you is a large dose of VISION. These days some secondhand stores are highly curated, but every now and then you will stumble across one that has not been rigorously edited.

There, the racks are overstuffed higgledy-piggledy, and it requires a discerning eye to sort the true gems from the dregs of the most puritanical and dowdiest of spinster great-aunties’ moth-eaten, lavender-infused closets. Here most of all it pays to be vigilant. Here you must see past ill-fitting shapes and not-quite-right lengths and ugly embellishments, for with the aid of a pair of scissors or the switch of a few buttons, a dress worn by an ugly step-sister is suddenly worthy of a princess-to-be!

… a dress worn by an ugly step-sister is suddenly worthy of a princess-to-be!

Take this pretty cute dress for instance. It’s black pleated crepe, with a pattern of white and red squares. The skirt has a lovely swishy weight. It’s elegant. But at first glance when I saw it hanging on a rack it was not elegant: it was ugly. It was wearing a modesty collar.

This collar was so frightfully hideous that it would have put off souls made of less sterner stuff than mine: I saw past its cheap cotton frills, its nasty polyester crocheted doily inserts. I saw what it could be with the summary excisement of this excrescence! Also, it was transparent and enormous, and one of the pearl button fasteners on the cuff was hanging by a thread.

I took it into the change room, tucked the collar in, wrapped a belt around my waist, and voila! Sold.

I couldn’t wait to get it home that evening to rip off the abomination around the collar. It was one of the most satisfying uses I had ever put my seam ripper to. I washed it, sewed the button back on, added fun red accessories, a vintage black slip underneath, and subsequently wore it to work, basking in the warm glow of admiration. One more vintage dress saved from oblivion!

Photos: Yesterday

A Hat Intervention

A Story in Pictures

I love green and white together. It’s such a summery combination. So when I saw this houndstooth hat on Etsy recently, I immediately snapped it up. Ironically it’s wool, so it’s really more of a winter hat. However, there was something else wrong with it: it had a rose attached to the band. I didn’t like that. Not at all.

It’s not that I dislike roses. Sometimes I like them very much (especially when people bring a whole bunch of them round to my house). It’s all in the execution (if the roses are accompanied by a box of chocolates, even better). 

This fat squishy one made from tweed immediately put me in mind of the Mills & Boon logo. It looked just a little naff on the side of the hat. Twee, even (sorry, I couldn’t resist that pun). And I mean, whoever heard of a fedora with a rose on its side? That’s just so wrong; it goes totally against the grain. Fedoras are hats with attitude. It had to come off.

I really like using a seam ripper. There’s something satisfying about hacking straight through a row of thread. I like the little snapping sound the thread makes when it breaks … 

Pick, pick, rip, rip …

OFF WITH ITS HEAD! Now this fedora is worthy of its name, and can sit up on my head. Fedora, I adore ya.