Mix and Clash

There was a time when I never wore prints. My minimalist wardrobe was entirely made up of a small palette of solid colours: grey, white, blue, orange, red, purple and a little black. I relied on different textured fabrics for interest. Then I rediscovered my eccentric and eclectic roots and with them, prints.

When prints come back in a big way, fashion magazines love to tell us to be brave and mix them up, but, they caution, keep them in the same colour family. This is usually a good rule of thumb to mix and match by, but I like to style on a case-by-case basis, depending on my mood in the morning.

I love the subtle clash between patterns, unified by brown and cream.

I normally don’t like brown at all (see previous post), but I made an exception in the case of this bold brown and cream chevron print. I call it my Viennetta ice cream print dress. It’s so over-the-top that one hot day I decided to go one better, tying my hair back and wrapping it in a silk geometric print scarf. The little squares change from cream on a solid brown background to a cream background, with just one corner of the squares highlighted in brown (you can glimpse that section at the back of my neck). I love the subtle clash between patterns, unified by brown and cream.

In a twist on mix-and-clash, I matched these garments based on a circle motif, rather than a print. A favourite mauve silk blouse features a geometric print of circles made up from lines (I adore the pleated puff sleeves). The olive organza scarf is appliquéd with circles attached with tiny sequins, and this beloved wooden necklace is made up of interlocking circles.

With a world of interesting prints out there why stop at one?

Shirt Tales

I am very rarely a shirt wearer. Shirts make me feel hemmed in, like I am suffering a slow death by strangulation. You could build a prison entirely from a white shirt. In fact, they have: it’s called a straight jacket. Yep, I am here to officially debunk the myth that it is essential to own a classic white shirt.

This shirt by She’s Beck I am wearing, with its widely spaced beige pinstripes, is the closest thing I have that would qualify. It has a giant concertina pleat in place of a shoulder seam, ruched sleeves, and waistcoat-style front closure. Altogether it encapsulates a witty take on the harried office-worker. Therefore, not your typical white shirt, and it just passes muster on these grounds. Yet it’s still a shirt, and I can seldom bring myself to wear it.

You could build a prison entirely from a white shirt. In fact, they have: it’s called a straight jacket.

Shirts also smack too much of offices and accountants and busy little worker ants scuttling around on their repetitive and tedious tasks in strict time to the telephone. Not to mention school. And who wants to be reminded of that when you’re dressing up to go out?

The white shirt connotes regimentation; uniformity; rigidity. I don’t care if Audrey wore one stylishly* (as one blogger rhapsodised). That hackneyed phrase ‘the classic white shirt’ just makes me yawn.

Spread your wings: how fab is this shredded white shirt that isn’t a shirt? It’s by Stacey J. Lee.

Fortunately for me, my chosen career path has not lead me to employment with companies with restrictive dress codes – the kind where you are also obliged to wear beige pantyhose at the height of summer, and only natural shades of hair colour are permitted. (Not that I want to dye my hair pink, but I might one day. So it’s just nice to know I have that option.)

I have therefore always pooh-poohed fashion editors’ pushing the essential, classic, perfect white shirt. And I don’t at all subscribe to that slight sense of guilt one feels reading those prescriptive lists of all the ‘classic’ items we should harbour in our wardrobe, but don’t.

Cool unclassic white shirts from Palmer//Harding. These are really blouses: see, no collar!

While we’re on the subject, I don’t much like classic white t-shirts either – mainly because I utterly loathe and despise crew necks for the same reason I dislike shirts: I feel like I am slowly being throttled. Plus, they make me look like a pinhead. On the other hand, blouses are fine – because they don’t have collars. They are usually soft and unstructured and make me feel languorous rather than hot and bothered and wanting to smack someone out of Shirt Rage.

I’ve managed to muddle through life quite nicely thank you – shirtless, and lived to tell the (shirt) tale.

* In Roman Holiday

La La La, I’m Not Listening!

Recently I have been waxing lyrical about stripes. Non-nautical stripes. Vintage ‘barberstripes’ of the 18th and 19th centuries. There were so many stripes in the most recent story I couldn’t jam these shoes in too.

They look so pretty floating in the clouds up there you’d never suspect their sinister background, would you (pardon the pun)? You see, they stank. Possibly they still do.

I bought them on eBay for a song. The English seller had two pairs, and they were going for around £9. The price alone should have warned me. But I snapped them up and eagerly awaited their arrival. When I finally ripped into the box, an offensive waft of glue and plastic assailed my nostrils. I quickly slammed the lid back on and shoved them under my desk at work, hoping no-one else had noticed the stench.

I should have learned after The Last Time.

They look so pretty floating in the clouds up there you’d never suspect their sinister background …

However, ever the optimist, I took them home and hung them outside on the clothesline to air. After a few days with no olfactory improvement, I sprayed them liberally with Oust 3.1, a general odour eliminator, air sanitiser and all-round germ killer, and left them out on the line. I continued this process for a couple of weeks. They improved somewhat.

I ventured to wear them, and held my breath all day at work. I took them home, and shut them up in a plastic shoebox with a cotton wool ball soaked in lavender oil. I reasoned that since the shoes were made of fabric, they should soak up this far more pleasant smell.

This worked quite well. I don’t say there isn’t the faintest whiff of eau de glue about them, but they are bearable – and wearable. I’ve left the cotton wall ball in with them just to be safe. And perhaps I have learned my lesson this time, and when I next see cheap shoes on the internet I will listen to that little angel whispering into my right ear – rather than the blandishments of The Other One. 

Washing Habits: On the Line

Living in the same apartment for 12 years and sharing a communal laundry, I have had ample opportunity to observe – and be surprised by – the laundering habits of my neighbours. Particularly in the way people hang their washing on the line, all higgledy-piggledy, pegs jammed any which way, and altogether arranging their laundry so as to take the maximum length of time to dry.

I don’t know about you, but my mum taught me stuff. I undoubtedly didn’t want to listen and wasn’t at all interested, but through a process of unwilling osmosis, absorbed her wisdom over the years.

Garments – vintage or otherwise – are more delicate when they are wet, so it is always best to take care so your clothes will last as long as possible. Obviously it is best to read the care label on your garment, but apart from items that need to be dried flat, these don’t instruct you on the art of drying.

These are some tips for hanging washing I picked up from my mum:

1. Make sure the drying surface is clean (dirt! spiderwebs! bird poo!)
2. Turn garments inside out to prevent fading
3. Dry knits, silks, and other delicate garments flat, and in the shade
4. Hang garments by their thinnest sections, ie, trousers by their legs, not by the waistband which is the thickest part and will take longest to dry
5. Peg garments on seams or find ugly peg marks in your dry clothes
6. Hang dresses, coats etc on coathangers; fasten the coathanger to the line with a piece of ribbon so it isn’t blown away by the wind (or you may be able to find special hooks that clip to the clothesline in a hardware store) – it takes less space on the line too
7. Preferably dry vintage garments flat, or folded over a seam; eg, the waistband of a dress
8. If you do share a clothesline with your neighbours, it is only polite to hang laundry neatly with an economic use of line – don’t spread it out with big gaps in between each item – and don’t leave it out for days!
9. Before you bring it in, give your washing a shake to smooth out creases and loosen any bugs and spiders that might have taken refuge inside
10. Fold items neatly as you go – it makes it easier to put them away, and in case you don’t immediately, they won’t develop ugly creases until you muster the energy for ironing

Once upon a time women dried their laundry on scented bushes such as lavender so their garments would be impregnated with their delicious scent. These days we’ve been reduced to liquid fabric softener, sigh.

Women drying laundry on the gorse, Vale of Health, Hampstead Heath, by Scott McFarland

Chantilly Lace Had a Pretty Face

Karen Millen top, vintage headpiece and veilIntricate, delicate; originally hand-made from linen, silk and later cotton; expensive due to the many laborious hours of painstaking work involved, lace is an exquisite form of textile craft. It is defined as an openwork fabric, with open holes forming a pattern. Sometimes lace is cut from a woven fabric, but more often than not this airy textile forms around the negative space.

True lace, differentiated from cutwork in which thread is removed, is created when thread is looped, twisted or braided to other threads independently from a backing fabric. It was not made until the late 15th or early 16th centuries, when it became popular for use in table linen and clothing. A cottage industry quickly developed and spread throughout Europe.

Bobbin lace is made on a complicated arrangement of pins on a pillow bolster. The placement of pins is determined by a pattern, and thread is attached to wooden bobbins for easy management.In fact, lacemaking even has its own patron saint – probably because making it would try the patience of a saint! St. John Francis Regis nobly saved country girls from the grime and wickedness of the city, by establishing them in the lacemaking and embroidery trades. It probably wasn’t good for their eyesight though.

Then, lace was worn only by royalty and the very rich. Thousands of hours and many months of work could go into a few square inches of lace, and made lacework extremely expensive.

… lacemaking even has its own patron saint – probably because making it would try the patience of a saint!

Today, couture quality lace is still only worn by royalty or the very rich, for few young women are taught exquisite needlework in the schoolroom: they race to the bright lights of the city instead. For them, there is machine-made lace – not that there’s anything wrong with that, as long as it is well-made from high-quality materials (synthetic lace that pills is dreadful). And if they still hanker for the exquisite workmanship of centuries past, vintage may be a more affordable option.

In or out of fashion, lace is always beautiful – a timeless investment for your wardrobe. 

This lace-like scarf, hand-embroidered in Vietnam, is needlework rather than a true lace

Types of Lace

Needle laceNeedle lace – originating in Armenia, this lace is made using a needle, thread and scissors. It is built thread by thread onto a stiff support such as heavy paper, which is cut away upon completion. Very durable, this lace will not unravel if one or more loops are broken.

Cutwork – constructed by removing threads from a woven background; the remaining threads are wrapped, filled with embroidery or pieces of needle lace. Examples are broderie anglaise, battenberg and whitework.

Bobbin lace – threads are wound on bobbins for ease of management, and are held in place with pins on a bolster or pillow. Pins are placed according to a pattern Chantilly lace shawl, 1860spinned to the pillow, and the thread is braided and twisted to create this lace. Chantilly (French, mostly black silk, and consequently used for mourning attire), Mechlin (a fine, transparent Flemish floral) and Valenciennes (French, net-like background) are all types of bobbin lace.

Crochet lace – includes Irish crochet and filet crochet. The former is an important part of Irish needlework tradition, through which women could support their families, especially during and after the great potato famine of the 1840s. Made with a crochet hook and fine cotton or linen thread, based on an outline of the pattern on a piece of cloth. Each motif is crocheted separately, using cotton cord for volume and shaping; basted onto a cloth in a pattern, and joined using chains and picots. The backing cloth is removed on completion. Filet lace is a form of knotted netting, with a decorative pattern filled in with linen stitch.

Crochet lace, 1912

Guipure lace dress with (in centre panel) filet lace, 1912Guipure – also called Venise lace, point de Venise, ‘chemical’ lace or ‘burned-out’ lace – is a heavy, stiff open fabric, with a weightiness similar to crocheted lace. The design stands in relief, and there is no background or net: the motifs are joined by threads known as bridges. Guipure was originally made using foundation material that would dissolve in a lye bath (hence the alternative names), but today is usually made from cotton by machines.

Lace can also be knitted, and knotted in the form of macramé and tatting. Tape lace is formed using textile strips that are shaped into a design and embellished with needle or bobbin lace.