Vegetables, acrobats and tambourines...

...Peanuts, mermaids and crickets, treble clefs and parrots...

What do they all have in common?  Buttons!  Oh, lovely buttons (I do like a good button).  More precisely - buttons designed by the Italian surrealist fashion provocateur, Elsa Schiaparelli (1890-1973), whose exhibition at the V&A I felt privileged to visit last Friday.

I've written about Elsa before here  - she of the famous Lobster Dress (as worn by Wallis Simpson) - as I've had a mild obsession with her for a few years now, so the chance to see some of her extraordinary ideas in the - cloth? - was not to be missed.  It was wonderful to take it all in, the beautiful tailoring and the idiosyncratic details, especially, which had passed me by in photos.  For instance, I had no idea about the zips... (I'll come back to buttons later!)

Zips didn't really gain functional popularity until the 1920s when they were used on boots (and the name 'Zipper' - after a pair of ladies' boots in which they featured - replaced their previous rather less catchy label of 'separable fastener').  But Elsa was one of the first to incorporate the zip as a design feature in itself (and there was me thinking that Vivienne Westwood and punk were the originators).  One of her most controversial garments was the 'Skeleton Dress', a collaboration with Salvador Dali, which had large plastic zips down one seam and on both shoulders. It was brilliant to see this for real but my photo of it hasn't turned out well so here's a better one...  Look at that bone structure!

But there were other zips in unexpected places too, big chunky plastic zips, and these gave the garments such an air of modernity that it was hard to believe they were nearly 100 years old.  There was a gorgeous evening dress with zips on the insides of the long sleeves - not only that, but this was the very first time a camouflage pattern had been used purely for fashion fabric.  This was made in 1931...  I would happily wear it now.

So, what about the buttons? Elsa's ideas were made real for her by various jewellers and sculptors, amongst them Alberto Giacometti and Jean Schlumberger (best known for his work for Tiffany & Co) and were fantastically, skilfully crafted in all their intricacy but it's what went on in her artistic mind that particularly appeals to me.Very up my street.  Just the concept alone of turning a carrot into a fastening device, for instance, and just look at the fabric on this where these cheeky vegetable buttons are featured - your five a day and more... ? This was from 1941, a time when French women in particular were being encouraged to grow their own veg.

Then there were the acrobats, as mentioned in my post title - part of Elsa's 'Circus Collection' from 1938.  These were handmade buttons, trapeze artists leaping out from the opening of a pink jacket which also featured blue performing horses with metallic thread manes and saddles.

Oh, I could go on - how brilliant it was to see the actual Lobster Dress, to look at the fancy bottles for Schiaparelli's 'Shocking' brand of perfume, to enjoy the collaborative masterpieces such as those made with Jean Cocteau...  (note the embroidered signature bottom right.)

and just to fall in love with some of her fabrics

as well as to learn about the exquisitely tailored women's suits with a proliferation of large pockets which were named 'cash and carry' pockets, designed to replace the need for fiddly handbags during wartime uncertainty.  Very practical, just grab your essentials, stow them safely in your deep pockets and run.

Well ok - I did go on, but still there is so much more and there's an awful lot that wasn't even in the exhibition; I didn't notice any underwear, for instance! I had hoped to see this favourite...

But, in summary, it was a joy and my mild obsession with Elsa's playful, life-affirming and classily eccentric take on clothes remains as strong as ever.  I just wish I could wear some myself.

NB - There were also several items created for the continuing Elsa Schiaparelli label in recent years by other designers, many of which have been worn by celebrities such as Dua Lipa and Beyoncé.  But they don't feature here as they just didn't do it for me, they looked far too contrived, self-consciously outrageous and OTT, as if just for the sake of it - very much a reflection of now, rather than of Elsa Schiaparelli's own, distinctive era of surrealism.

'Schiaparelli: Fashion Becomes Art' is on at the Victoria & Albert Museum, London until 8th November 2026.

Somewhere Elsa

Sorry it's been so long!  Posts may be sporadic on here until at least the end of the year but I am still around...  just a little too bogged down with work.

However, there is a strange and fanciful other-world which I’ve been visiting lately, just sometimes when I get chance to briefly press pause on the repetitive cycle of mundane reality. We must each have our own other-world, I’m sure - or many. They may be trips back in time, or forwards perhaps. Dreams, daydreams, places where regrets are addressed or fantasies fulfilled… Nothing is out of bounds. 

In this one, I’m of non-specific age in an indefinable location, but it's a weird and wonderful artistic illusion where the me who lives inside my head slips comfortably into her groove. Here in this safe space, feeling uncharacteristically confident, vibrant and eternally youthful of course (it is a figment, after all), I will pour myself elegantly into a Lobster dress...

(1937)

and go to a party where maybe I’ll be introduced to Salvador Dali and Frida Kahlo. Perhaps it will be in Paris?

In my version of events, of course, I won't be pathetically dumbstruck (I mean, I can't even think now what on earth I'd say!) -  and there will be none of the dark, nightmarish backdrop of  war or insanity...  or pandemics.   I'm doing 1930s Lite.  But it's the fashions of  designer Elsa Schiaparelli  which are drawing me in.   A slight obsession with her led me here. I bought a little book a while back; fell in love with her cutting edge ideas and was intrigued by her extraordinary life (definitely worth reading about.  Her personality was so adventurous that even as a child she had quirky ideas - she once threw herself out of a window with an umbrella in the belief that it would act as a parachute, only to land unceremoniously but uninjured in a heap of manure... )  

Her imaginative, playful collaborations and creations (although she objected to the word 'creation', thinking it pretentious)  and her eccentric style are just the escapism I crave, even if it is only to be in my head. Maybe it's spurred on by the simple desire to dress up and venture out somewhere special, something I suspect none of us have done in a verylong while.... 

So, just for now, when I could really do with a little taste of  alternative reality (or should that be surreality) far, far away from 2020 for obvious reasons, it may be one in which I would happily get away with wearing these gloves:

(1936)

this hat

(not sure of the date - 1950s?)

 these shoes

(1938)

these glasses

(1952)

 this brooch 

(1952)

this coat

(1937)

this bra!

(1930s)

and carrying this bag

(1938)

All thanks to Elsa.

Where would you go right now if you could?

Mary Mary

Something that struck me straight away was how few men were there, perhaps not surprisingly.  I only noticed a handful, one of whom was extraordinarily dapper with a liberal sprinkle of quirkiness (I'm sure I spotted sequins); I could just imagine him as an arty fashion designer.  Instead it was mostly women of the more mature variety who were wandering around the Mary Quant exhibition a couple of weeks ago at the lovely V&A Museum in London.  I went along with my sister and cousin (we all fit the above description...) and I loved it.   I also noticed that a number of particularly stylish, elegant ladies, the kind with chic white bobs and good boots, were clearly transported back in time by what they were viewing, chatting enthusiastically to their friends and sharing reminiscences as they lingered over the displays. “Oh, yes, I remember those…!”

Whilst Mary Quant’s fashion designs wouldn’t be considered controversial now,  it was interesting to remind myself that they were really quite anti-establishment at the time.  For a start they broke away from the restrictive corsetry of the previous decades - what a relief that must've been; in doing so they represented a new freedom that was more than just physical.  And they blurred the boundaries of conventional femininity with ensembles inspired by menswear, such as sharply cut suits with waistcoats and ties. Up until this point women simply wearing trousers in public was still quite unusual; embracing an even more androgynous image was sure to raise eyebrows.

“The voices, rules and culture of this generation are as different from those of the past as tea and wine,” Mary Quant wrote in the 1960s.  “And the clothes they choose evoke their lives..” she continued, “…daring, gay, never dull.” 

I’m just a little too young to have sported any of the original outfits on show from Mary Quant’s career between 1955 to 1975, but there were a few I honestly wish I could wear now, I must say.  The low-waisted wool jersey dresses, the androgynous trouser-suits, brightly coloured tights and wet-look PVC macs…some fabulous accessories too.   There’s just something about the look (and literally ‘The Look’)  plus the cut of these items that has a timeless appeal, at least to my eyes.  Perhaps it’s ironic that I think that now, being the age I am, when they were really all about youthfulness.

And a little slice of '60s mod/psych to fit the theme...

The Fresh Windows: Fashion Conscious (B-side to Summer Sun Shines, 1967)

The bag I'm in

“Is it retro?” asked Mr SDS when I told him, rather unfairly, that I'd just ordered a book but I wouldn't reveal what it was. The answer was “yes” and it's perhaps for that reason that I didn't want to discuss it before buying it; almost like I didn't want to be dissuaded or to hear myself justifying my rash purchase. We do sometimes have a difference of opinion when it comes to things 'retro'.

I'm interested in the past – but that certainly doesn't mean I don't like the present, there's no mutual exclusion.  However, Mr SDS would readily admit that he has a bit of a downer on the past because he's had a little too much exposure to people who are stuck in it - I mean, stuck immovably - and I completely agree with him that it doesn't seem a very healthy place to be. It particularly irritates him when folk fixate on it and go on about how much better everything was “back then”. Likewise, it doesn't strike me as being much fun to truly hanker for days gone by - the present suits me fine and I don't think too far ahead either - but that doesn't prevent my enjoyment of a little retro indulgence now and then. Well, you probably already know that from reading this blog.

For me it's just about relating; connecting past, present and future and tying it together.  Being a part of it all. Everything before us has shaped the now, everything is valid. In particular, old pictures of “the way we were” sum my feelings up beautifully and make me smile and that's why, when I saw this book advertised in the Guardian (currently discounted with free postage too!) I had to buy it. It's 'The Bag I'm In' by Sam Knee (Cicada) and the blurb which originally caught my eye goes:

Youth subculture in 20th Century Britain is a unique phenomenon. Throughout the decades, young people sought to define themselves sartorially, reflecting their identity in terms of regionalism, class and crucially, musical taste, through their clothes... The look of each movement is captured in meticulously researched, previously unseen archive photography.... a key resource for fashion enthusiasts, musos and cultural historians, as well as a powerful, graphic document of Britain's fashion evolution through the ages.

It arrived this morning while Mr SDS was out and I'd been dying all day to take a break from painting imaginary puppies to have a good look through. At last! It's a chunky hardback book with nearly 300 pages, and I could tell straight away that it's been put together by someone who gets it, someone who understands and who's been there or, when writing about things that were before his time, has checked all the facts. I do find it annoying, for instance, when you're watching a TV programme with a narrative specifically about 1977 punk but it's illustrated with film of kids who are very much from a later punk incarnation, all ten-inch long crazy-colour mohicans and The Exploited emblazoned on the backs of their studded bike jackets... no!  There are no such errors here.  Instead, we're reminded of the detail: of shop names like Melanddi and Flip, of bands as diverse The Milkshakes, Disorder, John's Children, of Gibson creepers, Swell Maps badges, Poison Girls patches... There are grainy photos of '60s beatniks and mods, some early shots of band members before they were well-known, e.g. Lee Brilleaux pictured with the Southside Jug Band in 1967, plus plenty of heartwarming images from the '70s and '80s of ordinary kids whom I know felt extraordinary at the time - I know because these could be images of you and me, our friends, our schoolmates, our brothers and sisters.

* 'Why and how music youth scenes reach such a level of diversity and focused intensity in Britain is a side effect of island culture and the distinctive class system in this country. By and large, British music scenes are working and middle class in origin. The upper classes don't have the regionality or subversive sartorial suss to create such subtle nuances. The seeds of the scenes originate in the generic state school system; secondary moderns, comprehensives and grammar schools – where kids exist on a street level around other kids and cultures in the great mishmash of society that makes up Britain.'

Anyway, Mr SDS came home this evening and I showed him my lovely new book. I really hoped he'd like it, and see what's appealing and touching about it, in spite of possible resistance to its obvious retro theme. I was just flicking through it when my fingertips paused unknowingly at the chapter on Anarcho Punk.... and there it was, a photo of his old band. Above it was another photo which included a poster for them for a gig he played, where I was too. Ohh! We remembered it well.  That's what I mean: it's about relating; connecting the past with the present and the future and tying it together.  Being a part of it all.

It's a great book!

*  from 'The Bag I'm In' by Sam Knee (Cicada)

Leather, a wedding and a skull or two too

One of the last times I wore a leather biker jacket was at a wedding.  My wedding!

It was cough splutter twitch mumble years ago today, and we both dressed in black and leather. I must confess that we hadn't even wanted to do the whole marriage thing in the first place, because it didn't seem very rock'n'roll.  However, it looked as if I might not have a home in the not-too-distant future and that as a married couple we could be offered a place on the council list, so we did it.  We picked the date and I went down to the Registrars to book it. The man behind the desk spent a lot of time explaining that parking was so limited we'd need to tell all our guests to use the car park by the train station please, and he made it very clear that confetti was strictly forbidden, etc. etc.  It all seemed very officious.  I barely acknowledged his instructions and conditions, just nodding vaguely before asking how much these formalities would cost.  If my memory serves me well, it was about £9.50.

So we made it as rock'n'roll as we could, and I'll never forget the Registrar's face when the two of us walked in together dressed like we were just off to a gig.  He was surprised when our two witnesses were the only guests we'd invited as well, and none of us had cars or confetti.  No family, no photos either.   When we finally exchanged our silver skull-and-crossbones rings, the man's expression was priceless.  I don't wear the same ring now, but I did for several years and I'll always remember one day when I was serving a very posh man in the record shop, he caught sight of my third finger left hand.  "That's bloody bizarre" he said in a disapproving Sergeant Major type voice. "Is it?" I replied.  (What did he think I was going to say: "Oh my god, I never noticed! Get it off me, quick!" ?)

Anyway I was talking about leather biker jackets, wasn't I? -  and I was just saying to a friend the other day how something that was once quite a rebellious fashion statement for a female (particularly if you didn't actually ride a motorbike) has become populist now.  So populist that recently Littlewoods advertised it as one of this year's Top Ten 'must haves' for ladies, along with ankle boots, an oversized bag and a skater skirt.  It's in the mainstream... like Ramones Tshirts and doubtless many other items and styles that once meant something special to the wearer, once gave them an edge and set them apart, but not any more.  Funny how that happens, and now that alone is enough reason for me not to want to wear another biker jacket - even though aesthetically I do still like them.  But this is just wrong:

After our £9.50 wedding we pushed the boat out and had a slap-up meal at the local restaurant with our two 'witness' mates, followed by Mars Bars bought tipsily from the local corner shop and then we went home.... separately.  Our plan didn't work and we were never offered a council place.  We lived apart for several months before I managed to get a job and we could pool enough money together for rent in a shabby sub-let concrete flat above a shopping precinct, with a dodgy neighbour whose feral kids used to peer into our back windows and from where we once witnessed the nearby petrol station catching fire and lighting up the sky.  And other stories which I won't bore you with!  Very rock'n'roll, hmm...

Off for a slap-up meal now.  See ya later!

Girl Crush Sunday #3

Ehren Dorsey

 "I enjoy pushing the boundaries of how people define femininity or masculinity"

Sweetly beautiful, striking and utterly unsuperficial, she refused to grow her hair on the suggestion of those who believed she should conform to 'normal' model looks.

Rock lobster

After including the lobster card in the previous post I decided to do a bit of research. It turns out that the lobster pictured was, as the caption said: 'the most famous of all the shellfish'. He was adopted at the age of three months by the recently widowed Mrs Jeffers who emigrated from Maine to the small seaside town of Mudeford in the UK in 1979. She and her worldly goods travelled over by ship specifically so that she could take Simeon (as she called him) with her; in fact a specially adapted lobster pot was suspended from the ship's deck for the duration of the journey so that her pet crustacean could enjoy the homely pleasures of the Atlantic waters en route.

On settling down in their new surroundings in England, Mrs Jeffers and her lobster became enthusiastic members of the local Bridge Club and Simeon gained some notoriety after being taught to play 'Bourrée' on a miniature descant recorder. He was even featured performing this to an enraptured Sue Lawley on BBC 'Nationwide' some time in 1981 but sadly no footage of this exists.

However, his story doesn't have a happy ending. Mrs Jeffers started a relationship with a local electrician who by all accounts was a bit of a cad. Jealous of the obvious affection between Simeon and his owner, he said he was going out to get a fish'n'chip supper one evening and whilst Mrs J was bringing in the washing he surreptitiously placed Simeon in a Tesco bag and took him with him to 'Oh My Cod' where witnesses say he was greeted very warmly.  Simeon was never seen again and we can only assume the terrible thing that must have happened to him that fateful night.

But of course you can't believe everything you read on the web (not even on this blog).  I mean, it is with some incredulity that I read about the 19^th century French poet Gérard de Nerval who apparently had a pet lobster called Thibault that he took out on a leash to walk on the Parisian streets. This is, unsurprisingly, a little better known than the tale above and you can read more about it here

Apparently you can keep lobsters as pets if you have them in an aquarium and they're quite easy to please in spite of their grumpy demeanour, eating a variety of foods and generally loafing about all day.  A piece of lobster trivia: they can amputate their own claws, legs and antennae if need be to get out of a dangerous situation, and grow them back. Kind of makes the idea of playing a miniature descant recorder a little less ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, depending on your taste, is Salvador Dali's Lobster Telephone (aka Aphrodisiac Telephone) which he created in 1936.   Lobsters and telephones were sexually symbolic in Dali's work.  I know you already know what it looks like but, go on, have another peek...

Back in the groovy early '70s my mum's favourite piece of furniture was a 'lobster pot' stool made out of wicker. It looked like this:

As I'm sure you can imagine it went very well with the macramé wall hangings in our house.  I loved that stool.

I can't have a lobster pot stool or a lobster aquarium or a lobster telephone but I would happily indulge my lobster love with this dress:

This was created a few years ago by the label The Rodnik Band which has wonderful pop art inspirations and I must admit I'm rather taken with it.  I'd be more likely to wear it than this other outfit of theirs – although I applaud the 'presence' of  'pubic hair' and I'd be curious to see the reactions it could provoke. Especially if accessorised with a lobster on a leash....

(Well, of course!)

Mad bag

Yes, yes, you think I'm talking about myself again. Or the old woman who walks around town in her wellies pushing a pram....

Instead I just wanted to show you my new satchel, which really is a mad bag. Who could resist imagery which combines a pink typewriter with a selection of colourful birds and a couple of nests? On a bag?

I bought it to replace my old one which also had an avian theme.

A woman I'd never met before admired it once. “I love the picture!” she said, on seeing the robin.  “But I don't like what it's made of ,” she then added in a strongly disapproving tone.  Actually, it's not real leather, it's faux leather... but I wasn't about to get into a debate about it with a woman who had clearly overdone the peroxide at one time but not recently enough to disguise her black roots.  Faux blonde?  Ooh, catty!

Faux leather eventually flakes, though; hence the need for a new bag, which is also faux, but very truly mad. As mad as a bag of birds.

Knit it

Does anyone still knit? The last person I saw knitting regularly was when I briefly worked at a Benefits Office in the 1980s, there was a woman there with a leathery complexion who used to knit and smoke her way through every lunch-hour. The clicking of knitting needles punctuated by cigarette-sucking and her phlegmy cough still sticks with me. Oh and she used to suck boiled sweets too. Tucked them into her cheek whenever she took a drag.

I thought of her today whilst browsing the charity shops because I was irresistibly drawn to some 1970s knitting magazines in a box on the floor in Help The Aged. 'Golden Hands' they were called (and then I couldn't stop thinking of the Klaxons'  'Golden Skans' and I've had that going through my head all day). But the mags were only pence so I bought a couple, just for the pictures. I might have to incorporate them into something ironic and artistic some time. Before I do, though, you've just got to see them...

From the feature: 'Knit him a casual sweater'

 The caption says 'Meet Sacha and her brother Gregor'

This article tells you how to 'Machine knit a glamorous evening dress'

From the feature: 'Romantic party looks for mothers-to-be'

Onesie hatred

A PVC catsuit?  Fine. If I could slice a sliver (or maybe a wedge) of extraneous flab from my thighs I’d happily sport one – a nice shiny black one - for doing the food shopping at Tesco’s.  Not sure where I’d keep my purse but I guess I could stuff some notes down my modest cleavage, to be saucily unzipped at the checkout.  

I can imagine the scene now.  “Do you need help packing your bags?” the assistant asks sneeringly,  eyeing me up and down in my sleek all-in-one as she points her scanner pertinently at the Quorn chicken fillets on the conveyer belt, nestled between a bottle of baby oil and a cheeky little Merlot. 

“These are no faux meat micro-protein, I’ll have you know!” comes my retort, for mine are, of course, as natural as organic Honeydew melons, even if not of the same proportions.  Then I flick my lethal Clubcard out from my palm like a switchblade and, as if by magic, the wheels on my trolley align themselves and the assistant manages a smile.

And all because I’m wearing a fantasy PVC catsuit.  It  appears to have given me unhinged super powers and yet it’s only a figment of my imagination.  This is where I get to my point (but I hope you didn't mind the diversion).  I just wish I could say that the strange phenomenon that is popularly known as 'The Onesie' was only a figment too.  If only it didn't actually exist.  This is not like a catsuit or a wetsuit.  Apart from the fact that it looks like it should never be worn by anyone other than a baby, even the name sounds like baby-talk.  I’m mouthing it now with my face contorted into an exaggerated doe-eyed pout: Onesie.  Ooh! Ickle-wickle-fluffy-bunny onezhie!  

So, what the fuck are onesies all about?  Why are they catching on?  Please promise me you aren’t wearing one, you never have worn one and you never ever will.  If you need any more convincing, particularly if you are a man, please read this. (I urge you to read it anyway - it's just brilliant. I am loving The Daily Mash!)

Break in transmission...

Yeah, I know, I know!  I've been gone ages - and I only nipped out for a portion of chips (a large one, since you ask - salt, vinegar but no mushy peas).  Time flies.  And I'm sorry I've not been visiting others as much I would like to lately either.

I lost my blogging hat while I was out - but it must be around somewhere, so I'll keep looking.  In the meantime, however, here's a photo of Justin Hayward and Ian Gillan in a 1960s fashion shoot.  I just wish it was in colour!  I suspect there's some deep purple in there somewhere and maybe a moody blue too...

Tee hee

(Something from the archives!)

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost!”

“Punk Rocker!”

“Who’s your hairdresser, love?  I’ll have a word with ‘em…”

“Just had an electric shock?”

“Johnny Rotten!”

“Punky monkey!” (?)

(those were the polite comments)

Inspired

                              Mr and Mrs Clark and Percy by David Hockney

I felt very uninspired and a little unwell yesterday which may explain why I spent over an hour trying to crack the expression on a dingo's face.  Say that last bit in an Australian accent and it sounds like a colourful euphemism, but I really was just struggling disproportionately with some animal drawings.  I decided to give up for a while and as I put (what's left of) my putty rubber in a home-made card box a memory came to me and I thought I'd come in and waste some time blogging instead.  So, just to bring some colour into these grey, bleak February days, here's something bright and retro, inspired by thinking about Aussies and boxes. (Not cricket!)

I was lucky enough to catch the temporary Ossie (ok it's tenuous!) Clark exhibition in the fashion section of the V&A ten years ago.  I love so many things in the V&A but the fashion exhibits are amongst my favourites and it was brilliant to see some of his striking original outfits from the '60s and '70s while I had the chance.  As a memento I bought these great little postcards of sketches by Ossie’s textile-designer wife, Celia Birtwell, from 1969.  I just love the drawings and her vibrant, graphic fabrics.

Celia and Ossie were part of the sixties 'Bohemian' set, living in Notting Hill and having close connections with many notable rock'n'roll names of the time.  There's something really compelling about the famous painting of them (and their cat) by David Hockney which is apparently thought to be the 'most-viewed' picture ever at the Tate (I make do with my tatty postcard of it, above).  Their clothes were worn by the Beatles, Stones, Hendrix, Twiggy and Marianne Faithfull amongst others.  Looking at the designs above they seem to epitomise the late '60s/early '70s - but Celia was particularly inspired by artists from other eras - such as Matisse, costume designer Leon Bakst (whose drawings I adore!) and Picasso.

I was really attracted to these designs, even though I suspect I could never have pulled off those dresses! - at least not without looking like an auditionee for 'Abigail's Party'... After that visit to the V&A, in homage to her, I made some boxes (I have a thing about boxes), put together very simply from stiff card, and painted her fabric patterns on them in acrylics.  All those years of watching Blue Peter as a kid must have paid off, although I can honestly say that no sticky-back-plastic was used here, nor were they ever intended for a hibernating tortoise.  They were only meant to be a bit of fun but I’ve been using them ever since and amazingly they haven't fallen apart yet.  I always need small containers for those easily-losable things but I rarely find ready-made ones in the right size; these one-offs do the job.  There's a selection of (what's left of) my putty rubbers in the bottom one.

It's ok, I'm not trying to pass the patterns off as originals - they are pure Celia Birtwell

and for my personal use only!  (I add paranoiacally)

And here’s Sandie Shaw wearing it.  The Ossie Clark/Celia Birtwell dress, I mean, not a hand-made box.  I came across this clip by accident and was strangely excited when I recognised the material of her outfit!  (If, like me, you really don't want to hear 'Puppet On A String' yet one more time, even - or especially - sung in German, then I recommend turning the sound off and imagining it's her version of 'Your Time Is Gonna Come').

Sitting here now in an old brown marl jumper I’m feeling so terribly drab…  Maybe I need to don a green and yellow maxi dress to help inspire, especially as I have to cogitate on a koala today.  I wish I could be as creative as Ms Birtwell.

UPDATE:  By pure coincidence I just found that there is this Ossie Clark exhibition going on right now!

Today's fish and chip paper

I can finally stop checking The Sun every day, just in time to prevent any permanent facial damage being caused by my repeated gawping at what passes for news…  Phew, what a torture!

This is the (utterly pointless) feature I mentioned recently to which I 'could' have contributed. (Told you it would be a let-down!)   

Just in case you’re vaguely curious, it was thanks to this original post which had been spotted by a journalist.  She sent an invitation to take part in a photoshoot with other women, where we'd have to wear an item of clothing that we had once bought and then really regretted wearing, and provide a background story. I had no idea how many people were participating, or how much detail they'd want, so it was quite amusing... However, my closet is so small I don’t have room to keep those kind of sartorial skeletons and, thankfully, they’ve all gone, long ago.  (And as I don’t regret my leopard-print coat or my newly bought creepers, they don’t count…)

I made the right decision not to do it, didn’t I?   Plus there are so many much more interesting things to read about, after all.  I mean….‘Kim Kardashian defies gravity in low-cut top and no bra in Miami’….   Fascinating.

A clichéd college project take on tabloid papers

 from (aarghh) 30 years ago - nothing much changes...

Jeepers creepers

There’s been a bit of a rock’n’roll theme in some of my fellow bloggers’ posts lately and it chimed in neatly with a strange and sudden yearning to get myself a pair of… you may think I’m mad, but… a pair of creepers. 

Well, I was looking through one of my sketchbooks from the early 1980s and found these small drawings…

…and, I dunno why, but I got hooked on the idea of slipping my feet into a pair of crepe-soled shoes, at least before I get too much older.  Can a woman of my age get away with wearing such things, with narrow jeans and a leopard print coat?  Do I care?  Hmm...I don’t want to end up like one of those old ladies who should have given up the lipstick and leather decades beforehand  - there are always one or two in every town, aren’t there? -  and who turn heads for completely the wrong reasons.  But I think  - ok: hope - there’s still time for me to make a few last stands against middle-aged convention.

At least I can buy them off the internet now too.  Back at the time of my little drawings, purchasing such exotic items meant taking the train down to London and heading for the rather cramped and gloomy branch of Shelly’s at Foubert’s Place in Carnaby Street.  Inside, boxes of weird and wonderful footwear for all of us who wanted to make fashion statements with our tootsies were stacked precariously and in no obviously logical arrangement from floor to ceiling.   In Shelly’s I indulged my love of some black patent lace-up boots with impossibly pointy toes, not the sort of thing you could buy in a small town Stead & Simpsons at the time.  It was my boyfriend who bought the creepers then – purple ones, red ones, some with pointy toes too - to be accessorised with dayglo green or pink socks, which we could also only find in the city shops (far too outrageous for the provinces).

You didn’t have to be into traditional rock’n’roll to wear creepers.  Early ‘80s fashion seemed, to me anyway, to be mostly about hybrids.  It was natural to mix and match various influences: a bit of punk here, a bit of glam there, a mélange of several different decades' styles, combining kitsch with chic and old with new.  I had no qualms about wearing a yellow polka dot 1950s dress under a leather motorbike jacket, along with black woolly tights and monkey boots, for instance. And, when I think about it, there were a lot of hybrid inspirations in the musical backdrop of the time too.   Rockabilly earned new credibility with bands like the Polecats and the Stray Cats...

(Who couldn't fall in love with Brian Setzer's hair too?)

  

Anyway, the creepers are on order and I just hope I’ll like them when they get here.  At least if I find I'm not brave enough to wear them out I can Stray Cat Strut round the living room in them and pretend I'm seventeen again...