Fashion

Marie Antoinette

What on earth am I going to wear?

Who hasn’t stood in front of a wardrobe bursting with clothes  and
exclaimed: “I haven’t got a thing to wear”.

It’s Spring, fashion shows in New York, Milan, Paris, London, Berlin make the headlines, shiny magazines and a dazzling array of the latest fashions in the stores tempt us to spend our money. From haute couture on the catwalks to
piles of cheap t-shirts in the mass market outlets, clothes are the preoccupation of the moment.

Fashion and the drive to adorn ourselves are nothing new. From earliest times mankind has worn jewellery, made up body and face, dressed up. We have records of prehistoric people and tribes in distant jungles, who have never heard of fashion designers, who still felt the need for physical decoration. If fashion were sensible and served purely practical purposes, it wouldn’t be called fashion, it would be called clothing. Actually, I’d even say fashion wouldn’t exist.

John Willmot - Earl of Rochester

The way we dress tells us and the world around us who we are. The richer the outfit the heavier the purse that pays for it. You only have to look at paintings of noblemen and –women in history, ostentatious display of fashionable apparel denotes their relative importance; clothes are a status symbol, a visible sign of wealth and position.

Fashion is, and always has been, big business. Even Shakespeare advised:
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy ; but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
In German there is a similar saying: ‘Kleider machen Leute’, ( dress makes the man).

Although we have become much less formal about clothes, many of us still spend a lot of time and thought on the way we present ourselves to others. Fashion is like a second skin. Even if we wear nothing but jeans and t-shirt, we still declare our adherence to particular dress codes. Remember punks? Or goths? Tolerance is all, but I still secretly shudder at the sight of them.  I realize that my reaction is silly, all fashion is a kind of theatre, a public display, artificial by definition; we constantly change fashions – I understand new collections come into the shops monthly nowadays.

Followers of fashion play with fashions, constantly re-inventing themselves while doing so. There is this wonderful word “fashion victim” for those who must have, and be seen to have, the latest outfits. People suffer for fashion, just think of those heels models and actresses wear. There was a photograph of a group of women of 60 + in the colour magazine of a reputable broadsheet the other day. All the women were wearing the most uncomfortable looking shoes; I cannot imagine that any of them wore those shoes for longer than it took to photograph them. Three hundred years ago it was men who teetered about the courts of Europe on high heels. How sensible of them to give them up.

For the life of me I cannot admire and certainly don’t covet those horrendously expensive, huge, bags which are all the rage. Shoes and bag are often worn by the same woman, who constantly reassures us how comfortable she is while tottering precariously on her heels, being weighed down by half a ton of handbag.

Personally, I am at  that boring stage of life where comfort is the most pressing concern; I am an out-of-fashion has-been. I enjoy buying clothes, enjoy choosing what I feel suits me and I certainly make an effort not only for special occasions but also for going into town. Living in the country one gets so used to dressing down, throwing on jeans and jumper and gum boots, that getting out of them is a treat which happens not nearly often enough for me. But my special occasion clothes are rarely fashionable, they are more likely to be "sensible" and even "serviceable", although I much prefer the term "classic".

Introducing The Audience

Interior of Covent Garden Theater, London
ca. 1808
Thomas Rowlandson (1756-1827 British)

Mud Gathered From A Scraper  -  Part 2 in an occasional series.

Part 1 was an introduction to orchestral Musicians


How many members of an audience realise that whilst they are looking at and commenting on an orchestra, the players are equally looking at them?  -  and how many people sitting in the front row of the stalls realise just how unintelligent and depressing they appear to those on the platform, or in the pit?

If members of the public are dressed informally, they are held to look scruffy, and players resent wearing formal clothes for them. If the audience is immaculate in evening dress, the players blame it for maintaining the convention that makes dinner jackets compulsory.  It is the view of the audience a player has from the impersonal elevation of the platform, before the houselights go down, which determines his opinion that all audiences can be divided into ten categories, regardless of the time, place and programme.

The first group, to which of course all readers of this blog belong, is of genuine music-lovers, who listen to the performance, and do their best to understand the music. They do not necessarily sit in the best seats, and may know little about the intricacies of first movement form, but they are the core of the audience, and the only people to whom musicians are always glad to play, however few in number they may be. There is also a type of listener who imagines that he belongs in the first group. He will exchange knowing remarks about the orchestra with his neighbours, and when he recognises a melody, will hum it to himself, in another key. Many members of amateur orchestras belong to this group.

Another kind of concert-goer tries to give an impression of being musical by studying the score during the performance. Should he not possess a score, or should he become hopelessly lost, he will shut his eyes, assume an expression of concentrated ecstasy and sway slightly, in time with the music. A fourth category is composed largely of old ladies, who appear to be enjoying a concert intelligently, and who will say, in conversation with a performer, how they love good classical music, like "In a Monastery Garden".

Soloists are often engaged for concerts on the strength of their following.  The soloist's fans do not bother to hide their boredom during the works preceding the concerto or aria; they are sullen and fidgety and usually leave when their idol has taken his or her last bow. The only point in their favour, from the musicians point of view, is that they make the concert a financial success.

Some people buy season tickets for a series of concerts; thus they can hear six programmes for the price of five. They will attend each programme in order to get their money's worth and can easily be recognised by their air of determined enjoyment, which is similar to that seen at a holiday camp during wet weather.

Smaller sections of audiences may consist of young lovers who consider the surroundings more conducive to successful courting than the cinema. Then there are school parties, who pay reduced rates; pupils regard the occasion as an outing of much the same sort as a conducted tour of the local gas-works. Parents occasionally bring their families to concerts, hoping to 'do them good'. When the youngest member starts whimpering during the slow movement, they leave their seats in the middle of the row, red-faced, kicking as many shins as they find on their way out.

And finally, there is unpunctuality, which is a common failing among all sections of an audience. Although concerts rarely start at the advertised time there is still a core of determined late-comers delaying the performance to the annoyance of players and conductor.

In spite of the foregoing, players need their audience, so please come and listen;  they also need to pay the rent.

Creative Writing Class

I've mentioned before that I've joined a Creative Writing From Life class. I'm by no means certain that this class is quite what I'm looking for but, for the time being, it'll do. We are led by a lecturer whose main aim seems to be to create as much distance between the students and herself as she can.

A recent  assignment was to write a 'found poem'. Each student was asked to contribute a word, a trigger for a line, twelve in all, the whole to become a poem. 

We came up with mundane words like time of day, weather, location, an item of clothing, a colour,a feeling,  an allusion to a historical period, a foreign word, a place by water, a relative, a mechanical contrivance, etc. You get the drift.

It proved to be quite hard work. I did several drafts, trying to incorporate as many of the set contexts as I could. In the end the class didn't even discuss the poems we had written. For some reason the lecturer didn't find the time. Perhaps she still will, but as I have worked at it, you shall be the beneficiaries of my efforts. This is the second draft:

The Visit 

Mocked by the thin sun of a February morning

she shut the door on the cocoon of her house.

She shrugged herself deeper into her coat.

Distaste tugged at the corners of her lipsticked mouth.

Spiked heels meticulously picking a path,

her gleaming car received her, purring pleasure,

flattering the tedious road ahead.

Bound for the old house by the sea,

shrouded in memories of long ago,

where faded women kept watch over a past

which was hers too,

grey clouds overwhelmed the last rays of the morning’s sun.

© photo and words USW

The Missing Piece

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 54

Life starts along 

the straight edged, easy, mapped out, path.

All is laid out,

the rules are there to follow, your path is clear.

First come the corners, 

fill them in, 

and all else follows on from there.

Perhaps all four 

fall into place for you,

the signs are there to read,

blue sky shows you the way.

As life moves on,

your faltering steps grow stronger,

a shape begins to form.

The pieces fit, 

you learn your lessons well.

And on life goes

first one piece then another,

the lines grow longer,

the picture fills, you are content.

But life is never easy like a jigsaw puzzle,

a halt is called,

a barrier blocks your way.

No man should walk alone.

There's no completion to be had 

until you find the missing piece, 

a love to see you home.

 

© USW

February Miscellany

To my mind there is something modest about February, not a month given to ostentatious display of any kind. It is shorter and therefore of lesser stature than other months. February is less cold and dark and forbidding than January and often milder than March in these parts. There are tentative signs of Spring, but these will easily be nipped in the bud by icy March winds. February is a wait-and-see month, even Carnival and Lent don't have their own firmly established place in the order of things, instead they depend on he good graces of Easter.

Still, even in-between months have their good points, there are crocuses, hellebores and the first unforced shoots of rhubarb in the garden.

Crocuses after rain

an almost black hellebore bud opening

the first rhubarb leaf unfurling

In February the Sun enters the House of Pisces.  The 'Kalendar of Shepheardes' of 1604 has this to say about Pisceans:

The man born under Pisces shall be a great goer, a fornicator, a mocker and covetous; he will say one thing and do another. He shall trust in his sapience, he shall have good fortune; he will be a defender of widows and orphans. He shall be fearful on water; he shall soon pass all adversities and live seventy-two years after nature.

The woman shall be delicious, familiar in jests, pleasant of courage, fervent, a great drinker. She shall have sickness of her eyes and be sorrowful by shame, needlessly. Her husband will leave her, and she shall have much trouble with strangers. She shall travel much, have pain in her stomach, and live seventy-seven years.

Both man and woman shall live faithfully.

Don't say you weren't warned!

Going Back To The Simple Life - Depends What You Mean . .

Two of my favourite bloggers, Robert, The Solitary Walker and George at Transit Notes have recently written beautifully about remembering what is really important in life, the joys and pleasures of living a simple life. Whilst I whole-heartedly agree with everything they say, I was reminded just the other day that 'The Simple Life' needs further definition.

We were without electricity for a day and night and the mere fact of knowing that we were powerless (no pun intended) to do anything about it threw us into a strange confusion.  When the lights went off at 11.30 at night Beloved was in the shower and I was reading. The sudden transition from what we take for granted, i.e. 'normal life' to pre-industrial age darkness is most discomposing. One really has to make a conscious effort to gather one's wits, before the hunt for torches and candles can begin. There is an immediate feeling of injury, after all, we are 'entitled' to the supply of electricity, 'how dare they cut us off'. Trying to find an explanation for this phenomenon comes next, in our case without success. We went to bed, hoping to wake up to an orderly world, plentiful hot water, light and warmth.

In vain, still no power.  Not even the landline telephone worked. Using a mobile phone to ring the power company causes problems, but these can be overcome. You are assured "Madame, we will do everything in our power to trace the fault". Luckily, the Aga works on gas and there is a fire in the sitting room. I can heat a pan of water for tea and kitchen and sitting room are warm, the rest of the house turns into a fridge.  Which reminds me, fridge and freezers have been warming up steadily overnight. My freezers are stuffed with garden fruit and vegetables and home-cooked, ready meals, as well as raw food.

"Madame, if you lose the contents of your freezers you will be entitled to compensation".
Compensation? What's the good of that? I do not want to lose the fruits of my labours, my delicious, home-cooked dishes, my garden produce.

The sense of dislocation, injustice and injury grows.

The day progresses, little gets done, we are engulfed by a strange sense of lethargy.  The men are digging a hole in the village square. "Sorry, Madame, we are as yet unable to locate the fault". Four other houses are involved. We commiserate with each other and stand around in the square, shivering in the drizzle, willing the men to find the cause of our misery.

When darkness falls, candles are lit. I adore candlelight. When candles are the only source of light,  that pleasure dims. Disconsolately, we sit in the sitting room, nursing a glass of wine and our grievance, paralysed, hopeless, keeping the dog from moving about in case he knocks over a candle and sets the house on fire.

You probably think 'what a pair of wimps', but when the TV stand-by click sounded we were suddenly electrified ourselves, jumped up, rushed to freezers and light switches all over the house, blew out the candles, re-set the boiler to get the hot water supply re-started and tested the radiators.

Civilisation restored, the relief is great.

The simple life is all very well, but as I said at the beginning: "It all depends on what you mean".

Valentine For A Middle-Aged Spouse - one day late

HERE'S TO YOU
Sheila McInnes

It's not that I am totally opposed to the idea of Valentine's Day with its pretty pink roses, pink champagne, a heart-shaped box of chocolates, a cosy overpriced dinner in a dimly lit restaurant with schmaltzy music in the background; it's not that I can't appreciate the hype of overpriced, gimmicky tat we are implored to buy for this occasion; no, this is all very good for the economy. 

It's just not  for me, if it's all the same, thank you.

What I remember on this day is a very good, kind and loving man, who took me on when I was seriously ill, although I gave him every chance to duck out of the commitment. He took me on, although he knew that I might never get better, become an invalid for whatever time I had left, useless and a burden. He took me on and looked after me, bullied me, pampered me, encouraged me, dried my tears,

stopped me wallowing in self-pity and made me laugh, held my hand and held me upright.

And when the miracle happened and modern medicine and his love took the demon away from me,

he stuck to and put up with a cantankerous, selfish, ungrateful, very faulty human being.

This poem is for you, Beloved. Thanks for everything.

Dear Love, since we might both be dead by now

through war, disease, hijack or accident

at least for one day let's not speak of how

much we have bickered, botched and badly spent.

Wouldn't it make much more sense to collude

in an affectionate work of camouflage,

turning our eyes away from all we've skewed,

to the small gains of household bricolage?

As our teeth loosen and our faces crag

(I shall grow skinnier as you grow paunched,

a Laurel to your Hardy, not much brag),

I'll think of all our love most sweetly launched

if you will look with favour on these lines

we may still live as tender valentines.

Elaine Feinstein

b. October 1930

PS: this post is a day late because we have just had a 24 hour power 'outage'.

I shall come visiting everybody as soon as I can.

A Foretaste of Spring

Of course it's not Spring,

but a day like today could almost make me believe that it won't be long now, which means that seed packets are becoming interesting again.

Gardener came this morning,
for the first time this year;
working hard made us ignore
the cold wind. A woollen hat, a warm fleece kept off the worst of it. The sun shone brightly, lighting up dark and dismal hidden corners.

We pruned and chopped and cut back
all day; rotting and dead vegetation
is now on the compost heap.
Any pruning that has been put off should be done this month. Bundles of pea sticks are waiting to prop up
herbaceous perennials later in Spring.

I am surprised at how long I lasted, a full day of serious gardening always leaves me completely
worn out, with aching limbs, sore knees and a back as bent as that of an old crone. Which I am, of course. The first day after a long winter spent slaving over a book or a blog is the worst. Gardener told Beloved  "I should have made it a half day, to break her in gently".

The aconites are out, pure gold in the sun.

Gardener never wears gloves. Bare hands are better for scraping up leaves

from between new growth. Delicate plants need delicate treatment.

Alder Tree Catkins 

Alder for shoes
Do wise men choose.


Being water-resistant and heat-retaining, alder is the best wood for clog soles.

Alder leaves gathered while the morning dew is on them, and brought into a chamber troubled with fleas, will gather them thereunto; which, being suddenly cast out, will rid the chamber of these troublesome bedfellows.


Culpeper Herbal 1653

 s
Sweet smelling Witch-Hazel is in flower. 

Winter is a very dull time in the garden, very few colours delight the eye.

But on a sunny day like today close inspection of  normally modest plants

can bring great pleasure.

B IS FOR: Boyfriends

or

 Beauty, Bliss, Basilisk, Bazaar, Bachelor, Bête Noir,

but

 having got to Bachelor and the black beast,

Boyfriends

might be a suitable theme.

For all of her young life, Eva admired boys; they fascinated her, attracted and repulsed her at the same time; she loved their company, the rough games they played, their boastful voices and scabby knees. She followed them like a faithful puppy, always on the margins, never quite allowed to step over the threshold into their disgusting and smelly world. When it suited them, the boys generously invited her to fetch things for them, watch their coats, hold their drinks. There were times when she was called upon to be the referee in a noisy dispute between several boys; usually instigated by a boy who could count on her partiality towards him. She was very happy then.

Eva found little girls boring. Standing around in small groups, gossiping, or playing girls' games didn't appeal to her. Girls were, of course,  quite as spiteful and nasty as boys, but she usually failed to grasp the meaning of barbs aimed at her. Where the boys openly ridiculed and bullied her, the girls sneered and whispered amongst themselves. Dimly she sensed the girls' disapproval and envy, because she clearly preferred the boys' company and sheer persistence and dogged determination had gained her a kind of official camp follower status.

In spite of that, she belonged in neither camp, and camps they most certainly were. The great gender divide is not a discovery of recent times. Eva was a bit of a lost soul, an outsider, an independent spirit, in her way a fighter for equality before the term and concept were invented.

Boys have always liked to throw things. In earliest times, all around the world, 'throwing sticks' or 'throwing clubs' were used to kill animals and maim or kill the enemy. Straight sticks like the stave and javelin and spear, or curved like a boomerang are known to have been used by early humans in all cultures. Plain sticks were followed by slings and catapults, bows and arrows, which were, in essence, the same principle, they just extended the maiming and killing range.

Luckily, boys also like to throw a ball, and other less immediately deadly weapons; like a frisbee, for instance.  Eva's disillusionment with boys started because of a frisbee-like missile.

The boy she liked best and who occasionally felt flattered enough to accept her homage, i.e., bullied her more than the others did, had invented a throwing game which involved ripping tar paper off a school hut roof and tear it into small pieces. These pieces, a very early frisbee, flew a fair distance. Whoever managed to throw the missile the furthest won the game.

Gunther, that was the boy's name, spied Eva loitering, as usual, on the fringes on the end of the boys' part of the playground, looking in his direction.  Foolishly, he threw the fragment of tar paper at her. Perhaps he wanted to frighten her, or show off to the others; it was most probably a totally thoughtless, instinctive action.

The tar paper landed smack in the middle of Eva's forehead and stayed there.

Eva howled, blood started to flow copiously. Teachers fluttered around helplessly.
Nowadays, the fear of litigation would be foremost in a teacher's mind. It wasn't then. One of them took Eva to the first aid box, removed the tar paper, slapped a huge plaster on the large cut,  and sent her home. Alone, without even washing the blood off her face.

Eva paid for her early devotion to boys in several ways: because of the teacher's inefficiency, she carried the scar across her forehead for the rest of her life. The Family Doctor could do nothing, the wound should have been cleaned and stitched instantly, he said.

But Eva's hurt went far deeper than a mere gash across her forehead; Gunther was so ashamed of himself and, no doubt, frightened by what he had done, that he never again allowed Eva access to any of the boys' games, not even standing on the periphery. The other boys followed his lead.

For a short while Eva felt very lonely.

The One-Eyed House

WILLOW's MAGPIE TALES No. 52

A doll’s house, cream-edged,
with walls the shade of green
which would turn blue in different light.
Four sturdy steps to guide you in.

Walking past on the other side
his strong arm helped her through the snow.
Young lovers searching for a home.
They slowed their steps and turned to look.

“It is too small”, he said.
“It is of noble proportions”, she said.
“It looks forbidding”, he said.
“It needs warmth”, she said.

They stopped and stood behind the tree.
“The trees are shielding it”, she said.
“The trees will steal its light”, he said.
“And give it shade”, she said.


They stood and stared, thoughtfully, silently.
The tree obscured the view, they stood, not moving.                                                                                                                      

“A pretty house”, they said, “a pretty one-eyed house”.

“And that eye blind, without a light to give it life".

Of Old Labradors, Walkies And Vets.

Is nobody going to take me out?

Come on, it's not raining. Yet!

I am waiting.

Benno was 11 years old at Christmas, which is very elderly for a Labrador. His muzzle and chest are sprinkled with grey and the photo shows that he has lost a lower front tooth. Luckily front teeth are not important to him, he never chews his food, just swallows it whole.

My dear, sweet, best friend and walking companion is getting old; he still runs and chases sticks and loves long rambles, but jumping stiles and five bar gates is more difficult. In fact, he now graciously waits for me to open gates for him when before he sailed over them, no matter how high.  Walking through gates beside cattle grids was for sissies, he cleared them effortlessly from a standing start. Not anymore. Running up and down the Castle Mound doesn't seem to be as much fun as it used to be, either. When I hurl a stick down the bank, he still gamely fetches it up the very steep slope, but only once or twice; the third time he has a rest half-way up and finds it more interesting to lie down and chew his stick for a while, before he comes up the rest of the hill.

Recently, I've noticed several lumps on him, one near a gland in his neck, under the ruff and one on his bottom, which called for visits to the vet. Benno had needles inserted into his neck and fingers poked up his bottom, all very undignified. He is so good that he let it all happen, including a very thorough examination of his spine and legs. The only thing he insists on, on these occasions, is that I stay very close and hold his head and whisper to him.

The diagnosis was only mildly disturbing: although he has arthritis in his spine, which is common in old labradors, the lump in his neck is a fat lump and not dangerous. The lump on his bottom hasn't grown any bigger since I first noticed it, which is also good; a definite diagnosis requires a biopsy, which means hospitalisation and anaesthetics. I can't bear the thought of that.

I am sticking my head in the sand somewhat here; Benno's predecessor, Boris, had cancer in almost the same place, but he died within a few weeks after I noticed the lump. Benno has survived for much longer already, the lump hasn't grown and he still appears to be a healthy and happy dog.

I love that blasted animal.

Damn pets, who needs them, they're such a pain.

Frying Pan Moments

Confession time: Every few weeks I go and talk to a counsellor, who listens and asks questions, mainly "and how do you feel about that";  by the end of the session I usually feel that I can face up to another of my skeletons more easily.

It all started because I complained to my doctor that my periods of highs and lows,  from great excitement to deep disappointment in four easy steps, were getting more frequent and interfering with my physical health; he suggested that a spot of the 'talking cure' might be better than drastic medical  intervention. He was right. Lauren is an excellent counsellor, she is helping me unearth problems and memories I'd forgotten I'd buried.

Frying pan moments came about literally through the use of a frying pan. I am sure that many of you carry around some resentments - if you are like me these fester and become entrenched; every time a similar situation arises, out pops the resentment, poisoning the atmosphere.

We have very irregular visitors with whom I have never been on an easy footing, but I cannot get out of the visits. They never stay for more than two or three days, so I should be mature about it and put up with things with a good grace.

If only I could.

A member of this family likes to eat at his own time; he fries himself some eggs, has some bread with it and makes no fuss about it at all.  There shouldn't be the smallest problem about it. Except that he uses my favourite pan and has no idea that I have been pampering and petting, seasoning and proving this pan for years, it never has the slightest contact with any detergent. He also doesn't know that a pan needs a little grease and a fairly high temperature before you fry anything in it.

Weeks before the visit was due I was fretting and muttering and generally getting myself into a state over it. The frying pan became the focus for my resentment: I had managed to get it back to peak condition and now he would come and ruin it again. All you clever clogs out there already know the frying pan was only a symptom of the general malaise, still, it served as the hook to hang my resentment on.

So I told Lauren.

She didn't laugh. She simply asked a few questions.


Do you ever tell them that there are things they do which you resent?


Do you ever ask them why they say certain things? (I tend to smile and turn the conversation away from hurtful ground.)

As you can't get out of these visits, have you ever laid down ground rules for them?

and finally,

Have you thought of buying a cheap frying pan just for him and his eggs?


So, now I know just how easy it is. Lauren is teaching me, by teasing it out of me, that even when you are resentful of the status quo there are things you can do, quietly, politely but firmly, which make the situation more bearable for you.

The funny thing is,  the moment I actually bought that cheap frying pan in the picture above, the problem itself became much less threatening. I was able to remain at ease with myself, if not with the guests.

Since then, Lauren's first question when I come for a session is: "Have there been any frying pan moments since I last saw you?"

A Pile Of Bricks

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 51

We lie together, huddled in the dust,

as boys and girls and chimney sweepers must.

From such abasement we will never rise,

but in our day we won the Turner Prize.

Equivalent VIII, usually referred to as "The Bricks", is the last and most famous of a series of minimalist sculpture by Carl Andre. Constructed in 1966, it was bought by The Tate Gallery in 1972. The exhibit comprises one-hundred-and-twenty fire bricks, arranged in two layers, in a six-by-ten rectangle. All eight structures in the series have the same height, mass and volume, but different shapes. Thus they are all "equivalent".

When first exhibited at the Tate Gallery at Millbank in 1976, the piece drew much criticism in the press because of the perception that taxpayers' money had been spent on paying an inflated price for a collection of bricks.



Quotation:

"Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers come to dust."


Cymbeline
Shakespeare