Material Girl

The Calico Toile

Sometimes it is not until something beautiful or revolutionary is delivered unto our consciousness, born from the commonplace, that we will appreciate what can be forged from a raw substance or material. Our instincts may remain muted, our intuition nestled in shadow whilst our daily lives are crosshatched with routine. Though our ability to detect potential and produce ideas may often lay dormant, there is little doubt that with the right stimulus, knowledge and skill, even the smallest idea may be brought to fruition. Freeing these ideas from our brains and watching others do so is like observing butterflies flutter from the cocoon, riding the breeze for the first time. Creativity is a form of liberation.

It might seem a little incongruous then, that I should then turn to the material calico as my particular source of freedom. Shouldn't I be contemplating jeans or the push-up bra to highlight the brilliancy of modern inventions and their emancipatory effects? Not necessarily so. Calico is a material used for constructing a toile; a prototype of a handmade garment in the art of dressmaking. It is raw, unyielding and holds an inherent beauty in its plain weft and weave. Most importantly it is impressionable; perfect for moulding, dying and scribbling on. It is an integral part of a creative design process and stimulates my obsession with bringing just a little more beauty into the world.

On a personal level, calico bears holds many different threads of significance. It is the means by which my mother was able to start her fashion emporium; her boutique Calico Casa, when she was twenty years old. Calico enabled her to hone her bespoke tailoring abilities; it was the means by which to produce 'first-drafts' of numerous silken creations. It was and still remains a trusted companion; for if a prototype fits in calico, you can be sure it will fit in pretty much any fabric you can possible imagine. It is partly the reason that I am able to sew; and furthermore give life and body to ideas that would otherwise be destined to lie silently in the damp recesses of my mind.

When I was but a little chocolate haired child watching my mother sew, I understandably could never grasp the importance of this hallowed fabric. But it is with the addition of wisdom, passion and skill that something so seemingly inconsequential such as calico can suddenly reveal the most amazing metamorphic capacities. By absorbing my mother's instruction and knowledge, I was able to produce tailored garments. I began to view the human form through a new analytical lens. I learnt how to flatter different forms, conceal bodily quirks; in essence, how to tailor to an individual frame. In a miraculous Copernican shift I saw when I worked alongside my mother that we were not simply producing garments for a body; rather, the body was inspiring and governing what we made. The seamless undulations of a slender waist, the majesty of the shoulder blades, even the delicate ridges of the ankle could fuse together in synergy with our creativity and of course, calico threads.

Though they might be unaware, I have watched calico impact upon many people's lives in my lifetime. This modest, creamy material permits designs once conceived in the imagination to become airborne. But these designs have to start somewhere. It is so easy to be swept along on the conveyor belt of fast fashion where all one ever witnesses are finished products hanging uniformly on silver rails. We may never know a shred of information about how that piece came into being. Fashion gives people the opportunity to live their lives in a majestic art form, which is wonderful. Though I like to view life from the seamy side, so to speak, and often ruminate on how a particular garment may have been constructed. We use and wear other people's creations everyday; but I think the mentality that we too possess the ability to think creatively and produce innovative designs is somewhat lacking in today's society. We don't have to aim for world domination with design either; but as Theodore Levitt once succinctly professed "ideas are useless unless used".  

The toile that I am showcasing here is part of a bespoke wedding dress I helped my mother design and produce. The bodice was panelled and boned (notoriously tricky) with decorative piping and hand turned loops and buttons; a nod to our individual sewing style. I think it is always important to show the real interior of a garment and how it has been produced. These stitches, seams, pintucks and pleats are all aspects that need to be duly observed just as a cartographer identifies hills and valleys on a map; and to some, hold infinitely more beauty than the perfect flesh of a garment itself.

The bride was married on a sunny September afternoon and the dress has been spirited away to sunnier climes. The toile remained hidden, until one rainy afternoon this summer I plundered a drawer in my mother's workshop full of old patterns and prototypes, and decided that the toile deserved to see the light of day once more. This is just one footprint; or more suitably, handprint in a trail of creativity I hope to showcase on my blog in due course.

 

The Pursuit of Country Life: Review of The Country Living Spring Fair

Having lived and grown up in rural Norfolk all my life I know both the glories and the adversities of living in the countryside. I'm sure we’re all familiar with the myth of the urban/rural social divide. City dwellers dream of a pastoral portrait dotted with darling little rural retreats, whilst miles away farmers contentedly tend their livestock and their wives prepare home baked apple pies back home.

This generalisation is out-dated though. There may well be people who cherish the thought that there are pockets of William Blake’s “green and pleasant land” nestled away like long lost Egyptian treasure, biding its time until one intrepid adventurer unearths buried riches. But I think it’s pretty well established now that the countryside is blighted by a range of social issues just like anywhere else in England. I know, for example, the realities of maintaining a livelihood in the countryside, having practically grown up helping my Mum in her country workshop, English Country Garden Dresses. The same jolly farmer that one may imagine ambling alongside his animals will in fact happily mow you down with his Massey Ferguson if one toe encroaches off the un-farmed field boundary onto his land. The roguish gamekeeper is scandalously doing the rounds hunting down the vixens in the village; not the usual foxy rendezvous you expect him to be undertaking.

It’s not just that I know the real countryside experience; the landscape, people or culture. I know the ins and outs of what it takes to successfully live and work in a rural area. But if I can hone in on one real discrepancy in how the country life is represented, it is within the shady sphere of commercialisation. It always amuses me to see the how consumers are sold the rather one dimensional manifestation of the country lifestyle. Just as in the manner of a beautiful fruitcake, from the heart of London to the depths of Norfolk, the delicacies and idiosyncrasies of fine country fare are masked by a thick layer of frosted icing.

In thoughtful, time-honoured, and eternally misjudged fashion, my latest parcel from Mum arrived with two tickets to the annual Spring Country Living Fair (one for my older sister-strike two). What could be more commercially palatable than a slice of this utopian country lifestyle jamboree?

Abandoning my self-imposed exile (and exam revision) and complimentary ticket in hand, I hopped on the Northern Line from Borough to Angel, where the Country Living Fair is hosted in Islington every year at The Business Design Centre. Being of rather mercurial temperament, and more importantly a student, I was actually really looking forward to a free day out perusing all that’s pink and pretty, regardless of the fair’s estrangement from my reality of the countryside.

Greeted by the striking scalloped glass façade of The Business Design Centre and crowds of shoppers I had no reason to be suspicious. But as I walked through the entrance the scene was at first a disorientating, kaleidoscopic mirage of pastels. Pink and blue bunting fluttered from every junction, chiffon drapes cobwebbed the majestic glass roof and fringes of frilly xanthous daffodils lined every staircase.  It was exactly what I had envisioned. Nevertheless, free goody bag in hand I waltzed cheerfully into the sea of be-jaegered ladies who lunch.

I have to admit I had a good time. It wasn’t the representation of country life that I knew, but I didn’t expect it to be. It was a carnival of kitsch and colour; I felt like I had stepped into a feel-good romanticised episode of ‘Escape to The Country’ where all the model homes sport a colony of distressed style metal kitchen containers and plush white carpet devoid of children’s muddy footprints carpets every floor. A considerable amount of the exhibitors’ work was hand produced; but the goods which were imported were so obvious they might just have well have boasted neon light bulbs, pyrotechnics and backing dancers; namely rails of Boden-style separates and imitation Cath Kidston patent handbags.

Nevertheless, two hours, a restored print of ratty and mole from The Wind in the Willows and a raffia beach bag later, I happily, albeit slightly intoxicated by the pervasive clouds of lavender, strayed  upstairs and miraculously happened upon a tea stall. The Design Centre is the sort of place where seating for weary shoppers truly is a figment of the imagination, and if, like me, you decide to perch on the bottom step of the stairs to regain your strength, a security guard will close in in no time, who moves you on while smiling apologetically at passers-by as if he is disciplining a naughty schoolchild. The girl manning the tea urn bossily charged me four pounds for a cup of tea and a biscuit, which I decided to write off as totally forgivable in light of my fatigue.

As I sat, rather awkwardly on a mercilessly hard wooden garden chair, I found myself giggling at a stall in my line of view devoted to bespoke fabric bra straps; pegged fastidiously along a mini washing line. Next door, expensive, and presumably, ‘authentic’ looking country tunics hung jauntily on shiny hangers. It was so not what I, or my family, or anyone I know back home for that matter would gaily deck themselves in for cleaning out the chicken pens. But it did crystallise the essence of the day.

If you are questing for an idealistic souvenir of country life, look no further than the cornucopia at hand at The Country Living Fair. You will be reminded afresh of why we are so perennially fascinated with pursuing a taste of rural life. It is an ingenious sensual seduction, an escape from the monochromatic palette of modern life; work, bills, chores. Just like the realm of the written word, it allows you to find solace, if only for a few hours in a physical manifestation of charm and colour. 

There were undeniably one or two stalls which really had captured what country life means; what true English craftsmanship is all about.Those were the people who you could read in their faces what it was to sustain a truly faithful vision of English country living. I could recognise what it meant to them to design, produce, market and sell your own creations, and how much work had gone into breathing life into their ideas; not only that but maintaining that pulse. Keeping a rural business going is tough; part of maintaining its survival is marketing it an appetizing way to those unfamiliar with the realities of rural life and work. But I feel saddened that the true representation of the countryside is compromised for its commercial potential.

The compelling simulation of country living brightened my day. But the sensation was short-lived. Just as the glow of materialist contentment fades when exiting the bright lights of the city, as the never-ending Angel escalators snailed down to the bowels of the underground I was left yearning for the corporality that exists in my country life; the scent of meadow grasses, the ravens cawing on the chimney pots, the verdant forest canopy and the boughs of the oak trees welcoming me back home.

“If I should die, think only this of me…that there’s some corner of a foreign field that is forever England”- Siegfried Sassoon.