Like Mother, Like Daughter

Dress: Vintage Calico Casa Shoes: Topshop 

There are said to be certain clues in a woman’s life that confirm that you are turning into your mother. A turn of phrase or familiar facial expression will somehow make their way into our mannerisms and we realise that the transformation is inevitable. Nowadays though, people have started to celebrate the symmetry shared with parents in ways both abstract and physical.  Parents are regularly cited now as sources of style inspiration. In the case of the dress in these photographs however, the focus shifts from the traits passed down through genes and DNA to a story inherited second-hand; petticoated in until very recently. A dress born from an act of creativity which circuits mother and daughter decades after its genesis.

Forget Your Troubles

We’ve all had those kind of weeks. When someone enquires after your health and for the sake of hassle, you plump for “great thank you” rather than beat down the poor unassuming person with a list of peeves and problems. For some reason or other, I’ve had backache all week. Of course, Mum had something to say on the matter.

“It’s your own fault, you never do as I say and take two Ibuprofen before the pain kicks in”.

My Mum is the only person I know, or have indeed heard of that believes in preventative medication. She will take two Ibuprofen regularly in the course of her day, i.e before driving or going for a walk so that she’s one step ahead of any pain that might conspire to bring her down. This made me howl with laughter when she first told me of her scheme. Needless to say, Mum is having the last laugh.

Luckily, I did anticipate that somewhere down the line in the grip of winter I would quite possibly (unquestionably) require a pick-me-up when I felt like hibernating forever. Over the summer I started to stockpile lots of photos; not unlike the manner of a squirrel storing away pine-nuts for an unadulterated feast when things got bleak.

The afternoon I took these photos I was having a casual stroll through the delightful Old Spitalfields antique market (not to be confused with the Traders Market or Arts Market). Spitalfields is the oldest market in London, nestled in the heart of the city by Liverpool Street. It dates back to 1638 when Charles I issued a licence for the sale of livestock. The market evolved ever since and underwent significant structural renovation in the Victorian period. The old part of Spitalfields remains largely unchanged and it is there, as you walk through the red brick archway that it is possible to feel a whisper of the past. It is extremely atmospheric; and it is these types of places whose histories and stories can all too easily evaporate in the face of modernity.

Old Spitalfields antique market teams with people as soon as the doors open. Dealers, traders, antique enthusiasts, collectors, whether professional or casual soon merge into a simmering brew of punters, all beadily searching for a find. It is impossible to comprehensively describe the wares for sale. The market truly is a treasure trove. Tables and trestles teeter with piles and boxes of stock, jewellery hangs in bunches off meat hooks and fur coats are stuffed in wardrobes.

As I was meandering along, I heard some wonderful Argentinian music drifting down the mall. Upon following the tune I discovered that outside underneath the Amphitheatre Canopy, complete with DJ, were a whole crowd of tango dancers spinning in the summer sunshine.

There was seating all the way around the circular dancing area for the public to watch. And watch they did; it was clear to see people were captivated. The crowds grew larger but fell quieter under the spell of the dancers and melodies alike.

For the next two and a half hours I sat drinking tea and taking photos of the dancers. What amazed me the most was how proficiently they moved around the small space, skilfully rotating round each other like satellites, never once colliding. And as each song ended, and partners swapped, the new dancers would move in synchronicity once more like they’d known each other for years. It was beautiful to watch such a diverse group of dancers interact and perform. This is part of the beauty of Argentinian tango; allowing people from all walks of life to come together in the tango embrace to share a connection and create a moment.

Unbeknownst to me, this event is an initiative between Tango-Fever, a community dance group run by René Hellemons and Hiba Faisal, and Spitalfields, which runs annually from May to September. It allows Londoners to participate in a unique opportunity to tango outdoors in a public area. You can read more about this wonderful collaboration here.

I hope that these dancers have brought a little sunshine to your day as they have done for me. As a little something extra, I have photographed just some of the gems that I have ‘magpied’ along those very aisles. Everything is vintage or antique-this is the only jewellery that I wear. The craftsmanship and beauty is generally unparalleled nowadays, and allows you a sliver of that history belonging to a bygone age.

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.

 

Life in the Foodchain

Casual cake shopping in Chinatown

Pressure manifests itself in funny ways. A twitching vein in the temple here, a glazed expression there, snoozing over the cooker while boiling pasta (i.e my medic flatmate). Personally I sport crazy, towering bird’s nest hair and compulsively eat doughnuts.

Because the last two weeks have been insane.

Turns out I didn’t have enough time to blog. In fact I haven’t had much time for those little things we consider integral to a daily routine; normal things like eating or sleeping. I've been working crazily on my five essays with a dangerously looming deadline and scarily little time. It got to the point where I was working until the early hours of morning some nights in the study room, glaring at any unfortunate soul who happened to rustle a crisp packet.

In between all that, I had housing fairs to attend, new prep classes for my second year that had happily been timetabled to coincide with exam preparation (a smart move as ever by university administrators), and articles to write for the uni newspaper.

Two hours before I was due to hand in my essays the printer in the study room broke, so I found myself pelting down the street to Costcutter in my pyjamas to buy printer paper, praying that my little printer had enough ink to churn out 100 pages of waffle.

Thankfully it did. I barely had time to breathe before I had my Classical and Biblical exam to revise for on the Friday, leaving me with three days revision.

I practically lived in my dance tracksuit for comfiness whilst studying and didn’t brush my hair for a while. Nothing like exams to bring students out of the woodwork. The study room suddenly became packed with people you’ve never seen the whole year that you’ve lived at your residence. It became a fight to get a prime studying spot. Rival study gangs compete for territory. Pilgrimages to Tesco for sugary sustenance became hallowed occasions.

 This is how we usually drown our exam sorrows...1kg style.

As usual, our exams are scheduled in places on the other side of London that you never knew existed. Our Classical and Biblical exam was held in a building called The Troxy; a corporate venue that looked like a theatre with very pretty imitation Art Deco architecture and furnishings. It would have been lovely to see what I was writing though. Three hours spent squinting in dark yellow half-light was painful. It took me the whole weekend to recover.

There was no respite as I had Early Modern Literary Culture the following Tuesday. I found myself casually skimming through a history of early modern travel writing and chanting John Milton’s Paradise Lost like an absolute loon for the next two days, refusing to talk to anyone in case it broke my hypnotic state.

Tuesday dawned and Tom and I ventured off to Westminster this time, where the weather kindly condescended to violently rain on us before we were allowed in the exam venue. Standing with the crowds of English students always inspires mixed feelings. You have those people who smoothly proclaim that they’ve only done a couple of hours revision, when they’ve obviously been hard at it since last year. But you help but feel uplifted when you're reunited with friends that you haven’t seen for weeks. After another three hours of feverish scribbling with a much detested blotchy biro, I was free.

“You know Tom”, I said as we staggered out from the exam hall away from our ordeal, “I’ve got to stop living on the edge. It’s killing me.”

“I’ve already fallen off” Tom sighed with all the gravity of an eighty year old. 

In a cruel twist of fate, after repeatedly affirming that I was never going to eat another sugared doughnut in my life, and that I was embarking on a diet immediately after exams, I developed a painful ache in my jaw.

One day later I was in agony. I found an emergency dentist online and found myself, once more, circumnavigating a strange part of London. Two hours later I was nervously waiting on an imitation leather sofa three floors above street level in a tiny dentist’s surgery on Baker Street, while the receptionist’s dark eyes relentlessly bore into me over the top of a computer screen.

“I cannot believe this is happening” I muttered to myself.

Ten minutes later in the dentist’s chair I was told that a wisdom tooth had started to come through my gum and caused a painful abscess. “So you’ll need an X-ray and have the tooth taken out” the dentist jabbered.

I stared in disbelief. “I can’t have it out now”, I protested in Bridget Jones style; “I’ve got things to do this evening”. I was also acutely aware of the fact that there was no way in hell that I would permit myself to have a tooth extracted by a back street dentist; who looked ready to whip out a pair of gardening loppers or similar to do the job. I firmly asked for antibiotics instead.

I was duly despatched with two types of penicillin, albeit seriously overcharged for the overall fee of consultation and medicine. But it had to be done.

I was so infuriated with the whole week of stress that I rang Mum to vent my frustrations.

“I’m so proud of you!” Mum cried, several decibels louder than necessary so I was holding the phone at arm’s length. “Thank goodness you didn’t have the tooth taken out! You listen to me. I’m older and wiser. Your brothers and sisters coped with it. You’ll be over it in no time. Get straight in bed when you get home! And I’m ringing Annabelle this second to tell her too just in case you need her”. I seriously doubted whether my sister would hurtle through London to tend to me even if all my teeth had decided to fall out. I can just hear her now. “You’re such a hyperchondriac!” But it wasn't the time to tell Mum this was a fruitless mission.

So for the last two days I’ve taken Mum’s advice and stayed in bed. No celebrating as of yet. Penicillin, Nurofen and Listerine are my companions.

I should be better soon and hopefully writing my first fashion blog post, so I'll be writing much more regularly now I have some free time. Thank you so much for the lovely comments people have left recently on various posts, it means so much! 

We Don't Need No Education

I feel that I could lecture indefinitely on the injustices of the education system in England if I really got going. And Student Finance for that matter. I also can't think of anything worse than parroting what is common knowledge; poor or non-existent careers advice, class dichotomies, a rigid and outdated curriculum.

It’s the time of year when school children, and in particular, college students stress about impending examinations. Phrases such as “your whole life depends on these grades” are casually tossed into conversation, amidst the angst and nerves permeating revision classes. There is also, annoyingly, an abundance of self-righteous articles bestowing advice to worried parents detailing how they should help their teenagers prepare.

At high school I was an undeniable geek. I worked hard and would hope my head is filled with things other than fanciful daydreams; but I also took the teachers’ word as inevitably possessing some grain of truth and rationality, given their authority.
So upon the arrival of A-levels, it is hoped that you have developed a strong independent work ethic. Yet I feel that too many students are afraid to embrace independent thought and define their own individuality for fear of being perceived as rebelling against the system. Furthermore, I think the schooling system actively supresses individuality and creativity.

I used to spend three hours a day on the bus travelling to and from a college further along the Norfolk coastline than I was technically permitted to attend. It was a great college with a true bohemian vibe. Half my day would be spent beavering on the sewing machines in the textiles workshop; the afternoons shimmered by in the summer heat as I hung out of the bay windows of my English classroom reading the classics. More than often I would simply chat to my fantastically unconventional English teacher, who would shake his head passionately and urge me to rise against the establishment, silver earrings jangling and huge feet kitted in Doc Martins with purple laces. 

Of course it wasn't that rosy. My attendance averaged about fifty per cent. I had daily altercations with my tutor, head of year, and in particular, my scary history teacher (there’s always one). Why? Because I refused to be in college when I could work so much more efficiently on my own. If I wasn’t sat at my desk at home, I’d most definitely be found skiving lessons sat in the library or out on the lawn. I really do object to time-wasting in educational institutions. Of course it’s not acceptable to routinely skive lessons. But if you feel that you can utilise and manage your time more productively than people organising it for you, I do wish that teenagers would do it.

I was told that I was going to fail. I would never get a university place. My head of year begged me not to take four A-levels. And I was blissfully oblivious to insults. 

The day one collect's A-level results is a rite of passage; a defining moment in a young person’s life that heralds your adventures into the big, wide world. My English Literature teacher once said to me that “There’s nothing that can match the feeling of opening your A-level results, getting what you wanted and knowing that you worked for it”. Forever late, I was the last person in the year to collect them. And I’ve never been more proud than when I stood in the shade of the beech tree on the tennis lawns, on a baking August afternoon and saw, in tiny black print, in a uniform column, four A-stars.

Now I’m in my first year at university, all sense of order really has flown away just like those flighty teenage years; as to be expected. I work until six or seven o’clock in the morning and sleep until the afternoon. The other day my Mum rang and bossily insisted I listen back to a Radio Four documentary about exam advice. Before I could interject and say that a) I don’t need any advice and b) I loathe self-righteous, self-help gurus; in classic, airy lucidity, Mum declared:

“This silly woman rang in worrying that her daughter studied until eleven at night. Well she’s in for a reality shock! I mean look at you working ‘till the early hours. I hope she gets used to seeing her daughter with huge black bags under her eyes. They just don’t live in the real world do they chrissie?!”

Anyway. What I really mean to say is that you should stand by your work patterns; nobody can tell you what is best for you. Don't let others inhibit your sense of 'self' and ability to succeed.

I hope I will be able to write a blog post sometime soon, though I have two very difficult exams to revise (I mean start learning stuff) for in a couple of weeks.  This week I inconveniently decided to get conjunctivitis which meant I couldn’t really see for a few days, let alone work. On the plus side, following in the vein of free-spirited academic timetabling, I got to dance with my university ‘FUSION’ Dance Troupe once more at a charity gala; our last performance of the academic year. Even though my mother threatened to come up to London personally and pin me down in bed in the hope of a speedy recovery. It's times like these I can just hear her intoning “You can’t tell them at that age”.

The blog title is taken from Pink Floyd’s classic hit ‘Another Brick In The Wall’ from the album ‘The Wall’ which protests against the rigidity of British schooling.

Primrose Daydreams

Around Eastertime years ago in the heart of the North Norfolk countryside, the spring sunshine would glimmer pleasant warmth upon that classic English perennial; the primrose. This was a time when wildflowers carpeted the rural landscape like a floral patchwork quilt. Families of primroses assembled round tree trunks in coppice woodland or freckled damp meadows.  

On a somewhat overcast day in London, my fellow flatmates of 103C have dispersed like seeds in the wind, back to the Rhine, the Welsh valleys or similar. I, however, am alone in my room, surrounded by a legion of formidable library books. Paradise Lost and a yellowing copy of Beowulf from the fifties lie abandoned as I endeavour to decipher meaning in old English lyrics. Outside on the street a youth speeds past with ‘Soldier Boy’ thumping out of the speakers.

Before wishing us a Happy Easter my tutors casually bestowed five essays to complete in two weeks. I am frantically typing as well as worrying about sitting two exams on Early Modern and Classical and Biblical literature a week later-yes Biblical. Tears, tantrums and copious cups of tea have already been spent fighting through the Book of Psalms. Needless to say, with the demanding workload, I decided not to go home for Easter festivities as I know my work will lie neglected.

Halfway through note-taking on Ars Moriendi, The Art of Dying (cheerful I know) the phone rings. It’s Mum. I have to answer otherwise she’ll leave five voicemail messages before instructing the security guards of halls to conduct a personal search and rescue mission.

‘Hello darling!’, Mum twinkles down the line, ‘just calling to see how you’re doing’.

The secret is to never bemoan the workload, or actually, moan in general. Usually I measure the mood of the voice on the line; if it’s relentlessly chirpy, like today, I just say I’m fine. It’s so much easier. Mum was blessed with the amazing ability of not appearing as if she’s listening to a word you say, ruthlessly ploughing over you with anecdotes of Yorkshire pudding success stories and babysitting triumphs. In fact, she skilfully files every scrap of information she hears; any deviation from cheery optimism and she can craftily use it as ammunition the next time I fall ill and then declare 'well that’s because you didn’t take those multivitamins I sent you in the jiffy bag last Friday'.

‘Mum’, I warned, ‘I’m in the middle of writing an essay’, as I displace a pile of papers with my elbow that cascade off the top of my desk and mutinously drift about on the hideous nylon carpet. 

Of course that was selectively filtered out.

‘Anyway darling, I was just remembering how you used to make a Garden of Gethsemane for the Chuch display every year when you were little! Do you remember?’

I pause, fountain pen hovering above the lyric “with the precious river that runneth from his womb”, caught on the one hand between impulsively decoding Mum’s possible motivations for this trip down memory lane, and mulling over the nostalgic memories flooding my mind on the other.

Every year, the children in our village would be asked produce their own interpretation of a Garden of Gethsemane. The garden is located by the Mount of Olives in Jerusalem, where it is said that Jesus and his disciples prayed the night before his crucifixion. In Greek, ‘Gethsemane’ means ‘olive press’, and the garden in Jerusalem today is filled with gnarled olive trees standing proudly like war veterans; adorned with silvery green foliage that glint like medals upon the lapel and clusters of white blossom.

Armed with little fruit baskets, my sister Annabelle and I would go questing into the woodland for mats of velvety emerald moss, fragments of lichen covered bark and ferns that nod their heads in the slight spring breeze. These forest riches would beautify the little paper maché cave I made with newspaper and that special concoction of flour and water. The cave would be positioned on an old cake board, decorated with greenery and perfected with a tiny gravel path winding through the garden up to the cave entrance. I can’t remember ever using plastercine, reels of sellotape or ready-made craft materials that children seem to require nowadays. We weren’t the obsessive ‘living off the land’ type or bohemian children of nature; our happiness was found in being instinctively artistic and making our own entertainment.

Those memories never leave you. Of course I hadn’t forgotten. I thought we were on track for a nice reflective conversation.

Cheerfully bludgeoning through my reverie , Mum swiftly progressed onto asking whether I was going to nip out and get myself a chicken, turkey or something equally as ridiculous to roast on Easter Sunday.

‘You’ll never be able to do any decent work if you don’t feed yourself properly, next thing you’ll be having fainting fits, remember all the trouble we had with you at school?’ she chastised. I rolled my eyed and looked over at my sixteen-pack of brioche rolls from Lidl that I’ve steadily been working my way through all afternoon.

The time for mother-daughter chit-chat had unsurprisingly expired. My woefully incomplete essay sat winking at me and I was losing the fight with my instinctive urge to run and glug caffeine. Mercifully, Mum announced that she couldn’t stay on the line (in standard subverted Mum-logic) and promised she would ring to check how I was tomorrow morning, probably at the unsavoury hour at 6am or similar.

There are times when we all wish everything were simpler. When we find ourselves wistfully reminiscing about those carefree childhood days. When we long to drop whatever we’re doing and bask in the spring sunshine just because we feel like it.

The photograph above is my two year old self doing just that. Staring intently into the face of a wild primrose hoping to unlock some worldly knowledge. I know I won’t be unearthing a woody glade stitched with these little effervescent beauties tomorrow. But I can always sit on the square of lawn at the back of our apartments to satisfy my countryside homesickness. There’s always ways and means if we look hard enough. It might make reading medieval literature a little easier.

Happy Easter.