"Dior and I" film review

 

 

As a teenager the photo below was on my bedroom wall. Oh that jacket! That form! That full skirt! That silhouette! I thought the look was the epitome of style. It’s Christian Dior’s now classic ”New Look” from 1947. And yes, it’s iconic.

1947 New Look by Dior

 

Now imagine being Raf Simons. In 2012, as the new creative director at the House of Dior, he has the weight of the brand, the man and history on his shoulders - and he knows it. In eight weeks he must design and present the haute couture range that will silence critics and cement his place within the world of Christian Dior. Raf is shy, but knows his own mind. He is inspired. But there are ghosts and whispers from the past haunting him – will he get lost in the fog of expectation?

Raf Simons looking at an original Dior gown

The documentary “Dior and I”, written, directed and produced by Federic Tcheng, cleverly juxtaposes extracts of Christian Dior’s memoirs (in the form of voice over) and old footage of the designer himself, with Raf Simons, the new artistic director struggling to come to terms with the future of the House of Dior and to create a show in half the usual time frame. The effect is mesmerising. At times, the film is a feel good story and at other times it is almost a thriller. And yes, it’s about frocks but the stakes are high.

Christian Dior 1957 cover of Time Magazine

The doubts that plague Simons seem to make him at times closer to Dior than he realises. Simon’s general reserve make any emotional reaction climactic and moving. As an audience we are with him for the ride and the film maker very much helps us understand the ambition inherent in this designer, the huge machine that is the House of Dior, the challenges of putting on a fashion show and the weight of history and importance of Christian Dior to the world of fashion.

 

But it’s more than that. Like Dorothy in the wizard in Oz, we get to pull back the curtain and see some of the levers and pulleys that create the magic of fashion – and these are the ateliers, the men and women who construct the garments. We see them as ordinary people, workers, craftspeople of admirable skill and work ethic, who bring the dream to reality. We see the relationship they have to their work place, to the brand, to each other, to the hierarchy and to Christian Dior himself, with some of the ateliers having worked there for decades.

As someone interested in garment construction and craft it was enthralling to see this process. It’s also interesting to see the reality behind this fashion icon. To see the work room, the dress dummies, the sewing machines. It’s the House of Dior but I noticed an ugly plastic tablecloth in the tea room. It made them all seem so much more likeable somehow and more within the realms of the world I inhabit!

 

Fashion is pretty facile I know. Fashion is about marketing. Fashion can be about exploitation. And I don’t shy away from this.  But fashion can also be art. This film shows the creative process and teamwork in haute couture and as such, it is very inspirational. It is an intimate film about great ambition and as such, was riveting to watch. What Raf Simons and his team set out to achieve is huge.

Christian Dior measuring a hem line - creepy!

These days I have a problem with Dior’s New look. The look was a reaction to the freedom women had experienced in the war, where, due to fabric rations and practicality, the dresses were shorter and where women worked and drove war trucks and made ammunition. This look was positively retrospective and drove women back to the 19^th century – corsets and crinolines for goodness sake! Long dresses are not practical for factory work and driving trucks. As a feminist, I bristle.

The documentary “Dior and I” was fascinating and gorgeous and is as well pieced together and constructed as one of Dior’s evening frocks. It’s really about the people behind the frocks. About emotion. About relationships. About striving for excellence. Go and see the film if you have any interest in fashion and sewing. but more, go and see it  if you have an interest in people. Oh. And go and see it for the flowers. Oh my gosh! The flowers!

 

 

Vale Margaret Whitlam

Vale Margaret Whitlam. What a beacon of intelligence and warmth you were in Australia’s political and cultural history. A national treasure, not just as the wife of a former prime minister, Gough Whitlam, but in your own right.  

One evening, many moons ago (almost 19 years ago), I encountered Margaret Whitlam. It was at Launceston University and Gough was there to give a lecture on the Mabo ruling - the High Court recognition of Native Title. An empowering, passionate, clear and exciting lecture that left no moments  for distraction or mind wandering and would have had us all running to vote for Gough if we could. An expert, Gough held us all in the palm of his hand. Margaret sat on stage with him, listening intently, exuding her own presence.

After the lecture, the audience crowded around the statuesque couple as they left the hall - these wonderful people who spoke with passion and inspiration, who never seemed wearied by experience or bleak about the future. Two powerful people cutting swath through a room like a hot knife through butter. There was something so appealing and inspiring about the energy of them.

I was there, very small of stature, mesmerised, holding my three month old baby girl in my arms. Looking back now, I realise that being a young Uni student with a baby, I actually stood out. Margaret, with warmth, gravitated straight to the baby, who obligingly gurgled and grinned and gazed into Margaret's sparkling blue eyes. Despite the crowd and the noise, Margaret was perfectly composed and asked all about me and the baby – our names and what I was studying (Fine Art). She called Gough over and he was immediately at her side. Guiding him with a touch on his arm she said, “Gough! Look here.”

Well! The great man looked at the baby with that penetrating gaze, framed by those famous eyebrows, and swept her out of my arms! Margaret placed her hand on my shoulder reassuringly as if to let me know my baby was safe – mind you I had no qualms handing her over.Gough, with all eyes on him, kissed the baby and raised her into the air. “There!” he announced to the crowd, “She’s been blessed by Gough!” The crowd clapped and cheered and he very gently passed her back down into my arms. Margaret coordinated the whole moment.

The perfect end to this story would be to say that the child grew up to be a great orator and political thinker. Well. I can say she is a good talker!

Margaret had the aura of a great person and the unpretentious warmth of a grandmother. The connection between her and Gough was, evidently, amazing. One word from her and he stopped what he was doing to pay her instant attention.  It was one of those wonderful moments when your head buzzes with inspiration and possibility.

Putting Pen to Paper

I’m well aware, it is not necessary to put pen to paper in order to communicate with friends or loved ones. But not necessary does not mean not relevant and I can’t help but be a big fan of the old fashioned hand written letter or card.

Earlier this year when my mother died, I received many unexpected cards and letters which really did act as a salve on my grief. That these individuals had gone to the effort - physically put pen to paper, folded it, slipped it into an envelope, got a stamp and sent it - just meant so much more than a text message or email at such a time. It showed not only sensitivity to what I was going through, but a regard for the life of my mother. At such times words can seem inadequate, but gestures worth so much.  It certainly surprised me to receive such condolences from people like my ex- husband’s very elderly Grandmother and old high school friends. Their efforts were truly heartening to me.

As teenagers, my friends and I would write a letter to each other just when we had been apart for a few classes! We would pass the folded scrawled pages to each other in the corridors, reading frantically of each other’s (usually romantic!) intrigues before the next classes began.  My best friend and I went to different high schools but spent the morning and afternoons together on the country school bus -yet we still wrote to each other almost daily while apart. I still have some of those letters. They seem to have a power to conjure up my friend more than anything else.  Her light, fast, scrawly handwriting and her words, yes, of course. But it’s so much more. It’s the foolscap paper, the pen she favoured, the smudges that can transport me to the noisy school bus. Most of all, it is the blank outer layer of paper that makes her feel present.  Folded to be an envelope and scrunched around the letter. It’s as if her hands only just clenched it and stuffed it into her school dress pocket. As if her hand was a moment away and I could reach out and catch it and hold it in mine. After she died when we were 15, I just had to look at these blank bits of paper and it would break my heart, scraping the scab off my grief.

One high school friend and I have continued a correspondence and send each other pages and pages – big fat letters – a few times a year. It goes so far beyond an email or text (which we do as well). To see her hand writing, to have her sustained thoughts laid out for me, to have her describe things so extensively  and humorously and to follow the train of her thoughts as she leaps from insight to insight (she’s a perceptive one!).  It helps her to stay real to me and connected to me in a more meaningful way because in these letters we bear our hearts. I wouldn’t trade those few letters a year for a daily tweet or weekly email in a millions years!

Another good friend travels extensively and although I love the emailed photos and the itinerary updates, it is the postcards I treasure.  They are by far the best testament to our friendship. Here is the physical object, blessed with his handwritten marks, sent halfway across the world from him to me. For me. Can there be anything more exciting and connecting?



My suit case of old letters....



Then there are the great letter moments in some of the classic books! Who could forget the devastating outcome after the letter slipped mistakenly under the mat and never received in Thomas Hardy’s “Tess of the D’Urbervilles”? Or not burst with joy at the letter, secretly written in the presence of the intended recipient, by Captain Wentworth in Jane Austen’s “Persuasion”?  Ah was there ever a better letter scene than that? Goosebumps! Can you imagine any of these dramatic moments being transferred to an email bouncing back or replaced with an update of a facebook status?

When I was courting my husband, I would often leave cards and notes in his letter box, even though we could text and email as well and even though I  lived around the corner! My father wrote to my mother every day of their engagement – and if he had nothing to write he would draw a picture or write a poem. There is something revealing in your hand writing, something personal and generous in sharing words hand written, and something respectful in the effort to write and send a letter.

I know letter writing can be seen as obsolete and inefficient, I know that people can now tweet to numerous people at once, or post something on facebook that communicates to many, but the action of taking up the pen, and sharing thoughts with just one other, in your own hand,  I think is worth the time and effort.  So excuse me while I go and put pen to paper.

For the vintage post enthusiast -  the re-sew-cool vintage stamp brooch kit!



craft crime 2

"Many people tend to think rather vaguely of seeds as small round things which you push into the soil in the Spring" So says the "Golden Hands Encylopedia of Crafts". Well yes.The book then continues with "Handle them and you will begin to see their potential" Yes. Potential dinner.

Seed craft. I just don't get it. I can try to see the retro cool in the tones of browns and oranges but really, I just see lentils. I see food waste! I see bobbly dust collecting textures - I see craft crime!!!

In the case of this portrait in seeds, well I just see super creepy craft crime!

But perhaps I hadn’t considered this- practical seed craft. Well. That makes all the difference doesn’t it? Well...not really. I charge seed craft with CRAFT CRIME! What says the jury? Guilty?

posted by Julianne Sister Outlaw 

Mothering Hour



Australian Home Journal, August 1, 1958

It says:

Six children to love and wash for!

Mothering hour at the Heffernan home in Surrey Hills, Victoria, is always a family affair, when everyone from five-year-old Bobby to toddling Jenny lavishes love on baby Sue.

Mothering hour? Who would have thought that in 1958 you only had to mother for an hour a day? And I especially love the look on toddling Jenny's face. Far from a look of lavishing love.....she looks ready to bop the baby on the head

Happy mothering day !

posted by sister outlaw Julianne

“A Mother’s Help”

I found this in a Home Journal from April 1959

It says,:

Her family grows by twos and threes! Yes, twins AND triplets – and four strapping schoolboys!” There’s never a day that I’m not washing, Aunt Jenny,” says Mrs. Moran of Woodford Island, Clarence River, N.S.W., “and I’ve learnt over and over – for those little daily washes, nothing is so handy and economical as Velvet .”

Yep! That’s HAND WASHING! She also adds,

“I do mountains of dishes when they are at school,” says Mrs. Moran. “Doesn’t take long and Velvet suds are so easy on my hands”

Mrs. Moran of Woodford Island had nine children – including little twins and triplet babies - and a “mother’s help” was a bar of Velvet soap? Surely it was a bottle of gin????

I’m going to go and press the button on my washing machine and then press the button on the dishwasher and feel positively lazy!

posted by Julianne Sister Outlaw

Anzac Commemorative Quilt

My maternal Great Grandmother, Martha (Mattie) Ellis, was known for her fine crochet work. During the depression she crocheted doilies for her children to sell door to door. She had twelve children and loved to thump out a tune on the piano and play the harmonica.

Her fine craft skill can be seen in this First World War commemorative quilt - I don’t even know how this quilt ended up in my hands! It’s made up of panels that are incredibly detailed with pictures, patriotic phrases and dates of battles.

"Our Hero, We're proud of him. Anzac 1915"

 It was getting ruined and I showed it to my good friend, Calamity Sue, and she recommended I contact the Australian War Memorial Museum. I emailed a description to them and they rang me straight away and said they were sending a courier!!
So Great Granny’s quilt is now in part of the collection there - the second largest textile piece they have. They museum already had some similar panels as smaller items like tray cloths or jug covers, but they had not come across someone who had done so many panels and attached them this way. The curator is trying to find each pattern my Great Granny used, which would have been published in magazines and newspapers.
The curators are also trying to find out if any of Great Granny’s loved ones went to war. She certainly had brothers of an age that could have. The quilt always had a very sombre feel to it (which is why it has been up in the cupboard for many years!) and I do wonder if Great Granny’s industrious crocheting was done whilst grieving.

"Dardenelles 1915 Our Heroes"

"Success to the Allies for Freedom"

 

"For Freedom. Yes we will defend it to the last"



This is one of the largest panel. The ship is very detailed.



This is my favourite panel. It shows a woman tending  a grave with birds flying overhead. It says,

 "Anzac Day APL 25 1915 Lest We Forget

   Lord Bless Waiting for the Dawn of Peace.

   Our Brave Sailors"

posted by sister outlaw Julianne

God Save the Queen

Well there’s Royal fever in the air, with a Royal wedding and all – and with it comes Republican fever too. And even though I am certainly not a monarchist, I can’t help but like the Queen.

This has partly been passed on to me from my mother, who loved the young Queen. While a teenager in 1953, my mum collected coronation memorabilia. I now have a worn out coronation glass, an old coronation coach and somewhere in the house is a makeup compact with the queen resplendent on the front. Fortunately my mum’s interest in royalty stopped there! Just the Queen - none of the others! Oh she did like to tell the tragic love story of Princess Margaret and Peter Townsend....

When I went to London as a nineteen year old, I joked that I had gone to London to visit the Queen. Well be careful what you say in jest, because, while I was there, I actually did see the Queen. At fairly close quarters too.

A childhood friend, Brendan, was touring England with a special cricket team called the Victorian Crusaders. Part of their tour was to play various teams, including the Queens Guard at a private match at Windsor Castle – really just a back yard cricket match at the Queen’s place. I didn’t have a clearance to attend as a guest, but, being young and rather silly, I decided I couldn’t possibly miss out on seeing Brendan actually meet the Queen. And besides, I was in the neighbourhood!

So I headed up to Windsor Castle. After wandering around the grounds a bit, I worked out where the cricket field was and literally, like the country girl I am, jumped the fence.........where I came face to face with a burly beef eater guard. After I explained to him the significance of seeing my lifelong friend meet the Queen and telling him I’d come all the way from Australia, well, he simply let me in. I wandered across the cricket field toward the gathering of people. Brendan couldn't believe it! (I was probably waving at him like a maniac, grinning like a cheshire cat!)   I wouldn’t say I slipped in unnoticed into the garden party as I do recall wearing multi coloured vertically striped leggings with a short black dress trimmed in fur, a big black bouffant bob and false eyelashes.

There I was! At a private bbq in the Queen’s back yard! Then suddenly, there was the Queen. I was star struck and took a couple of terrible photos. Lucky I did though because if I didn't have the photos to prove it I probably wouldn't believe this story myself.

After a while in her presence, the Queen just seemed to be a little old lady – in black patent shoes and bright blue frock. It made me homesick for my granny.

A vintage stamp brooch was the brainchild of fellow sister outlaw, Lynne. Inspired, I hopped to it and made one, thinking that the most ubiquitous and recognisable stamp in the commonwealth must surely be the one with the Queen’s head on it.  And sister outlaw supplies had the perfect mini white ric rac on hand to be the perforated stamp edge.

The first one I made was too big, the second one better and third was just right.  Now it’s ready for release!

So whether you’re a royalist, a republican, a cricketer or a punk singing "god save the queen, the fascist regime", this vintage stamp brooch will surely appeal to the nostalgia in everyone?(Punks can wear it with irony...)She’s not a bad old stick, is she?

 

posted by sister outlaw Julianne

Cable Fable

The meaning of cable knit patterns.

Once there was a shepherdess who was betrothed to a fisherman. The shepherdess loved her fisherman better than well.

Though she had lived just a hill away from the ocean all her life, she feared the sea. Not for her, the foamy waves and salty spray. She loved the wind gently moving in the green grass and the peaceful sounds of her flock grazing. Each time her beloved braved the waves her heart pounded with the fear that he would never return. She would stand on her hilltop and look out to the vastness of the sea, squinting to see any sign of storm or rough seas. Hoping King Neptune was in good spirits that day.

The shepherdess decided that she needed something to keep her fisherman safe. She spun a fleece of oily wool, full of lanolin that softened her hands as the wool twisted through her fingers. As she sat on the hill and tended her flock, she knitted her fisherman a jumper. Within each stitch she entwined her love and into the pattern she imbued a magic charm.

The honeycomb pattern was to remind her fisherman to continue to be hard working, like the bee. The basket stitch was a wish for a full catch every day and the diamonds were to bring wealth and prosperity to them both. The long cable that grew the length of the jersey was to represent the strength of the ropes on his boat and the strength of the ties that bound them together.

When her fisherman pulled the charmed jumper over his head, he instantly felt strong and safe. His smile beamed at the clever shepherdess and his heart swelled with love for her. He stood tall and proud in his special patterned jumper unlike any other. The fisherman wore the jumper out to sea each day. He worked hard like a bee, his baskets burst with fish, he prospered well, the ropes of his boat were strong and so were the ties that bound him to his shepherdess.

Then one day, as has to happen every once in a while, a storm brewed while the fisherman was out on the ocean waves.  The shepherdess watched her sheep and could see they were distressed and sensed a storm coming. She walked to the top of the hill and looked out to sea. There on the horizon was darkness and squall.  As the storm rolled in she ran to the shore, calling to her beloved.

The winds picked up and the skies darkened and closed in like the weight of guilt on a soul.  The boat was no match for the temper of the King Neptune.  It was thrown this way and that until it cracked and split while the dark sky split and rained down hard. The fisherman and his crew were tossed out into the raging sea where it was impossible to stay afloat.

On the sea bed King Neptune eyed the newcomers that had succumbed to his wrath. He saw the fisherman in his jumper of twists and patterns. Even King Neptune himself could sense the magic of the pattern, could read the language of charm and love twisted into each knit and purl. He read in the jumper of the fisherman’s hard work. He saw in the pattern the hope for prosperity in the fisherman’s heart. King Neptune saw the lengths of cables and understood the binds of love that tied the fisherman.  It was a magic charm he couldn’t resist.

The shepherdess ran along the pebbly shore in the dark rain. She found her fisherman wet and gasping for breath but safe. Safe within the magic charm of her knitted love.

Stay tuned to see how the sister outlaws can breathe new life into charmed old cable knit jumpers!

posted by sister outlaw Julianne