Monday 22 April 2013

Dress code politics: how not to stand out at a wedding.

Aubrey Beardsley: 'The Peacock Skirt'

Difficult thing, weddings. Who to marry for starters. That's a tough one. Where to do it, that's another. And don't get me started on buffet vs seating plan. Diplomatic relations between India and Pakistan are more straightforward. But the angst that gets top billing on my wedding list is what to wear. Sure, if you're the bride or groom it's easy: avoid pale blue and anything that sounds like nouveau cumulo nimbus. But as a guest, it's as stressful as wearing fur to a PETA conference.

My mate Ellen (shout out to you, lady, the countdown's on!) is getting married on Saturday. A top bird marrying a top bloke. OK, so I've never met him but I trust her judgement and, more importantly, we know he likes old Landrovers.

But, what's this? Monday night mayhem. What to wear!? I've come to the laptop in a panic of orange Tommy Hilfilger, high street gold, a navy smoking jacket and a hat last worn at Queen Victoria's court. I dance about in front of the mirror thinking I'm ready to steal the show at this little knees up when suddenly - panic! - I've remembered that's exactly what we aren't supposed to do. And don't I know it. I've got form in this political arena. It's all come flooding back....

A long time ago, in a land further away than almost any other (yes, Australia) I was invited to the wedding of friends of my ex. The dress code said 'Glamourous.' You with me? OK good. Now, if you wrote that dress guidance for a wedding in Witby, you might start thinking 'Spanish Armada' and then notch it down a peg to 'Sea Shanty Chic'. If you read that dress guidance in, oh I don't know, Exeter, you might think 'Versaille' and then step it back to 'county luxe' (that's basically where you dress like an unfamiliar Aunt in head-to-toe Coast). However, this particular wedding was a night time affair on Sydney Harbour at an exclusive location, in the height of summer. Now that is glamour. Glamourous international couple, glamourous international wedding, glamourous international guest list. In fact, it was the second of three ceremonies. That's how top class this marriage was, they were getting married three times. It was going to be sultry and sexy. You get the picture.

I thought it would be the perfect occassion to air the jewel of my wardrobe. I had only just bought  this dress and under auspicious conditions. Firstly, I bought it on a day off work. I almost never take random days off work. Secondly, I found it totally by chance at Notting Hill market (Ladbroke Grove end) when you never know if you'll find a vintage gem, or an old goat. Thirdly, I didn't try it on because I knew in my heart of hearts it would fit. And it did. And fourthly, it cost only £30. All those small satisfactions - as well as the dress itself - magnify this garment in my esteem almost beyond words. I will never sell this dress, or donate it to charity. I will always own it. I will either be cremated wearing it, or find some fabulous girl to give it to (naturally only after they've undertaken some kind of character assessment).

What I didn't know at the time was that this floor length, cream, halter neck dress featured the work of an artist called Audley Beadsley. All I saw on the fabric was the print of two oriental women wearing similarly fabulous gowns. But I'll come back to that.

On the night in question we met our fellow glamourous guests at the Opera House and took a delightful sunset cruise to the ceremonial location. Some of the internationals had slightly downgraded their glamourousness with second degree sunburn, but hey, I've always said that if you think you might only visit Coogee once, make it memorable! But, truth be told, I cannot remember a single outfit of any other guests. I can only remember how amazing my lovely, lucky find looked. I was also delighted not to be wearing it to some nasty City awards ceremony (though it's done its fair share of those), but a proper public occassion of  festivity and hope.

I knew I might have misjudged things when a small crowd began to gather around me. And ask to take my photo. This had never happened to me before, and has only happened once since, in a small rural village in Iran where they were unused to ginger women. I thought initially my God! My 'gangly teen to supermodel' dream was coming true! Albeit at the unlikely age of 26! But soon I realised they were not taking photos of me. They were only taking photos of my dress. And they kept murmuring and pointing to it. They were shooting the dress, and getting quite excited about it. Eventually one of them stopped snapping and explained.

'The print on your dress...it's Aubrey Beardsley.'
'Huh?'
'Aubrey Beardsley...the print on your dress, it's by Aubrey Beardsley.'
'Who's Aubrey Beadsley?'
He groaned and stalked off to find more cultured chat.



Aubrey Beardsley: 1872-1898.

Later at home I discovered that Aubrey Beardsley was a British illustrator and writer who lived for just 25 years in the late nineteenth century. His drawings 'in black ink, influenced by the style of Japanese woodcuts, emphasized the grotesque, the decadent, and the erotic', says Wikipedia. 'He was a leading figure in the Aesthetic movement which also included Oscar Wilde and James A. McNeill Whistler (and) his contribution to the development of the Art Nouveau and poster styles was significant.' So there you go. I had no idea.

In any case, the young man knew how to draw (he specialied in drawing figures with enormous genetalia, though not in the case of my dress. That would have cut a dash!). On my dress was the illustration above, 'The Peacock Skirt'.

I thought perhaps the bride hadn't noticed the kerfuffle. But, as the night wore on and the dress received more compliments I knew the jig was up. Nothing was mentioned on the night, but at one of the apres-party events she singled me out and said quietly, 'I liked your dress. It got more attention than I did.' Ouch. 'Ha ha ha!' I laughed desperately, 'No it did not! You looked AMAZING!' But we both know I had no idea what she looked like because I'd been blinded by the quality of my outfit and, literally, the flashbulbs of appreciation. I felt ashamed. I had misjudged the occassion, and the outfit. If only I had known about nineteenth century Art Nouveau designers. To make some amends I  practically wore a tracksuit to her third wedding...to which she wore a sari.

Now, I am well aware that the title of this blog is Notthestylepages, but this isn't about slavish fashion trends or outspending your supply, it's about politics and dischargement of social duty. Your duty as a guest is to blend into the general gaiety and background of the occassion. As my grandmother in law says, you don't need to be an onion in a petunia patch, but neither should you strive to be a black orchid in a bunch £1 M&S daffodils.

I'm not the only person I know who's had this kind of trouble at weddings. Fellow blogger, Gabrielle Jackson, had a similar experience at my own wedding when, during her reading, her much-anticipated Vivienne Westwood gown blew up over her head in the wind and exposed her backside in its own special wave. It can happen to anyone. At my sister's wedding the features editor of Harpers Bazaar magazine actually turned up wearing the same Collette Dinnigan dress my sister had selected for the big day. They'd even talked about each others' dresses on the phone, but hadn't quite twigged they were describing the same dress. Ms Dinnigan actually happened to be a guest at the wedding and could be heard hissing loudly, 'For God's sake! Someone throw a pashmina over that woman!' Tense.

In an effort to be careful I called Ellen the other week to ask what the dress code was. Flippantly she joked, 'Well as long as you're not wearing a long, white gown...' and I had such a distressing flashback from the Aubrey incident I briefly considered not attending. So, here I am, four days ahead of the day in a full and fabulous orange skirt with an all over Galliano feel, unsure if the look says 'Spring wedding cheer!' or 'Unrepentant exhibitionist!' It's a tough call. And I know I'm not really a reformed character because, when I ask my sensible husband's advice I know, deep down, I'll be disappointed when he suggest the safe pink Marc Jacobs option, even though it's also from a Notting Hill emporium of pre-loved style with an amazing Samuri sword sleeve design you just have to see to believe....

Katherine Burgdorf is an ardent lover of fashion 'with character', which means she'll wear almost anything from a secondhand shop.


Thursday 18 April 2013

The Iron Legacy.


When I was 19 I applied for a job at a new hotel opening in Sydney. I went to one of those mass interview days and one of the 'speed dating' style questions was 'Which celebrity would you most like to meet and why?'

Panic! I was stumped. I racked my brain. Did I want to meet Elle McPherson? No. David Boon? No. Tom Cruise? Hell no and that was before we knew how crazy he really was. Suddenly I realised! It was Maggie Thatcher. Mrs T, the Baroness of Grantham. 'Margaret Thatcher' I said, 'Because I think it must be amazing to run a country. I'd love to ask her about it.'

I didn't get the job. Turns out they really wanted to hire people who wanted to meet Elle McPherson, Boonie or Tom Cruise (though, if you know Sydney you know the urban myth that everyone has already met Tom Cruise doing lines of Coke in the bathroom at the Pacific Blue Room on Oxford Street). Perhaps my would-be employer thought Elle was more likely to stay at the hotel than Maggie. Maybe they thought I'd badger Boonie for his political views, or irritate Tom with questions about his secret plan to fight inflation.

I have never been bothered with celebrity. In the olden days they were mostly people who pretended for a living (actors) or who hit, swiped or sat on things (sportsmen). Today they are orange-coloured people from Perth or Essex who take their clothes off in the jungle while cooking up a 10 course food storm in Dorset. I am not interested in these people. They are focused on feelings - anger, sadness, triumph, depression. And, to paraphrase Maggie in the film the The Iron Lady, it is ideas and action that is interesting, not feelings.

But why, living on the other side of the world and not even a teenager when she left office, was she so top of mind? I doubt at 19 I could have named a single policy of her time as leader and if I could, I would probably have disagreed with many of them. I've worked out, in this last week, that I think what attracted me to her was power. Her conviction, and convincing leadership, communicated power and it was power dressed in the form of a fellow woman. I must have seen someone who thought, then spoke, then assumed everyone who disagreed was insane. Heaven. We aspire to be what we see around us, or we don't aspire to what we don't see around us. What I love when I see reels of Thatcher is her suredness, and someone who says what they think.

Since her death, Channel 4 newsman Jon Snow has run much footage of his interviews with Maggie over her 11 year Premiership. Poor Jon (or, 'that dreadful Pinko' as Maggie may have remembered him), tried his best to best her. But it was never going to be. He would ask a question, she would respond with a silent stare, followed by the crushing line 'What a STUPID QUESTION!' or 'I think I've given even YOU enough material to write a decent story.' Brilliant stuff - Maggie, over 30 years ago, squashing them verbally left, right and non-committed centre. But she was also, by many accounts this week, a very personable listener and communicator. Even as the Falklands rolled on, it is reported she went every week to her constituency to hold surgeries as usual. Her plain funeral service this week - very deliberately not a memorial - reflected her thoughtfulness on the subject of God and service. You do not read, even from detractors, that she was in politics for personal gain.

What attracted people to Margaret Thatcher is what attracts people to Boris Johnson - both sound as if they mean what they say. It is power through conviction. When we listen to Osborne, Clegg, Cameron or Milliband we hear politicians prevaricating. We expect u-turns and we get them. Of course that is our fault. We say we want one thing (conviction) but we vote for another (coalition consensus). We want politicians who stick to their guns, but we swing our favour like a judge on the X Factor. Maggie spoke like the skilled workers - the 'C2s' in marketing speak - who consistently voted for her (and still poll strongly in favour of her) - because she came from their stock. Boris appeals to the rag tag urchin in all of us, because he's a rag tag urchin. They appear as outsiders on the inside. One of them was.

The lesson I take from not meeting Maggie is not to aspire to power but to aspire to finding a path of conviction, and enjoying the pursuit of it. In the face of personalities like Maggie, it is difficult to measure up. It is hard, sometimes, to remember that life is not over today, or tomorrow. It is not too late. There is time. Not infinite time. But time.

Katherine Burgdorf

Wednesday 17 April 2013

Women musos on top in UK rich list

By Gabrielle Jackson

Every year, the Sunday Times releases its list of British millionaires.

This year they've released two other lists:
  • Music Millionaires, and
  • Music Millionaires Under 30
There are no surprises in the first list, being topped - as usual - by Paul McCartney and riddled with the British music heavyweights of Elton John, Andrew Lloyd Weber, Tom Jones, Robbie Williams and Gary Barlow.

The surprising good news is the next list, the Under 30s. Nobody would be surprised to discover that Adele tops the list with £30 million, a £10 million increase on 2012.

But, you might be surprised to discover that the top eight music millionaires under 30 are all women. In fact, out of the richest 23 musicians under 30 in the UK, 12 are women.

Kylie Minogue is the top female musician in the Music Millionaires list, making it in at equal 39th position. The only other single female entries were Sade, in equal 48th spot, and Sarah Brightman at number 50.

Olivia and Dhani Harrison make it in at equal ninth spot but since their millions are largely inherited from George, it hardly counts. Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne make it in in equal 20th spot, and given Sharon's management of the band, it's a deserved hurrah for women. Gwyneth Paltrow makes it into the list alongside Chris Martin in equal 23rd spot, but...need I go on?

Now, that's girl power, and there's not a Spice Girl among them!

It also cheers me up after the last post I'd written on females in music sent me into a deep depression.

Does this signal a permanent change in female fortunes in the music industry? I can't see how not.

I don't subscribe to the Sunday Times. I was alerted to this fab news by the business blog from Conversis, The Conversation. You can see both lists there.


Thursday 11 April 2013

How I came to understand Margaret Thatcher through a Halloween mask

By Gabrielle Jackson
 
As Australians, I don’t think we can ever understand the impact Margaret Thatcher had on the lives of the British population.

She was such a huge force – for good or evil, depending on where you stood. She was bigger than a politician. Her influence was greater, arguably, than any politician this country has seen. She was completely polarising; people either loved her passionately or hated her fiercely. Where you stand on this defines you.

I didn’t know all this before I moved to London in 2003. Of course, I knew she was the longest serving British prime minister who was known as the 'milk-snatcher' (she cut government sponsorship of free milk in schools) and breaking the unions, but I didn’t appreciate just how divisive she was.

In 2011, when Thatcher was already quite ill, I decided to go to a Halloween party dressed as her. I bought a rather lifelike latex mask that fit right over my head, providing me with both her face and distinctive bouffant. A twin set, pearls and brooch completed the look.



I left my home and marched down the Kingsland Road in east London. I immediately heard horns beeping and people screaming. It didn’t take long before I realised all this attention was directed at me.

‘Why don’t you just die!’ someone yelled out of their car window.

Others banged on the glass of the take away restaurants we past. Some waved benevolently. Others issued rude hand gestures.

When I arrived at the party, things didn’t pick up.

‘You RUINED my family’s life!’ one man spat in my face.

‘Why her?’ another lamented. ‘Why’d you have to ruin my night?’

It was Halloween; I knew I was supposed to be scary, but I had not anticipated this reaction.

I should have.

My first job in London was on a magazine at an engineering firm. I was invited to attend an event with the communications team at the company. Part of the event was to stand up and talk about the best and worst moments in your life; what had made you who you are, in other words.

Two of the four senior managers in the team described Margaret Thatcher weeping on the steps of 10 Downing Street, after being forced to resign, as the greatest moment of their lives.

On the other end of the scale, Simon Stillwell was compelled to write this about her in his post for this blog:

‘I love the Iron Lady. I do. I really do. She is my heroine. She was, and remains, an inspiration and I cannot think of a single global figure who had such an influence on my life.’

The overriding theme of the coverage of her death is that she was a conviction politician; that she will be remembered for that.

In Britain, nobody needs to be reminded of her legacy, at least not those aged over 30. They feel it deep in their bones, as deep as we Aussies feel about a sunny day.

NuffnangX