Are You there Blog? It's Me, (Yvette) Margaret

I know it’s been too long since I’ve written – I’ve been busy and frustrated with the dress design.  I can’t get the sword printed in the right spot on fabric and it looks like I’ll have to screen print. Damn, another skill I don’t have.

It’s Christmas.  If I lived in America and knew the Griswalds I’d be surrounded by Christmas jumpers (sweaters) and various disgusting Christmas outfits.  The closest we get to this in Australia are horrible Christmas earrings.  I hate Christmas clothing, even with irony in mind.  We all know it’s Christmas – don’t wear it.   

 

Now Maggie Tabberer has an interesting way of controlling the family Christmas: she makes everyone wear white.   

There’s something about (Holy) white at Christmas that is much more appealing than green and red, especially in Australia (though not Bob and Blanche style).  Then again I’ve completely contradicted myself by saying I hate Christmas themed clothing but it’s okay because it’s white.  Good thing this is a blog and not something to be marked.

I realized I was making something Christmassy when I put two white muslin baby wraps together and made a draped nighty the other day.  It’s a bit like a shroud.  Or an outfit for the baby Jesus.

The shroud nighty got me wondering about what I would wear to my own funeral. I'm fun that way. What would be good enough to wear to be buried in but not good enough to be passed on to my children/grandchildren? Hopefully that decision is a long long way off.  (But anyway, a good nighty is probably an excellent compromise.)

Clothes of the dead are vital for memory and history, especially when they belonged to an old friend, an old aunt or grandfather.  So many clothes get turfed after someone dies and I’m always the one shoving them in a garbage bag and putting them under a bed.  Some clothes I wear, but mostly they’re too small (Nan Blackwood) or too tall (Aunt Nell).  When I first carried Aunt Nell’s small handbag I could actually feel her long thin fingers in the worn strap. 

The body with its warmth and life breathes its shapes into clothes – bumps, asymmetry, curves and dents.  That’s how clothes are actually alive.  I have some really exquisite vintage clothes bought when they were affordable.  So often I wonder who died in this, who lived in this, who had this made.

For these reasons clothes ARE sacred things.  I’m so annoyed about not being able to get on with the dress I think I’ll simply start ordering fabric for scarves and hand-hem them. Fingers crossed they can be sacred objects too.