Fun with Clothes

It has been a very long time between blog entries. I do not need to tell you that I had been ill - you guys are my dearest and best – so you already know that five rounds of anti-biotics equals a huge block to my creativity and general-excitement-about-life levels. Returning to work had not been much fun either, but that is a whole other story. My come-back entry is about clothes. You see, just yesterday one of the ladies who works in the kitchen at Catholic Education asked me how much tailoring I was intending to do in Vietnam and would I start wearing the various forms of the Vietnamese ao dai.

Alan and I, the Travelling Children are going to Indochina in just a month and her question made me start thinking not about the clothes I might indeed tailor in Vietnam but instead about the clothes I have known and all the personal stories I have that are connected with fashion. Yes, I thought … I want to write again.

My fascination with clothing and fashion began when I was three years old. I had been a Flower Girl at a wedding and it was a butter-yellow dress with spaghetti straps and a generously layered little can-can skirt that resembled a ballerina’s tutu. The bodice was made of taffeta and the skirt of gathered tulle – it was really gorgeous and girlie, as many of the little girls clothes from the 60’s were. However, the waist seam on the inside of the skirt was very scratchy and the tulle used to rub onto my skin leaving an itchy prickling red circle around my waist, which I would begin scratching as soon as the dress came off. Most little girls would insist that they never wanted to wear the item of clothing again. But, for little me, the thrill of getting dressed to please myself had begun.

“Furiada this one!” was the general consensus of all the women in the Pereira and Nonis family. I actually remember that I would get into arguments with my mother, because I was so vain and wanted to wear that dress at any opportunity that presented itself. Sunday mass – yellow dress, visits to my cousins homes - yellow dress, lunch at my grandparents – yellow dress, even shopping at Tay Ban Guan Supermarket – yellow dress. I am sure if she had let me, I would have worn my yellow dress on a stroll through the Pasar Malam (Night Markets) around Opera Estate – where I should point out most of the other children would make their weekly appearance in their ready-for-bed, pajamas.

My mother is a very beautiful woman and I cannot remember her ever not turning heads wherever she went. She was very fashionable, and always matched her shoes and handbags. My father was the sole breadwinner, and I know in those early years they went through some difficult times. Mum did not have many outfits, but everything she had always fitted her beautifully – they were perfectly ‘stitched’ by an Indian tailor. I remember she had five pairs of shoes. Black, cream, brown, navy and a strappy gold evening number with diamantes. She kept them in a little sliding glass compartment at the bottom of her dressing table – the retro kind in wood-grain Formica with the side mirrors.

Her favourite accessories then were the brooches she kept in a little black Chinese lacquer box. It had a pattern of graceful weeping willows and a curved bridge, and had been a gift she had received before I was born. I loved opening the little box and running my fingers over the stones of the beautiful brooches that lay on the plush crimson velvet lining, each one patiently waiting their turn to complete the elegance of one of my mothers outfits.

When I was six years old my mother said I was old enough to start having my clothes tailored instead of buying them ready-made. We always looked forward to new clothes at Christmas and so towards the end of 1968, in preparation for the coming festivities, mum took me on my first fabric buying mission at Majid’s. Mr Majid was an Indian Muslim fabric merchant who owned a shop right in the heart of my beloved Katong. It was my initiation into the womanly ritual of fabric selection and pattern choosing while sipping the 7-Up or Green Spot soft drinks always offered by Mr Majid to his returning customers. Then being measured by the tailor and leaving the shop with the assurance of a dress fitting the following week.

Mum said the occasion called for a commemorative meal. And so before we indulged our senses in the bales of colourful fabric, she took me to the laksa noodle shop which was just on the corner at Ceylon Road. There sitting on wooden stools in the humid coffee-shop we infused our eagar tastebuds with what has since become known worldwide as Katong laksa. And yes, for those of you who remember how my grandmother felt about eating certain outside food from the 'Lines' entry ... mum told me not to tell her mother about our meal. Mama insisted that the reason the laksa there was so tasty was due to worms being used in the 'rempah'! (curry paste) You have to love her imagination.

My grandmother did not like the tailor who did a roaring business from the purchases made at Majid’s. He had a tailor shop nearby and would be called upon when tailoring was requested. In hushed whispers over her card games of Chi Ki Jepun, mama used to play with her sisters and best friend Merlarni, she would say in her usual mixture of English, Portuguese and Malay, “Cheh! Arkae unga moroo … real sio zo! When ele is measuring you, hmmm better watch. Ele gosta raba feme se tetek!” It lacks colour in literal translation so allow me to embellish it in modern Australian … the swearing is entirely my own. “Ewe! That Indian man is a freaking sleazebag! You have to blooming watch him when he’s measuring you because he’ll grab your boobs!” In this situation, I don't think mama's imagination was working over-time.
My fondness for sequins and bead-work would probably have begun in that little shop for they had a generous assortment available. To my disappointment however, mum could see no justification in pandering to my flamboyant yearnings. I cannot remember what colours we finally settled on or the patterns we chose from the pile of dog-eared books with bits of fabric in pointy triangle shapes scotch-taped to the various dress patterns within. Each one a little piece of vogue history of the women who had come before us and the dresses they had chosen for birthdays or a festival or even a wedding.

The sio zo tailor was called upon and he arrived wearing a white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a pencil tucked behind his right ear. Like Mr Majid, he wore a long white sarong – except his was crumpled and with a faded blue edging. A frayed measuring tape hung around his neck. Mum said something in harsh whispers to him, at which he skillfully wagged his head in denial. He eyed me and taking the measuring tape, he proceeded to measure me, while mum kept her eyes on him – watching his hands. He smelled of coconut oil.

Through the years like everyone else I have been through many fashion favourites. I have never been a avid follower of the latest fashion fads and always indulged instead in borrowing ideas from different times and places. In the early to mid 70’s like most of my girl cousins and friends, I was head over heels obsessed with Donny Osmond. When Donny and Marie had their own variety show, I would sit on the floor in front of our television and literally will myself onto the sets he and his beautiful sister were on, always imagining myself to be a part of their lives.

While many girls would have wanted to dress or look like Marie, I wanted to look like a combination of both Donny and Marie. I used to have very long hair which I cut and restyled - much to the dismay of my mother, the year the show began. It was a direct copy of Donny’s famous 70’s hair. I would wear blouses tailored to look like Marie’s except I often liked mine to be slightly see-through because I loved the sheer look of the nonya blouses. I would wear these tucked into flared gabardine pants cut to look like Donny’s and then slip my feet into the mandatory platform wedges for the perfect finish.

If Marie wore a rose around her neck when she was dressed elegantly in a sequined evening dress, I would wear a rose on a sequined ribbon with a casual cotton pant-suit and sneakers. Or the permanent-pleat skirts that were suddenly the rage in Singapore. Except I bought mine two to three sizes bigger and converted them into dresses by adding little shoulder straps at the waistbands and then wearing them like a sun-dress. Careful to accessorise with long hippie beads and Donny’s famous news-boy cap worn in the same jaunty style that he used to wear his. I spent most of my time with my boy cousins back then, so dressing like a girl with a slight masculine twist worked a charm. I was beginning to develop into a woman but they continued to accept me as ‘one of the boys’. *smile* I love that they always remembered to treat me gently.

In the late 70’s Bryan and Royston migrated to Sydney – it was a huge loss for me but their absence created a new phase in my dressing. I decided I was going to be totally feminine from then on and began wearing dresses in beautiful chiffons and georgettes, tailored to look like the dresses out of the 50’s era. I also discovered the impact of the pencil skirt. The harder it was to walk in one, the better! (Yes Nadia, I know what you're thinking!) And then in 1982 … much to the disbelief of everyone, I was crowned Miss Singapore/Universe. It came as a shock to me, as well.

With the title, a whole new wardrobe of beautiful clothes and ideas came to being; and I was required to wear a ‘national costume’. What was a Eurasian national costume, I asked my mother - she could not come up with an answer. I had seen folk-dancing outfits that the Eurasians wore when they performed in the Portuguese Settlement in Malacca. They were very colourful but lacked completely in Asian-ness. I believe everyone knows I am too proud of my Asian heritage to ever imagine myself as only Portuguese. I remember thinking … Groovy - I’m going to start something here.

Back in the 70's and 80's wearing a kebaya or a sari was just not what a Eurasian girl of my generation did for some reason; even my mother and her sisters never wore them. The Asian part of our heritage was always played down and European dress became the order of the day. Ever on the ready to make a statement, I decided on a fitting shimmering silver nonya kebaya. It was tailored by a lady in a little shop opposite The Church of the Holy Family in Katong. Mum and I then went on an accessory buying excursion to Arab Street where we found fern-leaf shaped silver kerosang and silver hair ornaments - both of course highly embellished with diamantes. I pulled it all together with the highest possible diamante stiletto silver shoes I could find - six inch heels with ties that went up my ankle – from of all places, a shop in Tanjong Katong Shopping Centre. I had my mother convinced that when the Portuguese arrived in the East and began marrying Asian women, the women could have worn something not unlike my kebaya. I had to smile when she began telling everyone with such delight and pride that I was going to wear a Nonya Eurasian-style wedding dress at the contest. I believe Merlarni and Mama would have loved it as much as mum did, had they been alive to see me – my head held high as I took part in the Parade of Nations at the Miss Universe Pageant in Peru that year. I also brought with me two silk cheongsams, two exquisite body hugging evening gowns and several 50's style dresses. Auntie Sheila my godfather's wife, so generously let me borrow all her costume jewellery - she had a fabulous collection. I can honestly say I felt like a princess.

The late 80’s and 90’s saw me go though my China girl stage. We were living in Australia by then. I often wore brocade cheongsams and samfoos, sometimes with as many as six chopsticks in my hair. I began investing in those gorgeous reversible Chinese silk jackets and even the sleep wear ‘happy coats’ which I would slip over my jeweled colored cheongsams. With matching tights and stiletto boots, leather gloves and sometimes a hat and overcoat – I was all set to face Perth’s sometimes dreary winter days with a flush of color and Asian mystery.

And then, one day I discovered ... it. The most indulgently feminine and beautiful article of clothing I have ever known. To experience seven metres of glorious fabric intricately woven from local Indian cottons to the finest silks on earth, in colours and designs that defy imagination, expertly encrusted with crystals, beads and sequins, over-locked only on either end, and then draped and pleated in various styles over the female form - it is a celebration each time I swathe myself in one.

Allow me to pause here.

I believe I will have to devote an entire blog entry to this most flattering piece of clothing. For those of you who have seen and remember the scene from Main Hoon Naa, say it with me now.

Sari.