Ahoj from Praha!

Oh dear, another lapse in blog maintenance, this one down largely to the research trip I'm currently on in Prague. And a week in Yorkshire, during which I meant to write about my new hat and evil walking clothes. And I would have done, apart from the lack of internet of any description in the house we were renting. I promise, as soon as I submit my PhD next December, that I shall do a month's experiment of daily posts, just to see what happens. In the meantime, please accept my apologies and, in lieu of actual posts, two articles I wrote for Peasoup which, unlike this blog, has deadlines!

A PEAS OF THREAD: Interview with Designer Mariatu Turay

A(nother) PEAS OF THREAD: Thoughts on "Going Native" - Unpacking the trend for all things tribal

**Shameless self-promotion alert** Should either of these articles please you, click the "like" button and share with your friends. We at Peasoup have a monthly competition - the writer with the most likes receives a bottle of rather lovely wine. A certain close associate of mine is currently in the lead, and I'd love to give him a run for his money...

Signs of Spring...

After my last, admittedly surly (though not unwarranted) post, I am engaging this day in a bit of spring-time festivity. Despite the fact that this is my fifth British spring, I still make the novice's mistake of equating bright sunlight with day-long warmth, leaving the house in an outfit that feels adequate, only to find myself shivering in bus shelters once the sun goes down. This happened as recently as yesterday, when I thought I could wear a jacket with three-quarter length sleeves AND skip the tights. Bad call.

Today, however, was properly spring-y. Accordingly, after waking up early to watch Mondo win Project Runway All Stars (huzzah!), I broke out two favorite things. First the sartorial:

After spending the winter hiding under my blanket-esque All Saints scarf, I always enjoy a return to silk. This one used to belong to my Great Aunt Mary, who I have to thank for a great deal of my vintage accessories - at some point I shall have to dedicate a post to her inimitable style. I don't think she ever wore trousers. Today as I was ironing it, I discovered a little detail I'd somehow managed to overlook in the three years it's lived with me.

Apparently, Aunt M's scarf is vintage Schiaparelli. While this makes me even more distressed about an idiotic attempt to handwash it that resulted in some of the colors bleeding, I am thrilled to own a piece by the fabulous Ms. Schiaparelli, who I first discovered in Muriel Sparks' novella The Girls of Slender Means, in which the residents of a post-war London boarding house for young ladies share between them a single Schiaparelli dress that is reserved for special occasions. These tend to involve elocution recitals or young men calling for tea.

My second harbinger of warmth is musical in nature and not quite so vintage, though perhaps fast becoming so:

In addition to warm weather generally, I shall forever associate this song (really the whole album) with the spring of 2005 when I listened to it whilst driving through Manayunk en route to rehearsal on South Street. Today I listened en route, via bus, tube and foot, to another rehearsal on another continent. It was pleasant to be sure, but the fabulous song/car windows rolled down combo is hard to beat. Enjoy!

Time for some Peasoup...

Another bit of cross-promotion for the fabulous Peasoup Magazine, cutting through the fog surrounding one issue of importance to Londoners each month. For this month's Unemployment Issue, I interviewed Lousie Mann of Islington-based Dress for Success (pictured below) to find out how the organization styles women returning to the workplace, or entering it for the first time. You can read the full story here. If it pleases you, click the like button - the article with the most likes scores a bottle of delicious vino - and do be sure to check out the rest of the articles too!

(photo courtesy of peasoupmagazine.com)

Has anyone else noticed this sign on a recent tube journey?

It's surprisingly hard to take a clear photo while on a moving escalator, so I shall translate: "Are your skills in demand overseas? Visit the Emigrate show." I confess to a level of perplexity and confusion - it's quite an oddly complex piece of work, isn't it? On one hand, it feels like a recession-busting scheme, as in 'Can't find a job here? Then why not shove off and seek employment elsewhere (whilst conveniently bringing down our unemployment numbers in the process, innit)?' Then, as if that's not unsettling enough, there's the sense in which it seems to be suggesting that here is indeed a possibility (wait for it...) that life just might be as good -or better?! - outside the UK.

This second proposition is truly revolutionary stuff. I number many a critical Brit amongst my close friends and associates, but, as is the case in the States, the official rhetoric tends not to be so self-reflexive. In the 5 years I've lived in the UK, I've been queried extensively on, among other things, my qualifications, work experience, seemingly bizarre interest in the Czech Republic, disdain for fake tan, the capitalization and pronunciation of my own surname and whether I really need to see a specialist for something my GP can surely handle by flipping through an abridged medical encyclopedia. Such experienes are part of life outside one's native land and, if nothing else, provide amusing fodder for blog posts. I mention them because the implicit sense behind such challenges is the notion that the British way is the most natural and/or highly-evolved manner in which to handle whatever's at stake.

The emigration sign, then, upsets the applecart of casual, public nationalism in a quite radically shocking way when you get down to it, or so it seems to me. Indeed, it feels downright portentous. This is especially the case when coupled with a recent article in the Sunday Times Style mag in which Chav was rebranded as Chinese Accessories Victim - in honor of the Beijing fashionistas converging on New Bond Street and creating a market for shop assistants who speak their native tongue. In this brave new world, one can't help but wonder what's booking up faster: the emigration fair or City Lit's courses in introductory Mandarin.

Lessons from the European Figure Skating Championships...

Right, confession time. Back before I owned a passport, this is how I spent most of my time...

Given such photographic evidence, it should come as no surprise that the 2012 European Figure Skating Championships, held in Sheffield last weekend, proved too much for me to resist. Indeed, I have been planning to attend them since last summer. While I could go on (and on, and on) about the skating, I shall spare you the technical details (such as my outrage regarding a certain C. Kostner's pathetic jump content) and share instead cultural observations of a somewhat more general nature...

Outer London looks like Poland - or anywhere else in Northern/Central Europe.

A somewhat facile observation to be starting with, but nonetheless true. Seriously - look at it:

I took this photo in Enfield, aka outer Mongolia, whilst waiting for a lift from my friend and fellow FS (that's figure skating to insiders, one of which you can now pretend to be) aficionado. If the generic US landscape is punctuated by Wal-mart and Home Depot, then surely this is the Northern European equivalent - garden centres, tons of signs for little stall-type shops with disparate fonts, etc. I would have photographed the collection of gazebos/mini-chatas across the street, but I dropped my hat in the mud and became preoccupied with cleaning it before I got the chance. Oh well, if I don't know what Monty's does/sells, at least I know where I can go to acquire a reptile, should one ever be required.

National stereotypes are alive and well in Europe. Any Euro-skeptics bemoaning the culturally homogenizing effects of the European Union are clearly not watching enough figure skating, where kitschy nods to one's homeland apparently constitute an attempt at artistry. The Italian and French skaters seem particularly invested in reductive expressions of nationality. They appear to have conflated their styles into a single entity I shall call mediterranean-sexy, which can be further broken down into sub-types a) vintage (Breton tops, suspenders, accordian music - see Samuel Contesti) and b) Pigalle (jazzy music, revealing costumes - see Valentina Marchei and Mae Berenice Meite). On the other end of the spectrum (apart from the unfortunate, Marilyn Monroe-channeling Ksenia Makarova), are the Dramatic Russian Skaters (black costume, moody music - see Artur Gachinski and Polina Koreybinikova). Nordic Snow Princess is another clearly demarcated category, the apotheosis of which must surely be Swedish champion Viktoria Helgesson's fur-cuffed long programme dress. More disturbing manifestations of ethno-packaging include Yretha Silete's jungle-themed program, the problematic nature of which nearly merits its own post.

English audiences are a bit rubbish, really... at least when it comes to watching female athletes. Any time an attractive woman who appeared to have reached the age of consent took to the ice, she was greeted with wolf-whistling and other caveman-esque accolades. Classy, gents. I shudder to think what's going to happen at the London Olympics. Perhaps all female gymnasts should be issued earplugs.

Celebrity culture has infiltrated women's skating. This is in no way an apologia for the hooting men of Sheffield, who, to be fair, may not all have been English, but I can't help but query the decision to present oneself for athletic competition decked out like a showgirl. The International Skating Union attempted to deal with this issue in the 1980s, when Katarina Witt showed up in this outfit, the first version of which was sans feathers and cut high up the hips, Las Vegas style. A new rule was introduced, dictating that all clothing must be "modest, appropriate and suitable for athletic competition" (this also ruled out tights on men, by the way). Perhaps many of the Euro-ladies spent the off-season reading Catherine Hakim and are consciously attempting to invoke their erotic capital in pursuit of sports glory. I'm not convinced though. What child dreams of ascending to Olympic heights dressed as Marilyn Monroe? That said, as I type this, it occurs to me that perhaps I shall one day look back on KM's Monroe-themed program with nostalgia as someone attempts to land a triple-triple combination dressed as Kim Kardashian. Too horrifying to contemplate! Quick, here's something else to look at:

Eventual winner, Carolina Kostner of Italy, left, with Makarova-as-Marilyn, right, in pink. See? Not so bad...

Best Leg Forward...

Happy New Year!

'Tis the season for all manner of resolutions, re-evaluations and detoxification schemes. I don't promise to embark on any of the latter, moderation at all times seeming to me wiser than bursts of asceticism interrupting general debauchery, but I have resolved to try to blog more. I shall also be trying to blog less reservedly - that is, without running every thought I have through an extensive series of self-created tests designed to ensure that I give no offence to anyone, even (hypothetical) readers whose (imaginary) views I don't at all agree with (if they did, or do, exist). Not that I shall seek to be provocative for the sheer hell of it. It's more a resolution to think, write and be generally be a bit freer. All to the good, j'espère.

Now to the title of this post. Here is a photo taken of me this early this afternoon (so effectively this morning) as I returned home from my first venture into the wilds of 2012:

In addition to unwashed hair and no makeup (apart from the obligatory lipstick), I am wearing several holiday acquisitions, most notably the oversized cardigan (Whistles via P) and my new (and much loved) Chloe trousers (courtesy of me and the Harvey Nick's post-Christmas sale). I have wanted a pair of Chloe trousers for the best part of the last decade, so these represent a major acquisition. They were my last purchase of 2011 (and likely will be my last purchase for some time...), so it seemed only fitting to wear them for my first foray into 2012. Granted, that was only as far as Starbucks, but still...an auspicious start to the year, sartorially speaking. Until it began to rain, that is. Luckily, I live with a wonderful gentleman who received a very large umbrella for Christmas and is not adverse to impromptu rescue missions on behalf of his unprepared lady. Chloe and I were very grateful. After making it safely back home, it was straight back into the pjs for the laziest of New Year's Days, complete with Pirates of the Caribbean on iPlayer - tragic but lovely all the same.

Wishing you all a lovely, lazy and auspicious start to a brave new year!

Fidlovačka, or No Tag and No Joy

In a week of milestones, which included my first completely successful Czech language phone call, last night was my first trip to a non-subtitled Czech play. I went to see Fidlovačka, aneb kde domov můj? at Divadlo na Vinohradech. Fidlovačka is a nineteenth-century Czech play by J. K. Tyl with music by František Škroup. It was first performed in 1834 when its nationalistic content and championing of the Czech language in a German-dominated cultural sphere caused quite a stir. The performance was banned for a time and Tyl considered it a failure. It was later resurrected and enjoyed great success, its greatest achievement being the adoption of the fourth act aria, “Where is my home?” as the Czech national anthem. The subtitle of the original production translates to “no anger and no brawl,” but the one playing at the Vinohrady Theatre invokes the national anthem and juxtaposes the original text and story with debates in EU Parliament concerning the adoption of an EU symbol, flag, and/or anthem. Impassioned debates about collective and national identity ensue. The Czech delegate is particularly outspoken – he is tremendously concerned with the preservation of Czech national identity and ends the first act with a rant concerning the importance haček, a diacritical mark that essentially ads an „h“ to Czech consonents (š is pronounced “sh”, for example). His final (hilarious) point was “Čapek neni Capek!” – a reference to the frequent mispronunciation of celebrated author Karel.

The performance was also remarkable for the appearance of the dignified and formidable Jířina Jirásková as Parliament chairwoman. Born in 1931, she’s performed at the Vinohrady theatre for an amazing sixty years. As always when I got to a “stone theatre” (read big, official) in the Czech Republic, I am struck by the sheer number of bodies on stage – there must have been thirty people on stage last night, about twenty of them playing Euro-MPs, lending credibility to the Parliament scenes and chiming on the songs as Tyl and Škroup’s text increasingly dominated proceedings in the second act. It makes me long to have been born in such a system, in which a career as a theatre actor is a reasonably attainable and financially viable goal in a way it just isn’t in countries that lack repertory systems.

The only hiccup in the evening was my interaction with the lady who ran the šatna – the coat room. When I checked my coat prior to the start of the play, she chided for me coat's lack of a tag that would facilitate hanging. Here it is, in all its barren glory:

I don't know what this is called in Czech (or even if there’s a specific English term) and I’m not up on my tailoring vocab, so I’m not sure if she was cross with me (admittedly in a pleasant, good humored way) for failing to sew one in, or with my beloved COS for failing to place one in the coat. As I waited for the play to begin, I couldn’t help wondering if there’s a correlation between a country’s degree of coat-check obsession and the occurrence of hang tags on locally available coats. My coat is manufactured by a Swedish label and I purchased it in the UK, where coat checking is nowhere near as common as it is in central eastern Europe, though I would think that there’d be a high incidence of it in Sweden, given the length and severity of the winters. Considering the Czech (and Polish) dedication to coat-checking (which I quite like, when I'm not getting in trouble), I wonder if a coat’s check-ability is considered when deciding which brands to import. Have I finally discovered why so many of my favorite labels have no foothold in the Czech market?

Unfortunately, my relationship with the keeper of the coats did not improve post-show, when my exit from the loge revealed the fact that I’d had the audacity to check my troublesome coat when there was ample space and coat-hooks in my box. I only realized this was what she said later, as I replayed it in my head…at the time, the surprise at being publicly dressed down over a hang-tag and my lack of suitable vocabulary for the situation conspired to render me mute and unresponsive. While it is now an amusing anecdote, the entire encounter makes me long for spring, when it will no longer be necessary to take a coat of any description along for a night at the theatre.

PS - Curiosity and a desire to avoid writing a conference paper on hybrid-form theatre has led me to explore the hang-tag issue further. I'm now back in Warsaw with the rest of my coats, which I have now surveyed, along with some of Mr P's. Coats and blazers with tags (by brand and nation of purchase): Wilson's Leather (US), Brooks Brothers (US), J. Crew (US), Zara (PL), Superdry (UK). The only other coat sans tag (apart from random vintage ones) is my black and white full-length Zara wrap coat, purchased, unlike Mr P's peacoat, in the UK, lending (admittedly inconclusive) credence to the theory that tags are added and subtracted according to market. Fascinating.