Carla

So what do you think? Did I get a Carla?

First I’ll tell you the story.

The weekend had been set aside for a girls’ weekend with Jen, Jools and Nic, my uni girlfriends, for which over twenty five years and who knows how many kilometres are wiped away like our anatomy lecturer’s overhead projector scratchings (Hi Dr.Chandaraj if you are still around. You were amazing, but I never was able to read your writing.) whenever we get in a room together. Corona and border closures had other ideas, so we added a dash of hope and postponed it ’til later in the year, crossing our fingers more tightly than our pelvic floors when the first bars of ‘Holiday’ blast out. Please let dance floors and karaoke bars and dancing around handbags still be a thing when the virus slopes off to become merely endemic. We can hope.

So I made plans with the girls I am allowed to play with (Mum and daughter) to shop and eat and shop some more in the little smoke known as Brisvegas by mostly no-one other than old people like Nath and I who like to 1. Annoy our kids 2. Think we are a bit funny.

First stop was supposed to be Zara, followed by H&M, Seed and then lunch, but somehow we ended up at Carla Zampatti. Shock. We went for a ‘quick look’ which ended up with me being suitably fawned on by the excellent ladies there, helping with sizing, squeezing, and little squees as they fussed and fluffed and just generally made an old bird feel like her time for a Carla had finally come.

I narrowed it down to two: one much too hot for October in Queensland, but comfortable AF and extremely flattering, and one a bit more directional (and cleverly called “Homage to Carla” talk about tugging the story-strings), and not quite as sexy..but with POCKETS. What to do? Caught between fashion and function, yet again, and with price tags that didn’t allow for both. I decided to ‘eat on it’, and the lovlies said they would hold both of them for me. They were seasoned enough to know what, “I’m now picturing myself with make-up and proper shoes and my husband’s eyes on the night,” looks like- they knew I’d be back.

Over lunch and reflecting on the pros and cons of buying something that looks great, but will wind up being a velvet version of a sous vide* or, something less sassy sweaty and more classy, I got a call from Carla’s Angels: someone else wanted the second one. Did I want it? The seconds passed. Did I?

I’ve secretly wanted a Carla for years. I know this one looks good and I finally have somewhere to wear it, in fact once outfit the cards were on the table, I quickly invented three more places to wear it. Did I want it? Did I mention it’s called Homage to Carla?

Of course I did. I told them I’d be there shortly, but I understood if they wanted to sell it to the decisive lady in front of them. They declined. Carla was mine.

Of course when we got to the store the ladies were as lovely as ever, and I thanked them for keeping their promise to hold (what was soon to be) MY Carla. But it all felt a bit off. Some of the shine was taken off the purchase, in knowing that me getting this piece meant someone else missed out. You’ve probably seen the videos; the ones where the marathon runner is about to cross the line in second place and the person in front of them collapses, and rather than running on by, they pick them up so they can cross the line together. I love those videos and I bloody love a good win-win. It’s unlikely that I’m ever running a marathon, so this was my chance. I got the ladies to put the search out for another Carla, just like ‘mine’. Yes there was another, they said, but it wouldn’t work for the other lady, as she needed to have alterations done, and the times wouldn’t match up. She would have to miss out.

What to do, what to do? Should I give up what was fast becoming my beloved third child to bring another woman joy? Should I just shelve my Carla-owning dreams and buy something more sensible? Should I get the velvet sauna after all?

In my endorphin-fuelled almost-purchasing inner monologue I’d forgotten one thing: I didn’t need the damn thing for months. I could just drive back to Briso and pick it up another day. Facepalm. I told this to the Angels, and they quickly agreed to an even better plan: through the magic of Australia Post they would simply ship it to me. Amazing. Technology, ‘eh? I was laughing to myself as we completed my purchase and they called the other lady (who I’m pretty sure did a little squeal when they said she could come and get HER Carla), at how when we open our minds to the win-win we can almost always find a way. Sure it felt a bit weird and kind of sad to spend a whole bunch of bucks on an outfit that I couldn’t immediately go back home and try on (which is what I always do with new clothes), and sure it gave me waaaay more time to have buyer’s remorse, but there was something fun about how it all turned out. A kind of fashion solidarity that could be vapid or bullshit or nothing at all, depending on your view. But I like to think that story is important.

I know the brand of Carla Zampatti was forged through passion and tenacity and a desire to make women feel beautiful. I also know that things don’t have any inherent meaning, it’s just the meaning we bring to them. My Carla will arrive soon, and I will have some material with a meaning. Something that reminds me of what strong women can do when they put their heart into a project. Something that reminds me that finding ways to support each other rather than compete will always feel better. And I will be glad that even though I might look not-quite-as-hot as I could have, I will for once have chosen something that fits the function required.

I can’t promise the same thing for my shoes though.

* The process of vacuum-sealing food in a bag, then cooking it to a very precise temperature in a water bath. I hear it’s delicious. Not sure if it is recommended for fifty year old women.

Do you care about brands? Do you have a timeless item with a story? Do you have a Carla yet?

…From The Ashers…

Yes, this is a Jac Pac… Oh how I wanted one of these.

I’m not a fashionista or even that knowledgeable about brands, but I do love brands with great stories. Even more, I love brands that are named after the owner (Hello Veuve Clicquot) and even more when the name becomes synonymous with the thing (Hi there Mr.Biro). The story behind the brand is interesting as we get a little peep behind the curtain, looking backstage at what they were trying to achieve and the reason why they were compelled to get off the couch and press play on a new business. Which is probably never as easy as that first ‘entrepreneurial flash’. Knowing the why behind the what.

Growing up in the western suburbs of Melbourne I didn’t have much call for fancy clothes or designer tags. Mum always made sure we had the latest clothes ‘for good’ and we were always nicely turned out in something from Just Jeans or maybe even Rip Curl, but full designer wasn’t a thing on my radar. I don’t even know if I knew such things existed until Mum decided I could do with a little rounding-out and enrolled me in a course of “junior deportment and modelling” at Suzan Johnston.

Tumbling into the car after Saturday morning softball, we would trek from the west to the centre, as I scrubbed the dust of the industrial wastelands from my legs, and shook out the blobs of dried blood or sweat collected in my mane, to arrive at Collins Street less feral, more fancy. Physically. But it’s hard to wipe the west out of a gal, and some days the switch from being down in the dirt to dressed on the dais took some time. I was a catcher back then, so I spent most of my games in a deep squat, with an umpire’s thighs pressed right in behind me. The catcher’s role is to control the game, set up the pitcher, and legally intimidate anyone you can. It wasn’t uncommon for the umpire to whisper “That’ll do now,” if I got on a nice little sledge-roll about the batter’s mum/dad/brother/boyfriend. I’d always smile to myself when that happened, because it meant I’d come up nice and close to the line of social acceptability. I like knowing where that line is, and how much to stretch it.

Which is why I like brands that do that. Ones that have a story of adversity and triumph, of meaningful contributions and of challenging social norms. A couple of days ago a chick I follow on the socials told us she’s in a throuple. I’ve never heard of it before- turns out it’s just three peeps in love- but she immediately lost 18000 followers, and gained a plethora of negative comments, which is probably more interesting than what she does in her own bed. To be honest, my little old menopausal self admires her verve. I can’t even muster up the energy to cast a sleazy side-eye perv to the surfers getting changed at the beach carpark these days. Good for her love, and even more, thanks for the show and tell. I like knowing more about the person behind “The Holistic Psychologist”.

Over in sky-high heels in the skyscraper Sportsgirl building that housed Suzan Johnston I learnt that there was more to branding than buying Adidas Romes because that’s what my cool-crush was wearing, or getting a Jac Pac because everyone at school was wearing them to the Blue Light Disco on Fridays. Branding was about identifying and then isolating a target audience, figuring out what they needed, and then selling them that very thing in a way that lifted their hearts. So as we sat and listened to the model-teachers telling about this product or that, we were buying brands within a brand who fed back into brands. Genius.

We all knew it was genius because any time we told our friends that we went to Suzan Johnston’s classes, or even on one occasion to her house for a photo shoot, we were met with a kind of half-envious awe. To those who knew what SJ was of course. Those who didn’t weren’t our targets anyway.

Over the years Suzan’s gals introduced us to the work of the fashion icons of the 80’s, and one of them was Carla. I don’t know what Carla Zampatti was known for to the adults back then, but we all knew she was an Italian migrant who came to Australia as a kid, and created a beautiful business as a divorcée and a single mum. Gold on all fronts, for kid from the west from one of the very few ‘broken families’ in school.

Back then Carla’s designs weren’t something I wanted to buy for myself, but rather something to aspire to. I thought one day I would have the means and the need for a Carla. Perhaps I’d own a medical practice and I’d swish past my staff smiling with a whisper of chiffon and crepe. Or maybe I’d tell the women in the typing pool to, “Keep up the great work, ladies,” as my clicking red-soled heels kept time with their staccato keystrokes.

Those things never happened. My life went in different directions as I found my true calling, and such outfits were never required. And yet, I’ve always kept a little imagined snapshot in the deep recesses of my brain, of me in a Carla.

This year, Carla Zampatti died, after a whopping fifty six years in the fashion industry. Women turned out in their fave Carla Zampatti designs to honour a woman who made good. There are rumours that the purchaser of her very first design has the outfit still, and wears it to ritzy Sydneyside functions. (Don’t tell me if that’s not true. I like the story.) Carla’s daughter quipped that her mum would have called the funeral the best dressed function she’d ever attended. That makes me smile. And not a modelling smile either, a nice big real one.

So when Carla died, a little part of me was sad that I’d never owned one of her designs. I’d always meant to go to her boutique in New Farm and get kitted out, but days get busy and the need for flowing fashion can be offset by offspring and functionality and Queensland heat. The cape-like folds I fancy the most don’t really lend themselves wrangling a toddler into their car-seat or keeping the draping fabric free of mashed up banana.

Recently my days have changed a little. The kids don’t eat mashed food any more, and one of them even drives himself. I have more time to shop carefully and take my time with my purchases, and I even have a fancy formal function to go to this year, thanks to said offspring.

So this weekend it was Carla Time. Time to (perhaps) get myself something before the essence of her has left the brand. I don’t know what’s next for them, and maybe the look will remain timeless and essentially Carla, but I didn’t want to risk it. I wanted to get something that may have even had her stamp of approval.

Let the shopping begin.

Do you think I got a Carla? I’ll tell you soon…

…From The Ashers…