CHOOSING THE WOOL BOARD COLLECTION

Press, Volume CI, Issue 29746, 13 February 1962, Page 18

CHOOSING THE WOOL BOARD COLLECTION

(Specially written for "The Press" by

CECILY PALMERSTON)

The tall windows of Wool House look out into the grey-corniced ravine of Featherston street. Morning and evening the tide of commuters surges up and down from Wellington Station. Cars and trolley buses pass in a slow-jerking tribal dance. Inwards the light slants on beige tables, and a polished teak floor. The wool awards contest of 1962 has begun.

The judges sit with their backs to the high windows: well-cut suits, a superb grey ensemble of pure wool, and down the table a billow of blonde hair and an intricate green hat. Expert in fashion and fabric . . . everyone silently, broodingly looking at the line of gowns. Dust dances in the sunlight.

The chairman: ’‘Perhaps we should see them a little closer now.” The girls glide round to the windows, tall figures dramatised by the back-lighting, turning slowly.

Mannequins stand unsmiling, watching the judges almost cautiously. A coke-bright red evening dress bums in the sun. Pale blue wool chiffon flutters in a sudden draught.

One model wears black, her throat and shoulders matching the white wool of an-

other’s gown, swinging in slow folds to a satin shoe.

The chairman of the judging panel has hom-rimmed glasses and holds his ball-pen between thumb and finger above the mark sheet. He is a textile scientist, Dr. L. F. Story, of Dunedin.

Now the discussion starts. Judges in pairs about each frock. “Turn this way . . . turn that.” Seams, zips and hems are examined. Concentration over the fabric. How well is it shaped here? How does it sit there?

In a few moments the anxious line has re-formed. Some gowns are soon banished, with a word and a murmur of consent. The mannequins pause with questioning eyes, then disappear into the subdued hustle of the dressing room.

Three Remain Now three remain. The talk comes in little bursts. “For colour, there’s only one in it” . . . “Now look at the fabric there; do you think? ...” “Just another frock?” . . . “Not much doubt about it.”

Finally, almost wordlessly, the decision is made. “Right,” says the chair-

man, his pen at work. “A gold medal for number 257 and a merit award for number 245. All agreed?” So it continues through four days in October. Fifteen mannequins and male models, 12 judges at the long table, 15 dressers busy among the racks. 660 Garments Six hundred and sixty garments. A line of men’s suits, shadow greys and greens. Girl sweaters, gay as a 2s bag of theatre mixture. Hats and coats and frocks and skirts and slacks and trousers and sportscoats over £l2 and sportscoats under £l2 and casual knitwear and classic knitwear and the racks of haute couture, cocooned in plastic. So it continues, watched only by one or two Wool Board officials and the occasional wanderer, startled at the head of the stair. Coats

and sweaters and trousers and slacks. Sleeves are pulled inside out to examine the lining. One judge produces a magnifying glass. • In a dressing room, the girls are long legs and white nylon, heads and hair-dos wrapped in silk while they twist expertly into another frock. “We want 574,” says the wardrobe mistress and 574—a brunette in a pink twinset—drops a mystery

novel into her make-up bag.

Winners Recalled

On the fourth afternoon, the winners are recalled, decisions reviewed and the final choice of the supreme award winner made. When only two garments remain, papers are passed along the table and in silence the judges mark their verdict. The chairman flips the papers over, waves his ballpen at the man’s topcoat. The decision is unanimous. There’s a burst of applause.

Now it is all over. The mannequins go in a group, making Featherston street stare. Judges in the silent dressing room sum up impressions for the reporter, scowling over his shorthand. “The knitwear equals the world’s best” . . . “We would have liked to have seen more slacks” . . . “The supreme award coat was a magnificent garment” . . . “We were disappointed . . .

delighted. . . .” The women try on mos' of the hats.

Sorting, Packing

In the early morning, the janitor brings up from the basement a great heap of them from the lift across the cardboard boxes, skittering polished floor. Six hundred garments to be sorted and packed and returned to the makers.

And for 60, fame with the coming autumn. Gold medals and certificates to adorn executive offices. Photographs and parades and a place in the middle of the window.

For a wool-growing country, a wool-conscious country, a new lead to the best of wool fashion and craftsmanship for 1962.