The Magic of Creation

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIV, Issue 22819, 28 August 1937, Page 6 (Supplement)

The Magic of Creation

TETANY times I have heard harassed women, anxious for modern yet cheap improvements to their homes, complain bitterly that the men of, the family are' " not handy about 'the house." Now there are very few women ,who cannot do many useful things, especially in the matter of creating new plumage for each season. And certain it is that this is one of the greatest pleasures of life conferred on them—the joy of mingling gem-like colours, and the wonder of creation. Nevertheless, there are a few shamed and outcast women" with none of these gifts, but in their lack of talent' they differ to this extent from men—that though in desperate moments they acknowledge it, they never really give up hope. A man, challenged'for improvements, will shrug his shoulders, and airily suggest that you get a few quotations, and he'll pay for the joh. Not so a woman when, after a visit into the wide world, she finds that the changes in dress are so radical that not one new frock but many will be required; and that even last season's suit must be taken up at

the hem. y Secrets o 1 the Sewing Room The ordinary normal woman flaunts Bale bargains in one's face at "one and six a yardj my dear." Then she can sit down in the sewing room with two or three small children tormenting her for pieces; invite a chance guest in, and all the while hack recklessly at skirt hems, and set them up to look as if they, had been seccotined together. But the unhandy woman must shut herself up in a room alone to realise in the course of a lons afternoon that the greatest tragedy of life lies in lacking creative talent. She has so boggled her best skirt hem that it is fit for nothing but wearing on a winter morning with a jumper (machineknitted!) and even then she realises that it had best be covered b.v a seemly smock! Moreover, it is her final tragedy that, all her ideas are "in conception graiif!," as one of the rolling poets of old said. Bravely, she must hide her failure. "If only 1 could draw," she says to her smiling friends, ■"l'm sure I could do dress designing. As a last straw she must go out ami buy a new frock; and though it be the most slinkv affair from the showroom; though it "receive the final seal of her friends' approval as "smart, very smart. . . ~ yet she is never to know the primal, . feminine thrill of seller eation. , . , The other day I—one of this sad sisterhood —walked up Queen Street, nobly warning mvself not to betray the mob mind. Skirts might be dashingly up round the knee, where once they had caressed the ankle; but "all very well for flappers" I hissed to myself sternly. In the bus going home, I tried to get assurance from friends; 1 even plaved traitor to the age by suggesting to an astonished woman that long skirts are so much more feminine. "Oh but," she said, protesting, "they've been wearing them short in Sydney for months!" Sydney, of course, settled me, as it would any yroman! Brain Waves—and Disaster I considered it urgent at the moment that I should hoard my money; so, overlooking the failures of a lifetime. I shut myself up alone to recreate. Like " all the unpractical, I have vast stores of knowledge. Ideas such as this, culled from fashion notes: "Plain navy is alwavs fashionable, and a good investment./' Send your frock to the cleaner's, and then, with a new collar, perhaps a colourful belt, and clever fingers, presto! you are in the forefront of fashion!" Are you? "Clever fingers" — there s the rub,"' as Hamlet said. Of course, I happened to have the basic article — a navy crepe de chine, several years old, plainly and classically conceived. It did not look ' -so bad, - though a horrid little scoop from the base of the neck betrayed it; and- its length was most distinctly feminine. Sternly warning mvself on no account to cut the hem, I invented a most interesting gadgetr—a piece of narrow elastic, hook and eye at either end, wherewith I girdled myself, and by artfully pulling, I garaged the unwanted length rather doubtfully over the top portions of my • frame. This I consider real invention;

By BART SUTHERLAND

[ have always known that I am really far more clever than the sort of woman who thinks of nothing but clothes. The elastic would bo hidden by a new bright red belt. Smart. . . . Success went to my head, and 1 clashed at the neck. In such a mood, not for me a satin glorification of a baby's bib at 9s lid! A malicious wave from the ether reminded me of two tiny Peter Pan collars of years ago. Put 011 the right way about, one as a collar, one as a vest, a mere boarding school party frock effect was achieved: but with the lightning flash of genius the great idea came —make the two into a jabot. Pinned on, the re.sult was breezily artistic; but somehow when 1 sew things they get a heavy, respectable look. In the mirror, my dearest vision faded; and I sought the torture of confirmation from the only other woman in the house. She is_ a blunt woman, and she cast an appraising and not very enthusiastic eye over me. "You don't seem to have much gumption for tliat sort of thine, do you?" she said. With pain in both our hearts, wo agreed that it might do for a wet night at the pictures, with a coat over it. I went back to my room, and started listlessly to poke the folds out of last season's pancake hat. If I went out to that woman she would tell me I ought to steam it, and I didn't know how to The postman's whistle shrilled. Pleasant diversion—the box was simply crammed with Australian papers. There was a letter from a wandering friend. "I thought these

j ~'l j Many a girl is on the'shelf to-day j ; because she kept men on the itiraCK { j yesterday.—Fritzi Scheff. women's supplements might give you some new ideas for your writing," she said. Writing, forsooth! She knew nothing of the inmost yearnings of my heart. About a hundred pages of the most ravishing ideas in dress, and not one could f flaunt before the world! Despondently I turned 4 the pages, and was suddenly met by the gaze of a genteel, yet triste-looking damsel with whom I seemed to have an affinity of despair. Looking as if she had come through the trials of a "Tale of Two Cities and a good deal more, she yet managed to look calmly aristocratic, and this I found was due to a most marvellous hat poised above her sad brow. "Anthony Adverse" it was called. My dreams were ashes; my life a failure. To-morrow I would go out and buy a hat just like that!