Tuesday, February 15, 2022

we gonna wheel and come again

Family all, greetings!  It’s been too long!

A recent exchange between some of the great aunts reinforced the urgency of a repository for family stories and information.    We tossed around ideas of how to go about this, and since this much-neglected blog already exists, we’re going to use it, but with some change in direction. 

The plan is to pose questions and hope for responses that will then be posted in the days/weeks to follow.  The questions will attempt to be roughly chronological, and may come in multiples in order to cover periods in our history. 

I hope for memories, questions, thoughts, stories, jokes, conjecture, questions... anything and everything that can add to the richness of the record.  Contributions do not require supporting evidence, and I suspect that sometimes our stories may even contradict one another, but that seems appropriate for the unruly survivors that we have been.  The one reality of which we are sure is that we have been in these islands from the beginning of European settlement, and stayed to become a part of an evolving unique culture.

Family, these questions are meant to encourage responses (and not just from great aunts), but are not meant to limit contributions to any one topic.  Please do feel free to share on anything Punnett related that occurs to you.

If you’d prefer not to get emails from the great aunts, please just let me know so I don’t intrude on your Inbox!  If there’s anyone I should add to the list, please let me have names and addresses so that I can make that right.

The first questions will post tomorrow (fingers crossed).

I’m also sharing a link to the art gallery of a Caribbean blog that I do with my maternal cousin, Nan Peacocke.  Paintings and photographs by family members (thus far...Zen, Tristan , Denise), are dotted throughout the blog, and have been showcased on the Art Gallery  (Lynn Cevene, Rachael, and, most recently, first daughter of Betty and Langley ~ Rosalind Punnett Wilkinson).  Five of Roz’s paintings shown belong to Betty Jane who graciously allowed their use.  https://archipelagospeak.wordpress.com/art-gallery/

I hope you’re all thriving.  And I hope that we can get some momentum going in creating a record, or an outline anyway, of our story.

Love to allyuh.

Lisbie xanother photo of our beautiful Valley from Lynden

Tuesday, September 29, 2020

Betty and Chrissy

 

isn;t this one lovely photograph?!
Would be ever so pleased if anyone has photos they'd be willing to contribute to the blog!
One love,
Lisbie x

Monday, September 28, 2020

43 years ago today...

 ... Christopher Alexander Punnett "shuffl'd off this mortal coil", but remains present in the hearts and memories of many of us who adored him.  So present, that there have been grandchildren born after he died who have vivid memories of him!  From time to time, family at home will meet up someone who still talks about him.  His contemporaries have mostly all trod on, but some of those young people in the villages who hailed him as Daddy Chris do, I trust, still recall him lovingly.  He was extraordinary in the most ordinary of ways.

I recently learned the word topophilia... it means love of place (From Greek topos "place" and -philia, "love of").  It suggests a strong sense of place, which often becomes mixed with the sense of cultural identity among certain people and a love of certain aspects of such a place.  W. H. Auden used the term in his 1948 introduction to John Betjeman's poetry book Slick but Not Streamlined, stressing that the term "has little in common with nature love" but depended upon a landscape infused with a sense of history.  It seemed to me to describe that ineffable connection that we Punnetts have with the landscape of our Valley, and of our country, as distanced as many of us now are.

​ “The poetry of a people comes from the deep recesses of the unconscious,
the irrational and the collective body of our ancestral memories.”
Margaret Walker


"There is St. Vincent, the most beautiful of the Caribee isles, with it’s bold, sharp, and abrupt mountains, its deep intervening romantic glens, and its lofty and rocky coasts. The delicious valley of Buccament is the admiration of all travellers. The famed botanic garden is the theme of general praise; and the island stands high in reputation as a healthy station."
Simmond's Colonial Magazine and Foreign Miscellany, Volume 1 ~ 1844

"… a visit to the delicious valley of Buccament..."
Between Slavery and Freedom: Special Magistrate John Anderson's Journal of St Vincent During the Apprenticeship

I was delighted to stumble upon our Valley being described as "delicious"! Of course, this was before Grandad acquired the estates, but our relationship with that land feels timeless to me.

Daddy loved his country, and had a passionate relationship with the mountains and Valleys adjoining Buccament. He was a strong believer, but not a churchgoer, so these words of Aldous Huxley always seemed written about my father.

“My father considered a walk among the mountains 
as the equivalent of churchgoing.”

Daddy and, later, his sons (Colin especially) regularly hunted in those mountains. Years ago when Mummy was still alive we (John, Mark and I with Mummy, as I recall) stopped on a drive to North Leeward and stretched our legs on an interior road near Rose Hall (I think), and a gentleman on a donkey asked if we were "Mister Chrissy children"... he told us stories of Daddy's hunting, and he even remembered the names of his faithful hunting dogs! 

The Nature Trail at Daddy's beloved Dalaway, and the newer Cumberland Trail have opened up some of his old stomping grounds to less intrepid nature lovers. I'd love to take this walk...
Cumberland Trail http://discoversvg.com/
"Located in the upper Cumberland Valley, the mountain trail was once used by villagers as part of linking to the upper Vermont Valley. The area was popular for the movement of animals, and was a “Mourning” ground for the Spiritual Baptists Religion. The Forestry Department acquired some lands from farmers in the 1960’s and this assisted significantly in maintaining the trail. The reforestation involved the planting of trees like Caribbean Pine and Blue Mahoe. The Cumberland Trail is also one of the habitats for the St. Vincent Parrot (Amazonia Guildingii).
The Cumberland Nature Trail is rested in the Cumberland Valley, traversing a variety of Forest Vegetation and Farm lands. At the initial section, the trail runs next to a wooden water pipe transporting water to a hydro-electricity power plant located in the Cumberland Valley. 
From its head at Grove, the trail winds its way eastwards for 1Km before veering to the south for another km. This 2-Km section of the trail actually mimics the curves and contours of the wooden pipe that conducts water from the Youngman's Valley to three (3) hydro-electricity generating units located at several points along the Cumberland River with the last one sited at lower Cumberland. Hydro-electricity generation and transmission is therefore an interesting element of the trail."


Cumberland Bay

Daddy was well known for a complete lack of talent for, and interest in, dancing, having apparently ended up on the dance floor with Lady Graham when she foolhardily insisted he accompany her in a dance! But, along with stories of tea meetings and other island traditions, he talked about country people dancing the quadrille, so I looked and found a YouTube clip of Caribbean people putting their spin on the quadrille.

quadrille - Caribbean style https://youtu.be/3eSHbXFl4aA

quadrille - European style https://youtu.be/OGgdGBMLFxE

My "ancestral memories" are filled with Daddy's tales of St.Vincent adventures and ghost stories, riding the rails in Canada, the quality of his attention, his enormous quiet kindness and insistent ethics, walks and drives at his side. He loved his family, and loved each person within it in a very particular and all-encompassing way, and we all loved him deeply. In my years with him, I knew a simple man of simple tastes and habits. His routine was predictable - he had raw eggs and coffee for breakfast, a lunch of meat with a selection of 'provisions' and a dish of peas or beans. After his afternoon rest he read Robert Service or Kahlil Gibran, and his cowboy novels (Louis L'Amour and Zane Grey), had a dish of fruit or a couple squares of dark chocolate, went for a walk, and came home for the first rum of the afternoon, and company. Dinner was steamed fish or soup, every evening.

He was talented, brave, kind, and eminently decent. He revered Abraham Lincoln. He was non-judgmental, he was fair, he was honest, he was funny. He was full of love. He was full of love. The Heavens are richer for his stardust.

Chrissy and his kids

Sending you all love today, and every day.  May you be safe and happy.









Wednesday, November 27, 2019

our pumpkin vine

Greetings and salutations all!

This post is prompted by an email from a Guyanese friend from my Barbados days, who now lives in Michigan with her American husband who went to medical school in St. Vincent.  She sent this photo

and asked if I recognised the young woman in the grey sweater.  I am embarrassed to admit I did not.  My friend Lisa followed up with a message to say that it was Christy Punnett who had recently hosted a 60th birthday party in South Carolina, which had been attended by a Guyanese friend of Lisa's who lives in Texas!  How many degrees of separation?  A shout-out to Christy - in Barbados, or South Carolina, or wherever she wanders.

Dem Punnett everywhere... When I first moved to Antigua, I was chatting with the driver of the water truck while our cistern was being replenished, and he asked me. "You know dem Punnett from St. Vincent?"  I asked why he posed that question, and he told me I looked "like dem"...at which point I revealed that I was from St. Vincent and was indeed one of dem Punnetts.  He had moved to Antigua from St.Vincent decades before and had worked for Mas' John as a young man.

“What man can travel this long road and not fill up his soul with crazy arabesques?”
Frances Mayes, A Year in the World 

Other family bits...
A friend of Beej's from King’s Hall School in Compton, in the Eastern Townships of Quebec sent her a group photo from graduation day 1964, and I cropped everyone else out so we could focus on Lovely Betty Jane.

There was also an adorable photo of Beej's Amanda as a little one...

In June, nephews Christopher O'Brien, Scott Serrao and Tristan Punnett visited with Dereck O'Brien (right to left) in Dubai while he was living there for work...


Thanks to Lynden for the gorgeous November Valley sunset...

One love,
Lisbie x

“...all the confusions…would be revealed as cunning arabesques
in a most intricate, beautifully formed story.”
Tobias Wolff, Old School

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

La Soufrière: Beyond the Ashes

Greetings, Family and Friends,

I heard from Zen recently that there was to be an exhibition of Soufrière photos and I looked online to see what I could find about the show… only this…

“Nadia Huggins has been working with the Seismic Research Centre to put together a stunning collection of photographs from the 1902 and 1979 eruptions of volcano in St. Vincent and the Grenadines. The photographic exhibition will be on view from November 12 to 22, at the Saint Vincent and the Grenadines National Trust, Carnegie Old Public Library Building, Halifax Street, in Kingstown, St. Vincent.”

There are online, however, lots of photos of past eruptions and the devastated aftermath.
The Caribbean photo archive hosts a Caribbean treasure trove in general
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums
and there are at least 3 collections on St.Vincent’s La Soufrière
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums/72157615237865988
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums/72157617750338317
https://www.flickr.com/photos/caribbeanphotoarchive/albums/72157613392068704

I think it was Brenda who pointed me to this detailed page on the 1902 eruption http://www.georgetownsvgrevisited.co.uk/la-soufriere-1902-eruption.php
Reading it, I was struck by the portion quoted here…

“At Orange Hill, there was a large substantial stone built rum cellar, which by the orders of the manager, was left open to afford a refuge for any who wished to avail themselves of it. About seventy crowded together there. The windows were not shut, but they were small and faced the sea, so that the blast did not directly strike them. One man stood by the door holding it ajar to admit any who fled from the huts in the village. Forty were in the cellar, and all were saved”

I believe that the said manager was our great grandfather Alexander Murdoch Fraser (born 1844 in Crauts Farm, Knockie, Banffshire, Scotland), who died with his wife Catherine Robertson at Orange Hill in the 1902 eruption. Our grandmother, Lillias, would have been 20, and she didn’t marry until 1907, so I wonder where she was? Did they send her away from Orange Hill because of the danger? Had she been with her parents, likely we would not exist...

In my search for traces of the current photographic exhibition, I stumbled across an article by Naomi Clifford on the 1812 eruption, entitled 1816: The year without a summer, and published on 12 June 2015. An excerpt follows…

At about noon on Monday 27 April 1812, 28,000 inhabitants of St Vincent, free and enslaved, witnessed the sudden and violent start of the eruption of La Soufrière (The Sulfurer), the huge volcano in the north of their tiny Caribbean island. As great thunderous cracks split the air, the earth shook, a massive column of thick black smoke rose from the summit and volumes of red-hot sparks were spat into the atmosphere. Birds fell dead out of the sky. Everyone on the island, whether enslaved or free, was terrified.
“In the afternoon the roaring of the mountain increased and at seven o’clock the flames burst forth, and the dreadful eruption began,” wrote barrister and plantation owner Hugh P. Keane. The volcano was not just a thing of terror — it was also sublimely beautiful, and three days after the volcano first stirred, Keane rose early to sketch the scene, with the volcano’s sulfurous vapours curling skyward and the air filled with layers of yellows, reds and rusts. His drawing, now lost, somehow made its way to an acquaintance, the artist J. M. W. Turner, who used it as inspiration for a work he showed at the Royal Academy in 1815. Turner’s painting is now in the collection of the University of Liverpool.
Lava boiled up over the edge of La Soufrière until there was a massive explosion from the north-west side of the mountain and a molten river snaked its way through the sharp hills pushing its way to the west coast and pouring into the sea. Another vast stream spread eastward. Then the first earthquakes were felt, followed by showers of cinders, stones and red-hot magma. It was as if the earth were in a state of continuous movement, undulating like water shaken in a bowl.
The next morning, the island was in total darkness, as though the sun had failed to rise. A thick haze hung over the sea and the sky filled with yellowish black clouds. The island was covered with ash, cinders and fragments of lava—and the volcano was still rumbling. Gradually it settled back into silence.
In all, about 80 people died, relatively few for an eruption of such force, although there were many injuries, particularly amongst the slaves working in the fields. Two of the rivers had been completely dried up. The crops were ruined, and food had to be bought in from neighbouring islands.


J.M.W. Turner unveiled his painting of the eruption of La Soufrière at the Royal Academy in 1815

In The eruption of La Soufrière on the West Indian island of St Vincent, Clifford also wrote…

“St Vincent itself was regarded as one of the jewels of the Empire. The volcano’s eruptions (there had been a major eruption in 1718) had rendered the earth richly fertile, ideal for growing the dominant crop—sugar. Between 1807 and 1834 the island was the leading producer of sugar in the Windward Islands, with the highest ratio of sugar to slave.
Not only that, the island was exceptionally beautiful.”

Naomi Clifford’s articles led to the story of Maria Glenn (1801-1866), who, it seems may have been a Vincentian! Clifford wrote about her in a book called The Disappearance of Maria Glenn.
The following is taken from Maria Glenn, Brave & Determined Young Woman of Regency England by Naomi Clifford, August 16, 2016

Maria Glenn, the daughter of a barrister, was born in the West Indies in 1801... She was not pretty (even her uncle, who was devoted to her, said she was plain) but she was a good marriage prospect nevertheless. She was expected to inherit valuable sugar estates in St Vincent when her grandfather died. This expectation made her very interesting to the Bowditch, farmers just outside Taunton, with whom Maria, then aged 15, was sent to lodge in the summer of 1817.
She and two of her young cousins were sent to stay on the Bowditches’ farm to recuperate from whooping cough.
What happened next was the subject of bitter dispute.
Maria later claimed that James Bowditch, the 25-year-old second son, threatened to kill her and then commit suicide if she did not comply with his plan to carry her off and marry her on the isle of Guernsey (which was out of the jurisdiction of English law), and that was the only reason she agreed to leave her uncle’s house in the middle of the night. She was terrified.
James and his family said the whole thing was Maria’s idea and that she had spent the summer flirting and behaving improperly with James, and planning to run away with him to marry. They implied that as a plain girl, she was grateful for the attention.
The problem for them was that while their story changed over time, Maria’s did not.
She stuck to it through a string of stressful court cases, which were reported the length and breadth of the country and never wavered in its detail, even when some of the Bowditches’ powerful friends – including the radical Leigh Hunt of The Examiner – took up their cause against her. 


Nothing to do with us, but quite the story, in which our island home featured prominently.  Scandalous lot we are...

Sending loving greetings to "all ah you".

One love,
Lisbie x

Sunday, October 27, 2019

more on Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie


Howdy!
An update, thanks to Hendrika, who brought to my attention that University College London's Legacies of British Slave-ownership referenced our blog in their listing of the spouse of Elizabeth Punnett from Generation 5... here is the relevant page...

Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie 1769 - 1838
Born 1769, merchant and slave-dealer in St Vincent c. 1784-1794. Returning to England with his wife, he was imprisoned by the French: his first wife died in captivity at Port L'Orient, 1795. Operated as merchant in London; emigrated to New South Wales, Australia c. 1822 and became secretary and cashier of the Bank of New South Wales and founder of the Bathhurst Bank c. 1834. He named the estate he established in NSW 'Dochcairn', after his father's house in Ross-shire. He has an entry in the Australian Dictionary of Biography as 'banker and landowner'.
Administration of the will of Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie [formerly of Cornhill but late] of Parramatta, NSW proved 20/06/1848.
Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie was categorised inconsistently as both planter and merchant in the Exchequer loans of the 1790s, when he received £2000. His fragment of autobiography paints him as a merchant rather than planter.

Sources
Memoirs of Alexander Kenneth Mackenzie Esq., Dochcairn, Bathhurst, NSW (1837). This text is in the State Library of New South Wales MLDOC 2528, but has been posted online - in it he comments of his time on St Vincent 'I was foolish enough however to be led by them [his peers] into the trafficking of buying and selling Negro slaves, by which means we had always the command of a great deal of money.'; 'McKenzie, Alexander Kenneth (1769–1838)', Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography, Australian National University, http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/mckenzie-alexander-kenneth-2407/text3185, published first in hardcopy 1967, accessed online 9 October 2015.

Our original post on Elizabeth Punnett Mackenzie's adventures
https://greataunts.blogspot.com/2016/04/elizabeth-punnett-mackenzie-1772-1795.html

and the first follow-up on that post
https://greataunts.blogspot.com/2019/05/we-recently-had-anonymous-response-to.html

Brenda and I have wondered whether we should close the blog to the general public, but I like that it being open creates the possibility of new information and perspectives.  Anyone want to weigh in on that?

One love,
Lisbie x

Friday, September 27, 2019

"The apparel oft proclaims the man." William Shakespeare

Family Far & Wide,
I am so glad to have permission to print this school paper from Malcolm's grandaughter / Rachael's daughter, the Lovely India. 
I have taken liberties... 
~ the formatting is not faithful to the original, mostly because of my lack of technical skills
~ selfishly, I have made bold portions that particularly interested me, and where I especially loved a turn of phrase
~ out of concern for length, I have omitted all the source info that is part of the scholarly paper... but I have pasted it into the covering email for anyone who wishes to look further.
The question of the mind/body relationship has always intrigued me, As has the place of "things" in our lives.  India's fascinating piece addresses these and other issues behind the eye-candy of fashion.  Maybe Coco Chanel was onto something when she said,
“Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street. Fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.”
This very day we are marching globally in defense of our earthly home, and our enhanced concern for sustainability may include a return to passing on our possessions rather than  of replacing them... we can hope, and we can act.

India modelling her paper dress at school in St. Vincent

THE POWER SUIT COMPLEX by India Dunn

The traditional suit was birthed from practicality. Whether it’s a hunting suit or worn on Wall Street; there are trousers for movement, a shirt for comfort and a jacket for warmth. However the psychology behind building the perfect suit is a fascinating insight into the tribal mentality we as homo sapiens cannot seem to shake. Throughout history we have relied on clothing to be the universal language. As any costume designer will tell you, you know all you need to know about a character within the first few seconds of seeing them based on the clothing they're wearing. Their class, age, gender, profession, personal hygiene, reliability and character can be revealed entirely based on the way they're dressed. Whether in world wars or defending tribal territory, being able to communicate who you are and where you belong at a moments glance has saved thousands of lives. In primitive tribes there is a solid foundation of fulfilment and contentment that the entire fabric of their being is based upon, humbly accepting roles gifted to them in the group and honouring them throughout all that they do. Unlike in Western societies progression is not the aim and it certainly isn't expected, but gifted and encouragingly accepted by all. What we wear everyday is the uniform of our modern day tribes, we forget that we as humans seek to belong and live in communities. Unfortunately with the advancement of our society we have become more classist and less tribal. Progression in technology and science results in us thinking less about safety, health and togetherness and more about moving up in our social circles or getting ourselves invited to the right parties to connect with the “right people”. This disengagement and insecurity we have unknowingly created amongst ourselves, from the comfort of our homes has led to a severe feeling of disconnect; seeping into our minds and leaving us power hungry and grossly ambitious. We use the language of dressing more for convincing ourselves and others of our role in society, or as the saying goes: ‘dress for the job you want to have’.

So what is it that we’re really missing? Since the beginning of time, we have developed deeply rooted connections to things we collect and surround ourselves with. Tribes all over the world incorporate the clothing they wear into the very fabric of their culture; every colour and embroidered patch has some sort of symbolism or sentimentality attached to it. You see extraordinary headdresses and full body jewellery, each with countless hours of craftsmanship behind them. They value the importance and significance each item has, appreciating that the more time and love you put into it, the more you eventually get out of it. Surrounding ourselves with visually pleasing things is actually massively beneficial to our mental well being. As Plato stated: ‘beautiful objects are whispering truths to us about the good life. We find things beautiful when we see in them qualities we need but are lacking in our own lives.’, or Schopenhauer’s slightly darker take on the subject: ‘We surround ourselves in beautiful things so as to project our insecurities onto a separate vessel.’ Plato continued by observing the severity of choosing to surround ourselves with visually unappealing objects. Something we consider ugly is essentially flaunting troubling and flawed characteristics in front of us, displaying less that acceptable role models, something vital in self growth. Therefor it is the responsibility of artists, painters, poets, designers and sculptors, to help us live our best lives. In the West we seem to have completely disregarded this discovery by almost entirely disconnecting with our clothing, developing a toxic relationship with the clothes we wear. Only a generation before people considered the curation of their wardrobes a deeply meaningful and very personal affair. They would have their colour charts done, consult tailors, buy quality to last and then once they finally fell apart they would take the time to have them mended. Gone are the days that fathers hand down their favourite pair of leather boots, resoled countless times yet still going as strong as the day they were purchased; only riddled with character and as comfortable as being in your own skin. Mothers no longer pass down their favourite cashmere jumpers that they had treasured so dearly, and worn until it had patches on the sleeves, only for it to be as warm and as treasured by the next in line.

The desire for sentimentality and preservation seems to have been completely lost on our generation. This has led to a dramatic decrease in creativity and skill, we rely on huge corporations to provide us with the instant but short gratification of our latest purchases. We all rush to the nearest department store to fill our baskets with the latest fad so we fit in with the tribe we seem to have been placed in, and less so “found”. We see people in troves stepping out in window displays, every crop top, snakeskin boot or leather trouser seems to find its way onto each body craving the acceptance and belonging they're missing in their own lives. We have mindlessly created this void through years of blissful ignorance and lack of self exploratory thought, due to an overload of entertainment created as an extravagant smoke screen. All sense of individuality disappeared the minute fast fashion entered the scene. Each week another tonne of discarded polyester finding itself in a landfill, only for the the cycle to start again.

I have always been drawn to boyish clothing, for as long as I can remember. It was initially because I saw them more in the practical sense, it is much more challenging climbing trees in skirts and tights. The laddering would be preposterous. As I grew older and began hearing the commentary, with a sense of bewilderment in their voices, as to why I dressed like a boy. So I began to question myself. Why did I? Why didn't I grow up and follow in the footsteps of my peers, dressed in the latest mini skirts and crop tops? Luckily for me, I was born into a generation that had had that discussion long before I was a twinkle in my parents eyes.

I wanted to question the psychology behind why we all seem to have such a strong pull towards our particular styles. In particular, why do women seem to feel that they need to dress like men to be taken seriously? Why are we more confident in a pair of trousers? Everyone is familiar with being told to put their thinking caps on, it just so happens that there’s more to this statement than we as school children had ever considered. Adam Galinsky and Hajo Adam from the Northwestern University kindly conducted an experiment: they took a group of people from a variety of backgrounds and sat them down to take a test. This test required them to pay close attention for long periods of time but before they took the test, they handed them a white coat. They told them that the coat belonged to a doctor, a figure immediately associated with a sharp mind and a responsible manner. Once they had finished the test, they gave the same white coat to a different group of people. Except this time they told them it was an artists smock, a seemingly less intimidating profession. The results of the test were astounding. Those in the coats claiming to be those belonging to doctors scored marks incomparable to those of the apparent artist smocks. They explained in the Journal of Experimental Social Physiology that ‘The clothes we wear have power not only over others, but also over ourselves,’, this has been named “enclothed cognition”. They suggest that the feelings we associate with certain garments, through preconceived judgements, we seem to adopt for ourselves while wearing them. We become the person we think we should be when we’re so closely connected to an object we relate synonymously to the identity of the profession. The language of dress is such an effective coding system that we can actually change our personality and our approach to situations by changing the way we think, giving meaning and life to the phrase “to walk in someone else's shoes”. The term “enclothed cognition” was derived from “embodied cognition”: a study in how your mind and your body respond to each other, suggestion being the strongest factor. This research into exploring how your movement affects your mental state led to the investigation of body posture. Dana R. Carney from Columbia University assessed how your deportment effects both your physiology and behaviour, and how great an impact it has on making a man appear “masculine”. Their test consisted of lining men and women up against a wall for short period of time, where they were then asked to asses their feelings of power. Through DNA samples researches measured hormones levels before and after the test, noticing that higher levels linked to display of power. The results confirmed that movement is very closely linked to conduct and mood, and as journalist Jessica Hilo says ‘Rather than mind over matter, perhaps we should think mass over mind’. When speaking of pre conceived judgments, menswear in the West has always been about making a figure seem taller and broader. A biological symbol for dominance and strength, the leader of the pack. Historically men have gone to great lengths to obtain this stature by using top hats, high heels and shoulder pads to create a more intimidating physique. The military has also had a large part in reaffirming this stigma, the most masculine profession one can think of. The epitome of mindless, undeniable testosterone. Through this we have continued to identify trousers with strength and power. Katherine Hepburn is probably one of the most famous examples of a rebellious attitude towards feminine clothing. In a 1981 interview with Barbara Walters she proclaimed ‘I put on pants 50 years ago and declared a sort of middle road,’. When she was a child, as all tomboys can surely relate, Hepburn wore her brothers clothes. She shaved her head and had the other kids call her Jimmy. She reasoned that although she never felt like she was a boy, she wanted to dress the part as ‘the boys had all the fun’. Which I relate to, its depressing to admit, but there is no denying that as little girls we were separated into two groups: the “girly girls” or the “tom-boys”. It was a sure thing that if you were in the first group, even as children, you knew that the clothing associated was something entirely impractical and flouncy. Furthering that, your already programmed preconceived judgement would also tell you that you would probably be playing with dolls and brushing hair. A concept that was repulsively boring to most of us, especially those that wanted to do what the boys were doing. So from an early age we completely rejected the idea of a physically harmless outfit choice.

During the journey from dress to suit, women were constrained by the impracticality of a pre- World War II society, where women were still being arrested for wearing trousers in public. All the while the leader in psychoanalysis Sigmund Freud was responding aggressively to the idea of women in “mens clothes”, blurting out claims such as ‘penis envy’ and ‘a sure sign of lesbianism’. Meanwhile Katherine Hepburn was leading the way for her gender; choosing to use the staff entrance after being informed that women were not allowed to wear slacks in the lobby of the Claridge Hotel. Or when the director hid her blue jeans on set in hopes of forcing her into a skirt, where she proceeded to unapologetically walk around in her knickers until they were returned to her. In the same conversation with Barbara Walters she stated ‘I have not lived as a woman. I have lived as a man,’ ‘I’ve just done what I damn well wanted to and I made enough money to support myself, and I ain’t afraid of being alone.’. I find it depressing and concerning how much of a rebellion this is not only in her time, but ours. The mind blowing self confidence so many disregarded as arrogance due to their own insecurity. Why is it that the idea of following a trodden path is carved into our very cores? Hepburn was a legendary force of nature that felt like a well needed slap to our disoriented faces. Scottish born Tilda Swinton was asked how one “Tilda-fy's” themselves in an interview with Harpers Bazaar, a loaded question to the most pompous of characters. Swinton quickly and modestly replied ‘take your mascara off’. It is this careless attitude she constantly carries that makes her the icon she is today; the classic “french girl” phenomenon where the less someone cares about being attractive the stronger the pull towards them seems to be. While she adores fashion and makeup, her approach is refreshingly simple and demure. Cocooning herself in cashmere jumpers, kilts, mens shirts and classic silhouettes; selecting each piece for quality or sentimentality, her style is entirely based on comfort and confidence. With her tall frame and androgynous features, she is the prime example of how masculinity and femininity can coincide so flawlessly. Actress Sarah Bernhardt was another iconic force of nature that shocked Parisians with her custom-made trouser suit, as well as furthering her attempt to blur gender roles in her role of Hamlet in 1899.

The 19th century brought a needed change for woman, bringing a more active and involved lifestyle, it was considered acceptable to wear suits during sporting activities such as riding, walking or archery. As the years went on we saw the birth of the Suffragette suit. Formed as a direct response to the silly hobble skirts women of the day were wearing; a tightly hemmed skirt which made it almost impossible to walk. The new suit consisted of a more convenient skirt that was split at the ankles to allow long strides, along with a blouse and jacket. However it was fourteen years later that Coco Chanel made the first true translation of menswear to womenswear, completely redesigning the “modern woman”. Her iconic tweed suit, a material previously used for mens sportswear, was made up of a boxy jacket and tailored skirt. Its success lay in the subtlety of it, it was the needed push in the right direction without screaming of rebellion and radical change, allowing it to quietly become the only thing to wear. This suit created an entirely new look never seen before, it opened doors for women that were once unimaginable. The confidence and sophistication jump started something that was previously dormant in women: their own self worth, and the determination to live for themselves.

It was Marchel Rochas that made the full jump to trousers. He wanted women to have the best of both worlds, the elegance of the Chanel suit but with the practicality and freedom of trousers. Yet we have Yves Saint Laurent to thank for le smoking in 1966; the first tuxedo suit designed for women. As their once adored satin gowns lay heaped in a sad corner of their dressing room, they buttoned their new heavily lapelled smoking jackets and slipped on their trousers. This was the solidification of using dress as a way of settling the barrier between the sexes. Probably one of the most “masculine” jackets in existence through being so strongly tied to the whole idea of sitting in a room of men, smoking their cigars and drinking their brandy - but now on a woman. Radical. As Marlen Komar so brilliantly explained, with women starting to enter the “mans world” in the workforce ‘they needed a symbol that proved they were just as serious and competent as the guys riding up the elevator with them to the office. Apparently the only way to convince male- dominated boardrooms of that was to copy their look.’. We needed to appeal to their tribal mentality by easing the blow of a gender they had thought would stay in the box they had subconsciously put us in. Erik Satie’s principle states clearly, ‘if you want to subvert the bourgeoise you should look exactly like them.’

It has always been clear that the way we dress reflects the times we’re living in, and this is a clear example of the correlation between an economic rise and the fashion that follows. In Fashion Talks: Undressing the Power of Style, Shira Tarrant discusses how the expectation to wear a pantsuit became so great that people would not take you seriously as a business women if you weren’t wearing one. This amuses me, as it has seemed to transition from restricting women from professional lives because of their skirts, to restricting them from careers if they weren't wearing a suit. During Hilary Clintons run for president she wore nothing but pantsuits. This was hardly to do with the simple fact that she liked them, but because it made her feel professional and lessened the stark difference between herself and her fellow runners. One very important reason is that it eliminated the ridiculous chatter about what she was wearing, a question undoubtedly asked in every female interview. Clinton wanted what she wore to do its job in the simplest of terms, to give her the confidence and the comfort she needed to do the job she needed to do. But alas, even one of the worlds most confident politicians is not void of scrutiny. It all boils down to the fact that these suits were a derivative of menswear, therefor women are continuously disparaged for trying to emulate men. Shouldn’t we have the right to wear whatever we like? I have always admired the women that had the courage to put themselves first. Without the self absorption of youth, or even the arrogance needed for defiance, we would not have had half of the icons we have today. The ones that challenged social norms and disregarded the rules vomited up by the sheep of society.

Fashion is such a powerful force, and we need to educate each other of the importance of its language. As through these principles we will develop the tools needed to patch the gaping hole in society. One thing I have noticed is that the consistent in all the gentlewomen I admire is that you rarely find them talking about their “style”. If anything they’re offended by the question, repulsed by the conversation drifting to anything other than the work they’re so passionate about. We try our hardest to draw out the superficial in hopes of replicating their magic for ourselves, thinking that if we dress in the same way we might also capture those qualities we admire. If only we could all accept that by taking the time to play and think, we might figure out that the psychology behind the way we dress is important, and might help us more than we think.


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India in Myanmar

When India shared this with me, I had recently read the background to a Banksy artwork, The Holocaust Lipstick, so the power of the body/mind connection was very much with me...
When British troops liberated Bergen-Belsen concentration camp on April 15, 1945, they encountered 40,000 prisoners in 200 huts. They also discovered 10,000 bodies. By April 28 everyone had been buried. Although 500 inmates continued to die every day, at least there were no more corpses lying about. British Lieutenant Colonel Mervin W. Gonin, commander of the 11th Light Field Ambulance, R.A.M.C. was among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945, and recorded this story…
“It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don’t know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering around about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on their arm. At last they could taken an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.”

Thank you, India!
To all the family,,,
Be
Dream
Love
Thrive...

One love,
Lisbie x
 Rachael with daughters Freya and India, in Indonesia

siblings ~ India, Hamish and Freya

Rachael and her brood, just a blink of an eye ago