KEY POINTS:
Last month I saw a woman at a cocktail party wearing a long-sleeved thermal vest. As outerwear. Nothing else on top, just the vest. There is a chance this lady was simply being prudent and trying to cover all bases weather-wise. Nobody expected summer to last as long
as it did, after all.
It was, however, a balmy Sunday night at Auckland's Viaduct a full two weeks before daylight saving, so I doubt it. The event was a book launch, the author a wonderful, stylish woman, known as much for for her great taste in dresses as her pithy bons mots. Most people had made some sort of effort, that is to say there was plenty of lipstick and chiffon on display at least.
And yet there she stood, this vest-wearer, resplendent in long-sleeved grey wool amid the floaty dresses and blown-out hair. This was not a top, I must stress. Nor was it a bodysuit, or camisole, or even some sort of leotard. No, this was an insulating undergarment. Teamed for the occasion with a knee-length skirt and nice black heels admittedly, yet for all that, indisputably a thermal vest.
I watched this woman closely throughout the evening, fascinated as to what might have motivated her choice of attire. Was she making a political statement? Death to the cocktail hour! Down with decolletage! But no, she drank away merrily, and the V-neck showed a fair amount of bosom. Obviously not an ideological issue then.
Perhaps it was a health concern? Thermal vests are great insulators, did she fear autumn chill? But we were indoors in a restaurant full of people, on a hot summer's night. Even the most delicate of kidneys was well protected.
Maybe she was just mad? Alas, nothing in her demeanour spoke for this last and most entertaining of explanations.This woman laughed, joked, drank wine, made small talk, behaved exactly as most of us do at a cocktail party. Aside from choosing to turn up in her woollies. I should make clear; this wasn't some young model, some impossibly beautiful little fashionista being witty and ironic in her choice of outfit. This was a middle-aged woman, normal looking, solid even, drinking cocktails. In her vest.
The current vogue for sartorial self-expression notwithstanding, I was shocked by the thermal.Perhaps I shouldn't have been. This is New Zealand after all. We're not too bothered with dress codes here in the spiritual home of the jandal. Low key, unfussy, casual. The adjectives used to describe life here aren't suggestive of a society overly concerned with social mores, or with dressing up in general.
Telling people what to wear, and when to wear it was never going to be a go among an independent-minded population that don't like being told what to do. You can't dress Kiwis up, or take'em out unless they want to go.
In fact, the truculent egalitarianism which too often constitutes the national character is outraged by the hierarchy signalled by dress codes. This, coupled with an innate unwillingness to stand out, explains why New Zealanders profess, at least, to set no store by dress.
It's also the reason why those who do dress up are only let away with it so long as they play the game and laugh at themselves. They must publicly denounce themselves as tits and teeth merchants and mock their own efforts. Of course this steadfast refusal to gussy up doesn't mean life in New Zealand is more casual, relaxed and refreshing.
All too often it means it's more boring, dowdy and dispiriting. Living among such a practical population has its advantages; there's always someone who can replace your fuse or mend your fence. However, the downside is a calendar of cocktail parties blighted by sensible shoes and half-done hair. And when Kiwis do deign to dress up, they're likely to dip a mere tentative toe into the waters of glamour.
Freelance journalist and PR agent Helene Ravlich has attended more than her fair share of shindigs over the years. She says she's sick of the current state of party clothes here "A sparkly top and jeans. That's New Zealand cocktail wear. It's so boring. Worse in a way than making no effort at all."
Maybe we should blame the PR companies. They're the ones responsible for highlighting our sartorial shortcomings, with their insistence on pretending that irony-free cocktail parties are possible in resolutely casual New Zealand.
Surely the recent spate of invitations (I've received at least a half dozen in the past few months) with their desperate enjoins to go glam, represent a failure to understand how things are done here?
Cathy Campbell Communications is a PR company responsible for many such invites. Account director Elaine Koller explains the reasoning: "Women especially are looking for an opportunity to dress up. The great thing about a dress code such as `Be Fabulous' is that it's not too prescriptive and people can interpret it in their own way."
"Dress Fabulous". Is there anything less likely to appeal to a no-nonsense Kiwi bird, with her innate suspicion of frou-frou? Why then do those who issue such gilded invites persist in exhorting us to dress up, when most of us don't want to, and are no good at it besides?
Of course it's unfair to say it's just Kiwis who can't dress appropriately for social events, let alone do proper old-fashioned glam when duty calls. The terminal decline of the dress code has been in the post for a while now. It's simply human nature to push against dictats, and what better rules to break than those which dictate what we can and can't wear. Like the glamorous, terrifying Nan Kempner, who when told she couldn't dine in trousers by a snotty maitre'd ( They were YSL, the philistine!) promptly down-trou'ed and enjoyed a meal clad only in Le Smoking. Sadly, the admirable, iconoclastic grace displayed by the likes of Nan isn't the real reason why dress codes don't exist any more. Alas it has more to do with the gradual erosion of stylish behaviour altogether. Dressing for dinner is but a fond collective memory nowadays. After all, what hope have we of bringing back the dinner jacket in a cultural climate where our celebutantes - Britney, Paris, Lilo et al - can't be prevailed upon to wear knickers when they leave the house?
