Gossamer

Swinburne students enrolled in the Diversity in Australian Literature unit engaged in discussions about current socio-political issues and how writing can express perspectives and ideas gone long unheard. Sandra Riabukhina writes of the struggles of those who've immigrated to Melbourne.

How do we weave ourselves into somewhere new? (Photo: Sandra Riabukhina)

Kateryn flips through the glossy pages of Vogue Australia magazine. Here and there, a familiar face of a high-listing celebrity is posing with the coolness only a superstar could pull, a star so dazzlingly bright from an unreachable distance. Her pose says here I am, see me, see this designer attire. An aloof arm raises to show how her gown accentuates her figure, how it’ll tail you when you move, a shooting star. A lazy lean against a street-side wall or café chair, how she’s so casually flattered in casual wear. How easily you’ll be able to shine, even on a daylight outing. A scenic backdrop of the sky and ocean, involving the land’s beauty with the model’s and the outfit’s. The pages are accompanied by artful descriptions of their choice of photo shoots. For Kateryn, the pictures themselves do the explaining, as Kateryn’s a clothes designer herself. In her own eyes, for the meantime. The main thing is that it’s her greatest motivation, her talent and love of the craft. Those are the most important, and in fact, they’re the things that brought her to Melbourne: the proclaimed fashion capital of Australia.

As she browses, a woman calls her name from the hallway of the mediocre fashion business. It’s nothing secondary to her. Kateryn moved indefinitely to Australia just after turning twenty-four a few months back. Compared with the rigidity of her homeland in Eastern Europe, it was starkly novel; from the land to the language, the curious mannerisms that she’s observed and most especially, the clothing she’s caught interest in during a shopping stroll or her day to day. She quickly returns the magazine to the waiting room table and brushes back the liquorice wisps above her shoulders as she stands. Her nervous heels click a tad loudly, so she exhales and slows her steps into the groovy modern office.

She had planned to find work here after settling in, something to begin with, as long as there’d be opportunities down the road. She tried a few spots already, all rejected for one reason or another — her lack of experience, unsuited accreditations or for simply having a foreign background.

“Hello, Kateryn. Come in, take a seat.”

The lady interviewing her isn’t much older, yet her cheeks are wrinkled like worn linen, stretching in an overly friendly grin.

“Nice to meet you,” Kateryn says, trying to match her smile.

Looking over her documents, the interviewer asks a few questions, the usual: “Where do you envision yourself in the future? What are your goals and ambitions with us?”

Kateryn does her best to answer in hesitant, half-broken English. A worry that the lessons she’s been taking aren’t the most fitting for professional settings.

“I like to bring a touch of my country to the Australian fashion, I have dozen years of experience — I also have interest in your designs,” she begins, unzipping her garment bag to present some of her pieces which mimic the brand’s style.

Forty mistaken words and minutes later, she’s received her outcome.

“I’m sorry, Kateryn,” the interviewer says calmly, “you’re overqualified for this position.” That was a new reason, though the bitter feeling is becoming all too familiar.

It had begun to rain that afternoon when the ungratified fashion designer returned straight to her outer city apartment. It’s quaint, not so spacious, it’s enough, but could do with a facelift. A sewing kit is strewn across the tabletop where Kateryn lounges after eating, vacantly scrolling through her phone. Her mind is clouded with insecurity, thoughts more raucous than the downpour on the foot-length balcony. She dwells on her mixture of unsung creations. Those she originally made with a traditional essence were decided unfit for the Australian lifestyle, too difficult to sell for a local fashion firm. Thereafter, she’d attempt to mimic her findings from the stores, their modern designs, which they deemed were too common and wouldn’t pique interest. She’s at an impasse. Kateryn’s worried mind takes a strained step backward, reminiscing about the feeling of colder months behind her as the rain outside grows heavier.

When Kateryn was a little girl, she would frequently visit her old neighbour’s house during the winter months when she walked home from school. It would get dark early, the snowflakes would dance around her and attach to her hair like sequins. She’d drop her wet boots by the door before the old lady made a fuss, offering her a steaming bowl of soup, honey-chai and some homemade Pierogi on occasion. Her many visits weren’t because of the food, though. She would sink onto the armchair, minuscule as a spider against its cushy back, and she’d watch the old neighbour sew.

The girl’s own mother was attentive in general, but not quite interested nor apt in her curiosities. Her creative readiness came from that house, down the snowy road. She’d be captivated by the way the needle glided along the fabric, the way it would bring the pieces together like an unconfined puzzle. Her wide-eyed look would draw a quiet snicker from her neighbour, who’d urge her to finish eating, then beckon the youngster closer. She would watch and listen intently as the neighbour explained her methods while working. Of course, young Kateryn would be itching to have a go. Within barely a few weeks, she’d soon caught the hang of it.

One evening, the old neighbour firmly placed in little Kateryn’s hand a small pouch made of patchwork. Inside was a handful of tools, threads and thimbles, a pocket full of pins.

With a cough, the woman had said, “Теперь можешь обойтись без моей помощи, воробушка. У тебя есть талант, с ним далеко пойдешь.” Meaning, “You can do it without my help now, Vorobushka. You have talent, with which you’ll go far.” She’d always call her that endearing Russian nickname, meaning little sparrow.

Kateryn held up the pouch and clasped her hands together in delighted gratitude, promising that she’d make the most of her neighbour’s gift whenever she had time to practice.

…

Still adapting to the white sunlight filling the apartment and the chattering of city sparrows outside, she squints and slowly sits up, checking the modern wall clock. Kateryn suddenly scrambles from the dining room table, leaving the collection of pieces she’d worked on through the night. She’d usually be on the way to her language class by this time on a Friday. The designer rushes around, changing out of her sleep-creased formal outfit and throwing on some statement earrings, her favourite Fabergé egg drops. Aside from feeling incomplete without them, they’ve been useful conversation starters with a few of the other foreigners. She whirls downstairs and out onto the glistening morning street, the sharp-tasting breeze waking her up completely.

After the class ends, Kateryn is approached by a young lady with light ginger hair and a willowy figure whom Kateryn had met a few weeks ago, someone she bonded with over sharing her home country. Inna had been in Melbourne for a year or so, working retail in one of the city’s ever-busy laneways. She’d moved here to train in something, but that’s all Kateryn knows about her. The woman gives her a greeting kiss on the cheek, permeating a floral and cinnamon aroma.

Her voice, just as sweet, asks in English, “How are you going?”

“I’m well, thanks, you?” The lesson is still fresh in Kateryn's mind.

“I’ve been at work all week, so tired!” with a casual, gossipy eye-roll. Inna seems well accustomed.

“I had to get my manager all the time, then the catalogue was all wrong, then the people were exchanging something from another store,” she goes on about her errands with Kateryn nodding along, before Inna asks about her own luck finding work.

“It’s been difficult.”

The girl steps closer, laying a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. Her perfume must have gone right to Kateryn’s stomach, as it growls louder than the cars passing by.

Inna gives a surprised laugh, apologising. “Извини, I didn’t know you were hungry!”

Kateryn abashedly explains in Russian, she hadn’t eaten.

“Okay, I’m not doing any other things today, how about we get lunch?” Without waiting for an answer, her new friend enthusiastically takes her along to a frequented coffee spot.

With a person from the same background, a similar language level to her, Kateryn can speak freely without any pressure. The two women chat away as they sip spiced coffee in a lane, surrounded by murals and crawling wall-plants. After reminiscing on home for a while, the conversation — naturally, for the selectiveness of European women — steers into fashion and its differences from there to Melbourne.

“Here is behind by two seasons,” says Kateryn.

“You know a lot about it?” Inna gazes intently at the designer’s jewels.

“Я — модельер.”

“Ух ты! Класс,” Inna’s eyes light up as she recognises another commonality. “You’re looking for work in that, yes? I want to do professional modelling actually, that’s why I come here, for a modelling course.” She swishes her peachy, sleeked back ponytail.

Kateryn asks how it’s been going, placing her cup down.

“The classes are great,” Inna pauses, “but the mode is not. Полностью без стиля!” The two laugh and empathise on the topic before Kateryn recalls her overnight designs. Inna would make the perfect model for them — representing the familiarity of her background blended with the newness of Australia, the pieces inspired by her own experiences.

“Я хочу показать тебе мою новую одежду. You can model them for me?” she offers. Inna is blissfully eager to see her new work, let alone be the first to wear it. She leaves a tip for the café and then heads after Kateryn back to her apartment block, chatting and pacing through the city.

When Kateryn apologises for her messy living area, Inna flicks her wrist, telling her that it’s nothing compared to her own place right now. She drops her handbag and hops up to the table with a drawn out gasp as she notices the newly made pieces.

“Как красиво, как приятно,” She repeats twice, meaning, “How beautiful, how pleasant.”

Kateryn timidly thanks her, laying the clothes out in a neat tapestry. A ruffled gown shimmers like wet sand on the shore, a beige to sapphire gradient. With it, a matching sunhat, wrapped in chiffon. A traditional style blouse, embroidered with shapes of Australian leaves and creatures. A cozy overcoat in the tone of an evergreen winter. Another dress, sewn with pearls and rose gold like a seashell. Finally, a richly coloured, patterned blazer, resembling an Eastern European homely cottage. It’s patched like her old, well-loved sewing pouch. This one, Kateryn decides.

The afternoon is spent with Inna, modelling, taking photos, talking and praising each other. Every piece brings out a memory, a sentimental story to tell. Respective to the kindness of her first mentor, Kateryn gifts the special blazer to her new friend, who’s over the moon.

“Люди должны это увидеть!” Inna tells her that people need to see this, gesturing to the collection of designs.

She then has the idea to share the pictures on her social media page, with a gleeful plea to Kateryn and a cheer as soon as she agrees. They exchange Instagram pages before the model sets off in high spirits. As the sun goes down, Kateryn enfolds all the pieces into garment bags, preparing to take them to her next interview. She watches the stars appearing in the balcony window, seeming much closer tonight.

A week later, the migrant women meet again. Inna’s social media posts have been making rounds with both her and Kateryn gaining a few hundred followers, even appearing in one local style newsletter. By now, Kateryn had received offers from a couple of small fashion houses. From having no choice to multiple, she’d never imagined things to go this way, to keep getting better than she’d ever expected.

“Я же говорила тебе, Кать! It really was — шикарно,” Fabulous, Inna says she told her so, reaching into her constantly buzzing pocket. As she’s about to switch her phone to silent, the aspiring model suddenly freezes. “No way.”

“Что случилось?” Kateryn tilts her head, nervously pulling out her phone.

Inna rushedly reads out the message they’d both just received, stopping herself from bursting into a squeal. “Hey Kateryn and Inna! I’m a director at the annual Melbourne Fashion Festival! My team and I have come across your works, we would love to invite you both to celebrate your creative visions by taking part in our next festival!”