Fashion accessories, silk ties & cufflinks

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Trials Travels And Tribulations Of A Silk Tie Designer

Posted Saturday, October 24, 2009 (15 days 9 hours ago.) Viewed 1 times.

Finally I was navigating across the English countryside heading South East to the M3 interchange, then onto the M25 which paved the way off the downs and onto the grassy lowlands of Kent the garden County of England . Back onto the byways I would be able to release the tension of my hands wrapped around the steering wheel, far removed from the madding Lorries to the left, fast cars to the right, caravans ahead, flashing lights behind. And all the time inches away from death, split seconds of space between the vehicles aside, ahead and behind, a sudden burst tyre and a dozen lives are spent.

When I was eleven I pushed and pulled around with me a trolley made mobile with old pram wheels and makeshift axles, peddle power is traded for horse power. My 1983 Fiat Uno, is pushed and pulled around by a hot 1.3 litre petrol east west engine, maximum speed 85 MPH . Unbalanced wheels, but like my trolley knew only too well, I'm in control, with peddles at foot and wheel at hand, quickly shifting through the gears through roundabouts and rousting the trucks and vans just like sheep to the coral. On this subject, it was the lure of earning many dollars by collecting Marino wool from deceased sheep that lead me down a dusty track to outback paddock tinder dry, shimmering heat haze, and hay stacks under tin roofs. It seemed like another life, far removed from the searing heat, bush fires and bush flies, now cruising across English fields of green. But still with a childish hunger for adventure and still motivated by my youthful introduction to business and textiles dead on a sheep's back.

Business is a road well travelled by me in youth and in grey hair; the paths have been rough and smooth, through dips and dives of profits and losses, from dusty dirt tracks to six lane freeways. Accompanied by a set of principles handed down my Mum and Dad, a road map, some teachings from school, dreams and wishes, and, a dogmatic desire to succeed in all attempts, I've made all that seemed difficult, simple, its changing states of mind.

Powered by adrenalin, as a typical adrenalin junkie without the guts for hang gliding, abseiling, sky diving, white water sport, rock climbing, mine is produced by pursuing more passive adventure, but not with out the fuel that fires adrenalin, fear; as singer song writer Michael Nesmith wrote in one of his obscure songs, which is found on music critics A list of all time worst concept album, "prison" Mike, after being dubbed this award, with tongue in cheek followed up with another turkey, "The Garden" Nesmith was merely pursuing idea's end, he was a great innovator and just did what he wanted to. I align myself with the lyrics in the songs and his philosophy too. Perhaps the critics over looked the inspirational aspect of Mike's concept. The words of just one song are descriptive enough to understand his motivation; "Confrontation conquers fear, hope arises, truth unfolds, fear has no substance of its own". What was Mike implying through his thought provoking lyrics, well you have to read closely to deduce; "we are imprisoned by our own minds and hold the key of release, but ironically are too afraid to unlock the door to the unknown" so we choose to live in fear.

Fear of failure is the fuel that ergs me onward in pursuit of elusive successes. Driving down the A roads in county Kent all kinds of wild imaginings going through my mind, philosophising, analysing, planning, pumping adrenalin. On the subject of fear, I imagined what was going through Mohamed Ali's mind when confronted with the awesome power of Big George Foreman, rated as the hardest punching heavy weight in history. Later Ali admitted that fear motivated and guided him to an unpredictable success over this fearsome opponent. The pain of loosing and the thought of humiliation after many months of talking up his fight predictions, insults, dispersions and taunts kept him upright against the ropes, while George pounded his body with one bomb after another. What makes a man fight 12 rounds after having his jaw broken in the second round? What makes a fighter strike a blow that could kill an ordinary man? "Fear".

So I was hurtling down the motorways, A road and byways, confronting fear, venturing the unknown, playing a new lead role, acting out a dream, setting the stage, living an adventure and conquering fear, the exhilaration of freedom is greater felt.

Meanwhile in Clifton , Margate , Shane McCoubrey, my first appointment is preparing to exhibit his designs, waiting eagerly to be part of this new adventure. By the end of two and a half days the first of a collection of hand made silk ties and cufflinks would be listed for my proposed online shopping service due to be launched in September 2006. And Shane the designer became an anchor brand online; while we watched his products expand across a broader retail market. And he became inspirational to the eventual creation of our own stylised brand. A relationship still inspired and foundationally sound for more three years there is still a long way to travel.

After downing an English breakfast I said farewell to the bed and breakfast over looking the channel waters and headed back to the West Country. The first leg of my new adventure was almost complete, there would be many such legs as I scoured the English country side meeting and interviewing designers, weavers, textile printers, leather workers, jewellers, tie makers, fashion agents, PR agents, copywriters, web designers.

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The Silk Fabric Design Expedition

Posted Friday, October 23, 2009 (15 days 15 hours ago.) Viewed 2 times.

In 1965 my parents drove me to Benalla train station and pinned a name tag on my jacket lapel with travel instructions to guide me safely to summer holiday camp in Anglesea, a summer camp established for migrant children. That was me, a migrant child, wog, bloody new Australian, bolt, boy from the camp. My folks fled the putrid atmosphere of racial hatred in South Africa in 1962, crossed the Indian Ocean in big ocean liner and landed in the lucky country down under. We never looked back, although my sister returned to spend time with our frail grandfather. Our new life continued to unfold and memories of burglar guarded windows, gunfire, sirens and a constant sense of being spooked by unseen spirits was gradually being erased from mind, as new friendly experiences took hold, thus I learned the power of positive over negative, good over evil. Like the man with hate tattooed on the knuckles of one hand and love on the other demonstrates how love overcomes hatred. Now I was learning early lessons in the art of crossing cultures, something that I would repeat countless times through out my life.

I desperately wanted to dispel those memories of disgusting violent actions amongst humans, and the spiral into degradation of those who plunder another mans rights to live by his beliefs. My parents always warned against harbouring such thoughts of race hate; to always show respect to elders regardless of race, colour or creed and that as sure as there is evil in us all, so to there is good. One should seek out the good in fellow man and judge accordingly.

So I enjoyed a warm happy relationship with the Native women who would stop for refreshments atop of the long hill upwards to their shanty town. Sitting beneath a big Silky Oak tree out front of our house, my mother would offer them large chunks of white bread with lashings of strawberry jam accompanied by enamel cups filled with hot black tea. I would make my entrance and soon be fondled affectionately by these black women with very large braless breasts and massive backsides; they joyfully tossed me around like a toy doll, tickling and jabbering in Zulu and broken English. I loved the warmth of their huge bodies; I felt secure and great love for these nameless ladies.

Childhood experiences bare relevance to the rest of your life. The things you learn, getting fingers burnt, loosing the bait from the hook and the big fish gets away, winning at marbles, hitting a six off the middle of the bat. Instincts that help over come uncertainty and keep fear at bay, but, the early gathering of confidence sets the stage for future performances, instinctively knowing how to navigate to unknown destinations without the aid of parents, learning how to shop for food and cook on a campfire, winning a boxing bout at the Police boys club without getting a bloody nose. All the experiences that build confidence, it's like investing in the future, building a foundation through instinct. You become strong, intuitive and in tune with life around you.

Quite honestly it's almost like having an extra sense, an early warning device that sets alarm bells ringing and a whispering voice inside your head says danger, so you instinctively listen to the warnings and take action to avoid potential hazards.

Standing alone on a platform to fend for myself did not evoke fear, or sadness as my parents disappeared from view, there was no feeling of loss, only excitement of my journey ahead. Confidence that built in my mind was like a fortress keeping negative states at bay as joy predominated. At the age of only twelve I could cope with the big bad world, which set the foundation for the rest of my life, as though an invisible map was drawn up and directions marked.

Once my parents had finally cleared the deck I removed the name badge and travel instructions and tossed them in the bin confident that this information was not required for me to complete the long journey ahead.

My leather suitcase at foot and calico bag over my shoulder Tweed jacket and tie. I surveyed the distant horizon and there, billowed black smoke from the chimney stack of the steam engine hauling the Southern Araura train shunting closer to the beginning of my new adventure.

My leather briefcase at foot and Samsonite micro over my shoulder I surveyed the platform at Chippenham station on the mainline to London Paddington. There was no smoke billowing from engine stacks, or shunting, steam power is traded for diesel electric power and baring down at great speed the screaming sound of massive engines. The train would not take me south to Anglesey , rather east to London Paddington. I was far removed from my childhood world in Australia , now residing in England and about to embark on another train journey.

When I observed my situation standing on the platform, my tweed jacket and tie, my leather case and shoulder bag, the feeling of great anticipation, confidence and joy, ironically simulating in many ways standing on a platform in similar attire in another life, with travel bags and patient stance waiting for the steam train to take me to Angle Sea . The journey of a child to manhood began.

In two hours I would be meeting with Cressida Bell a renowned textile designer . My goal was to negotiate purchase, copyright and licensees agreements to produce a number of her textile patterns. Once this was finalised I would be in the fortunate position to manufacture new silk tie designs under the name Patrick McMurray. This would give me adequate grounding in the complexities of licensing for future reference. And award exclusivity over textile patterns with the authorisation and signature of a well connected London based artist.

It was a perfect plan, and journeying in the comfortable, quiet rail carriages, which sped across the English country side ever closer to my destination, the foundation of confidence became more resistant to subsidence and further supported by instinct. All stemming from the learning's of my childhood years. It seemed like such a long time ago, but then again the things I am doing now, are similar in principle to the things I did as a child, so I still carry a boyish innocence and fearless motivation.

As the train negotiated a long sweeping bend I caught my first glimpses of the steel arched trusses of London Paddington Station and felt a rush of excitement in the pit of my stomach. The same was experienced forty three years ago, entering the grandeur of Spencer Street Station Melbourne aboard the steam driven Southern Araura . I am still fulfilling child hood dreams.

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