Last Wednesday.... (or, How I Plan To Start All My Posts)

Last Wednesday I took the Metro-North, which I love so dearly, to the Bruce Museum in Greenwich to attend a lecture on American style by Jennifer Farley, assistant curator at the Museum at FIT. It was the third in a series in conjunction with their exhibition, "The Dressmaker's Art: Highlights of the Bruce Museum's Costume Collection".

This exhibition was the answer to my plea from last week: it focused on the 1820s-1920s, roughly, to which we tend to assign greater dressmaking skill. And in truth, although cutting techniques advanced and designers with genius preternatural draping skills became the superstars of the 20th century, the elaborate contraptions most of our modern generation would burn their jean cut-offs to avoid wearing are, indeed, intricate examples of dressmaking art. The piecing of Vionnet and Toledo are brilliant, and recent designers I couldn't begin to name structure fabrics into impossible, inspiring shapes, but if we are talking traditional dressmaking techniques, nothing from the twentieth century compares to that which came before.

I should mention, too, that the Museum at FIT does an excellent job of including pieces from not only the early 19th but even the 18th century, as well as from as recently as the current year. But they do successfully join the mid- to late-20th century exhibition vogue, as that seems to be where public fascination lies (thanks, Mad Men). So it makes sense that this second lecture in the series, a collaboration between the MFIT and the Bruce, would be an excellent overview of American Style from the 1930s to the 1950s.

Ms. Farley gave a great presentation, debunking fashion myths, noting the big designers but emphasizing the greater story, and chronicling the many changes that took place within those short twenty years. The other women in the audience, ninety percent of whom were old enough to have worn the styles seen in the presentation the first time around, proved my "public fascination" theory with their oohs and ahhs, exclaiming "I LOVE that, how PRETTY". They are allowed, of course, and that is the reason fashion exhibits exist at this point, but I see more and more why my predilections cannot be gratified. Many of my favored dresses are seen as restrictive and old-fashioned, where women's waists and lives are cinched into fourteen inches somewhere near the hearth, but somehow, the New Look dresses and their housewife mannequins are cooed over and collected.

Perhaps because we can still wear them? They are not precious and about to fall to pieces? They can be easily integrated into our current fashion systems? Hoop skirts and bustles would be considered rude on the subway? H & M hasn't done an 1870s line yet?

But: I suppose I can't ask for anything more than expressions of preference, as those would probably be my only reactions were I to walk through, say, the ceramics exhibits at the Met.

I took some pictures, but was eventually caught and chided, and therefore will keep them to myself. But it was nice to see some lightweight summer examples from the 1890s, since the hallmarks of the decade tend to be the heavy walking suit or new sporting fashions for riding bicycles. I wish I had been able to examine it more closely, since we have in Marie Anna's wardrobe at least one cotton example that is so thin it is see-through; I'd like to know what was worn underneath it, and wouldn't that defeat the purpose?

So: the lecture was inspiration for the 20th century section of Costume History, which I am taking this fall. And the exhibition reinforced my personal assumption that I will end up at some sort of small, regional museum.

A worthwhile trip, all around! I got to hear some really great tri-state accents, even. Let me know your thoughts if you go!

Stay tuned for some in-depth examinations of the bodices I've looked at so far. Hopefully with this trip home I can pick up some more summery items to look at.....

Speaking of Worth....

As I was on my way to the lecture at the Bruce Museum I got a good hour of reading in on the train: Love in the Time of Cholera is the current pick. I absolutely loved the movie, but am just now getting around to the book.

In a nice dovetail, the main female character, Fermina Daza, has strong opinions about fashion. On her enviably long honeymoon in Europe somewhere between the late 1880s and late 1890s, she had the opportunity to buy from the best:

"Fermina Daza, always resistant to the demands of fashion, brought back six trunks of clothing from different periods, for the great labels did not convince her. She had been in the Tuileries in the middle of winter for the launching of the collection by Worth, the indisputable tyrant of haute couture, and the only thing she got was a case of bronchitis that kept her in bed for five days. Laferrière seemed less pretentious and voracious to her, but her wise decision was to buy her fill of what she liked best in the secondhand shops."

Sound like anyone we know?

What is significant about this passage, too, is Worth's dominance in fashion at the time this book is set and that Márquez picked up on it so many years later. Márquez mentions clothing often and with a subtlety a reader won't often find in a book written almost a century after the story takes place, as in that case the author has no anecdotal knowledge of fashion, what was in, what was dowdy, and how costume played out in the real world.

Although I think One Hundred Years of Solitude is next on the list, I think I will seek out some Edith Wharton after that... she is widely considered to have excellent costume observations.

Report on the Bruce lecture soon!

Also, this:

How am I just now hearing about this?

High Style.

Last Wednesday I finally (FINALLY) made it to High Style: Fashioning a National Collection at the Brooklyn Museum, exhibited in conjunction with American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I love the Brooklyn Museum. Their exhibitions always feel very accessible, with an indefinable quality--perhaps a respect for each object without blind reverence? The space is attractive, as well as the logos, signage and even the sweet little visitor tags that hang on a button (or whatever....although I imagine everyone is wearing at least ONE button every day, right?). They seem to have a great sense of identity, consistently representing and exploring Brooklyn, and they know their audience.

I learned a lot on Wednesday about their historic support of and interest in clothing and textile, which obviously cements in my admiration of the institution. The department was founded in 1902, their preliminary goal being to provide a study collection for American industry; this has grown into an exemplary overview of New York/American fashion. Recently, the costume and textile holdings of the museum were transferred to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and these exhibitions are a celebration of the union.

As usual, I didn't do a ton of research before heading to Brooklyn, and I think I was anticipating more of the Met's take on the collection, an exploration of American clothing identity. I can't wait to see that one, as it seems more apropos my study and interests. However, how could you not enjoy being mere feet away from some of the most treasured garments in America? (I was appreciatively giggled at for the acrobatic contortions I performed to see the backs of some of these treasures) These haute couture examples were described in one of the labels as the "pinnacle of fashion's art", and their survival and exhibition are so important, especially in a highly populated destination city and at a well-respected pair of museums with millions of visitors.

These fantastic, singular specimens tend to be the focus of most museum exhibitions. There are numerous reasons for this curatorial choice--artistic value, availability, sponsorship, public interest, etc. I will acknowledge a total bias thanks to a rigorous, inquisitive Master's program and our little personal collection, but I want to see how (if?) Worth inspired Ramsyer's, the tailor who made the black wool suit with silk chiné accents, or how closely a dress of Marie Anna's resembles a Doucet (she wishes). I suppose my other bias is a longing to see more 19th century garments, again a rare museum choice because of the delicate nature of the pieces and the perceived tenuous relevance to our modern lives, among other reasons.

That said, the Brooklyn Museum was very careful about noting this--that it was an exhibition of collection highlights, of special pieces and that there was a "larger story to be told". I think that my initial reaction will be significantly tempered by the sister exhibition.

Personal Highlights:

Evening Dress, 1893. Blue silk satin; designed by Charles Frederick Worth.

This dress is much fancier than anything we have from Marie Anna's wardrobe, but the bodice shape is very similar to that of the wool bodices I've been studying, especially the front interest, lapels, and puffed sleeves. The accompanying catalogue notes, however, that this is a slight departure from the typical "leg-o-mutton" of the day, emulating the 16th century style of a puffed upper sleeve with a slim-cut lower section, appearing to be two separate but attached parts. (Reeder 2010, 42) I imagine you could take it a step further, the red silk velvet accents recalling both the distinctive slashing as well as the use of heavy, luxurious fabrics from that same early period. This idea certainly merits more research, and I wonder if the author is referencing a male or female sixteenth century trend--in my very preliminary search, it seems to be more easily identified in male portraits, such as these, from the Met:

Portrait of a Man, Tommaso Fiorentino, 1521. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY.

Alfonso d'Este (1486-1534), Duke of Ferrara, copy after Titian, late 16th or early 17th century. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY.

Note the red silk velvet used to make his suit!

If we're going to paraphrase a whole century, sleeve fashions for women seem to lean more toward leg-o-mutton (I'm looking at you, Queen Elizabeth) or with delicate volume at the cap of the sleeve, created by the poufing of an undergarment (chemise) through the aforementioned slashing of the gown's sleeves instead of part of the garment's structure, as seen here:

Portrait of a Woman, Florentine Painter, mid-16th century. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY.

The 16th century-1890s connection will have to be explored in greater depth later; every century has its innumerable style mutations, and I'd love to find out more about this suggested connection.

Another personal highlight was a dress attributed to Jean-Phillipe Worth (son of Charles Frederick), worn by Emily Warren Roebling, wife of the man who designed the Brooklyn Bridge. It's a beautiful Worth piece, dates from my new favorite decade, and is a great Brooklyn connection! But my favorite part is that has been exhibited with a portrait of Mrs. Roebling in THE VERY SAME DRESS! I have been excited by this concept since 2008, when I was an intern at Plimoth Plantation. Every few weeks, embroiderers would come for the weekend to work on a reproduction of an early 17th century jacket, commonly known as the Layton jacket. Last summer, I was able to see the actual jacket at the Victoria and Albert Museum, on view with the portrait in the British Galleries.

Of course, that incidence is far less common in 17th century objects than late 19th, but I still find it thrilling.

This was the dress she wore at her presentation to Queen Victoria, as well as to the coronation of the czar and czarina of Russia, both in 1896. These important regal affairs required appropriately grandiose attire; the historical references the younger Worth employs here put the sleeves of the other dress to shame: "Allusions in this dress to other historical eras, evident in the Renaissance-style sleeves and the skirt style similar to that of the eighteenth-century robe à la française, as well as the opulent silver and gold embroidery on the bodice, convey the aura of grandeur requisite for being in the presence of royalty. The velvet train strewn with exquisite silk orchids heightens the effect." (Reeder 2010, 203)

So. beautiful.

Now I'm inspired to explore the historical allusions and Renaissance applications of our sweet little collection.....which is one of the things I love most about museums: their ability to encourage introspection, to learn more about yourself through the examination of others. Not just their works of art, but the armoires in the American wing at the Met, or an interpreter plucking fowl at Coggeshall Farm.

Or, of course, Victoria's mourning dress, which was on view at the Brooklyn Museum. One visitor loudly and proudly informed anyone who passed: "She ain't sitting on a chair, she's THAT SHORT." Although grating after ten full minutes of repetition, I love that the reality of Victoria's stature was so striking that she had to share it with other unsuspecting (although probably equally intrigued) visitors.

So, for more inspiration, I am off to the Bruce Museum tomorrow for a lecture. I'm so, SO annoyed that I missed the lecture titled, "The Art and 'Science' of American Dressmaking 1820-1920", but am really looking forward to tomorrow's offering, "Fashion and the American Image, 1930s-1950s". Next year's costume history class focuses on the 20th century, so perhaps this will be an exciting taste of what's to come.

But....what will I wear?

Sources cited:

Reeder, Jan Glier, High Style: Masterworks from the Brooklyn Museum Costume Collection at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010.

Live! From the Boston Public Library!

Research is going....so-so.

Must come back soon.

But meanwhile, a fantastic anecdote:

" 'The Jamaica Plain News in 1908 told of a minister in Grand Central Station who couldn't remember the name of the Boston suburb where he was expected. 'Whiskey Straight,' he told the ticket agent. 'No such place near Boston,' the agent said. 'Maybe near Cheyenne or Tombstone, or Medicine Hat, but not Boston.' Then after a minute, the agent said again, "Oh, you want Jamaica Plain.' And sure enough, the minister did."

From the Jamaica Plain edition of the Boston 200 Neighborhood History Series, put together in 1976 to commemorate the bicentennial.

Amazing, I think. This refers to the apocryphal origin story of the town's name--that when officials were asked how they liked their rum, they replied, "Jamaica, plain". It is considered more likely that it's an Americanization of an Algonquin name, or that rum was being imported in great quantities from Jamaica and the land in what was the "Jamaica end" of Roxbury is very flat....but of course I join most historians on the subject in being rather tickled by the former.

Old Rhubarb.

My grandfather is currently packaging for travel a small bunch of rhubarb, since I've been inspired by the crops at the farmer's markets in New York to make strawberry rhubarb pie with sweet woodruff.

It turns out this plant is a descendant of that which grew at 14 Sheridan!

I have this feeling this sort of thing will happen a lot....

One picture of a blue house.

Is all we really accomplished today.

As we both happened to be on the North Shore this weekend, my mother and I decided to take a quick trip to Jamaica Plain to see what we could see.

And see we did! Cuban restaurants, Spanish grocery stores, the Jamaicaway....and a blue house! Fourteen Sheridan Street, Jamaica Plain, MA:

Proof of our impromptu search party: an iPhone photo through a rainy car windshield, which belies the incredible grade of the hill we were parked on as well as the brilliant color of the house, with its Color Theory-approved accents. Many houses we drove past had similar funny little details, like off-white shutters with concentric boxes of blue and green paint, centered around a raised golden diamond. But this beautiful, big blue house has kept the detailing to the large wraparound porch, the same porch where Marie Anna is so often pictured with children and in-laws. These will be featured soon, I'm sure (no access to scanners In The Field).

Other proof that we have lots to learn as family historians: as far as we can tell, Jamaica Plain Historical Society has no brick-and-mortar component. We searched and searched the website, trying to figure out where the address was hidden...and drove up and down Centre Street trying to find where the building might be hidden....and then put nil and nil together. Some planning might have saved us a few touristy laps of downtown Jamaica Plain, but we just wouldn't have guessed. I was so looking forward to getting recommendations on where to begin my book research and talking to their volunteers. But we'll just have to go back for a walking tour or two!

Between Marblehead and Jamaica Plain, we decided to stop on Water Street, in the heart of Boston, where at some point Jacob's brother, Adam, owned a beer hall! This case is still open, since our beer hall is definitely at number 124, and the street now stops somewhere around 122. Were the streets changed? The numbers changed? And/or facades changed?

Here it is in 1901 (courtesy of Ken Scheyder), with a memorial to President McKinley in the window:

Mmm, Celebrated Malt Wine. On modern Water Street, there were many similar facades, but none the same. Perhaps that's to be expected. I think this mystery involves further investigation, maps from 1901 and a trip to Massachusetts Historical (twist my arm).

Fun fact for family: the spirit of the Mock family remains, although seemingly through a 120-year-old mispelling sieve...Ari's something-or-other is around the corner, and "Sam and Anne's Deli" is across the street!

Not all was lost: we did end up at my favorite restaurant in Boston, Deep Ellum, and had a lovely dinner and a Mayflower Summer Rye. Too perfect--best wurst. In honor of our German, beerhall-owning ancestors, right?

It was a lovely day, but hopefully tomorrow I can read up on Jamaica Plain at the Public Library, and sneak in a trip to the Mass Historical Society on Monday before I have to take the bus back to New York City. No costume exhibits at the MFA, but perhaps the Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit would be apropos? Who knows what a Sunday in Boston will bring.

Wish me luck! I'll report back, of course.