What about....

if I recreate three dresses from, say, 1890-1910? Or three somethings?

ONE box.

Not to make anyone jealous.....

But I just looked through ONE box up in the attic and found:

•two black silk parasols, one with a creepy ivory handle depicting two hands and one with a beautifully carved ebony handle

•a child's black dress, of a yet-unidentified black patterned fabric, but distinctly from the 1890s, WITH a piece of the fabric it was made from (!!)

•eight or nine small handworked purses

•a few petticoats

and so many other things I couldn't bear to look at because it was a little toasty up there.

I recently moved from the Upper West Side to Brooklyn, and in the move decided it was best to return the very wintery wool suits back to Mystic, and exchange them for more summery attire.

What I ended up with, from that box, were just two items: a gauzy white dress that must be c.1910 and a decidedly 1890s....housedress? nightgown? maternity something-or-other? In my preliminary perusal I was fascinated to find that there was still an understructure of sorts. I don't think I got to explain much of my examination of the wool bodices to you (perhaps later? I'm a little dizzy with the possibilities, and am still using this blog as a place to think out loud more than present particular research) The cotton linings in the wool bodices attached by hook and eye to themselves first at the center front, forming a light boned understructure for the outer wool layer to conform to. This new blue-striped garment is intentionally shapeless--curiously, and to be explored later, the center front neckline is raw gathering...is it meant to be covered by a detachable collar of some sort?--but still has a rough muslin lining with BONE buttons down the front. Is this to keep the outer lengths of fabric in place? Or perhaps just a comforting, familiar structure? If this garment is for sleeping or generally for times of "undress", is it to "replace" a corset? So many questions! Pictures to come, and hopefully I will let you IN on my research from now on....

All these exciting discoveries only make it HARDER to find a thesis topic, not easier!!

One thought: something along the lines of, "Sleeve Construction, 1890-1910: selections from the Marie Anna Heyl Collection".....?

The discursive object.

Today I spent at the library and at home, searching for the next step in understanding object theory and thinking about our collection as objects, artifacts, things, etc.

I started with the book "The Object Reader", suggested by a Visual Culture: Theory Master's student....which must have been checked out minutes after I looked for it, damn the luck.

I moved on to "The Material Culture Reader", but after skimming through, I realized that I'm not interested in what these items of clothing mean exactly, or trying to define them within their culture. Perhaps I will explore that route later, but it wasn't quite the right angle.

I then moved on the AM call numbers; the museology and museum studies section. I found Objects of Knowledge and The New Museology, so those should keep me busy for a while.

In Objects of Knowledge, I am reading "The discursive object" by Edwina Taborsky. A lot of it is about the semiotics of objects, and how they exist differently in the "original world" and the "museum world"--perfect. This is exactly what I was looking for! It's satisfying to find that people have put into words ideas that you have been turning over in your mind.....in this case anyways, because these ideas certainly are not new.

Most specifically, I have been thinking about my created meanings for these outfits, especially with no personal writing of hers yet uncovered, and thus no personal attributions of this dress for this kind of outing, and no "I looked awful/beautiful/out of place/fashion-forward in this coat", or what have you.

And I've been trying to think of what is IMPORTANT about this collection. Firstly: I feel that it has to be IMPORTANT for me to do my thesis on it. And I think it is! Although perhaps it is not, and I will learn that the hard way. But I'm banking on "is".

Secondly: this importance and my thoughts about it suppose their installation and view in some museum; it places value on potential placement on view in an institution, which is not necessarily fair to the objects. Do I assume they can't stand on their own? If no one but my family and the girls in the Tisch costume shop sees them, are they still valuable? As valuable? In my mind they always end up somehow exhibited.

So: after posing these questions to parties with varying interest levels, I answer myself that as a group of objects owned by (probably) one relatively typical middle class woman from Boston, they feel (to me) like a good foil to the works of sartorial art we generally see in art museums. I promise I don't use so many words; usually it's more like, "She's just so NORMAL". So my problem is: how do I make that interesting to other people? This "portrait" of a "normal" woman is contingent upon the survival of these objects; I am interested in the narrative created by the existence of these things of Marie Anna's, which served a very specific purpose. I don't know that I need to explain that purpose at all; with some minor notes on "the difference between then and now" I think most people could make correct assumptions about the use of each garment.

But fascinating that I feel the need to justify this study--a real museum mind, wanting to analyze, then share.

So I guess I am interested in making these objects discursive--things to be interacted with, meaning created through use and experience, as opposed to simply observed objects--those we measure and note the material of, avoiding ascription of meaning? Of course.

But how?

This is my favorite quote from the article, explaining a sort of ideal visitor experience and interaction with an object on view, in this case a totemic mask:

"If the interaction, let us say with the mask, is not a straight linear movement of the definition of the mask from the object to observer, but, as an action, helps to define both mask and observer, in their social existence, then we should perhaps be asking the observer to clarify what this interaction is doing to his own definition of himself, and also to the object. Is it identifying him as separate from such a culture? Is it encouraging him to seek objects in his own socio-cultural horizon which work in similar ways to define his own society's meaning? Is it encouraging him to be aware that he cannot, in his interaction, fully define the object as it is defined by someone in the tribal group?" (Taborsky, 1990, 69).

Learning about the self through objects. Do these dresses and jackets make an observer think about their own clothing? About what wearing a corset would be like, or what full-length skirts must do to a girl in the summer? Can I work the "women of history: they're just like us!" angle?

Ultimately, what do these objects express better than words or, more importantly and less easily defined, better than photographs of Marie Anna in clothing of the period? What does this do for the visitor who can't feel the roughness of this wool versus the soft surface of that wool? And certainly no one will be putting these garments on.....what IS the experience?

Part of it, I'm sure, is the fascination with the survival of things. What I hear so often in exhibits with other visitors is, "Where do they KEEP this stuff?"

We keep things in the guest bathroom closet at my grandfather's house, apparently. Here is an mid-19th century wedding dress that I found the other weekend while I was there:

The front of the bodice.

Detail of center front:

And the back (note the cotton fabric at the shoulder on the left, presumably for ease? it wouldn't be seen--hidden under the capelet)

I'm not sure of the dating of this dress, but the point at the center front of the bodice made me think 1840s.

See this Godey's Lady Book scan.

And this 1840s Parisian bridal fashion.

And this, at the V&A!

But the bell sleeves feel later, and I suppose the high neckline and covered shoulders place it later than the 1840s too. Like, in the 1860s. See, especially, the woman on the right in the last plate in this timeline. But this waistline......

The sweet little capelet:

The skirt sure does have a lot of volume, too (it's hardly cinched):

I'm sure there's something to be learned from the construction of the skirt (is it built to be worn over a hard structure or soft petticoats?) but I didn't get that far.

What I did see was this neat construction detail, which can also be found in the skirt I made this spring from the century before:

That little fold-over of fabric. Is it a reticence to cut? I don't imagine it would add so much volume, since unlined the silk was not terribly sturdy. I wonder if it tied in front or back? Presumably to save the fabric from wearing, the drawstring is of a different fabric, sewn to the skirt silk (I think it was cotton?).

As with everything, this is in perfect condition. Perfect! With some sweat stains, of course, and I should note that the stitching has come undone on one of the capelet trimming pieces. But that's it....

So: not Marie Anna's, but I thought I'd brag a bit. Part of the goal in reading about the meaning of objects is because I feel so lucky to have all these beautiful things that I want to share them with people in a constructive way.

Ideas?

Taborsky, Edwina. "The discursive object." In Objects of Knowledge, edited by Susan Pearce, 50-77. London: The Athalone Press, 1990.

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.