Fifty Fabulous Frocks

The Fashion Museum (formerly the Museum of Costume) in Bath is 50 years old this year, and is marking the occasion with a special exhibition of 50 of its most glamorous dresses*, dating from 1660 to 2012.

(* Actually the title is a bit of a misnomer, as there is a smattering of menswear in there too, but to simplify things I shall just use the word ‘dresses’ throughout.)

The exhibition starts with a bang, or more accurately a pop, as the first exhibit is a champagne bottle costume, worn to a fancy dress party in 1902.

'Champagne' dress

Click here for a photograph of the dress being worn, complete with a pouffy champagne cork hat.

The dresses are grouped together in two large displays, and one smaller one. As is obvious from this photograph, all the displays are behind glass, so apologies for the quality of some of the images.

The first display

This arrangement of the dresses allows you to see the back of most of them (yea!).

Mid-1860s silk day dress, front and back

It wasn’t clear to me how the order of the display was decided upon, as it is neither chronological or colour based. As a result you get a bold navy and red 2009 Erdem dress next to an early 1800s plain white muslin beaded dress by an unknown maker (my favourite of the entire exhibition).

Modern

Two centuries earlier

The arrangement does create some interesting juxtapositions. The flashes of yellow in a 1950s Victor Stiebel silk ballgown are echoed in the yellow and grey stripes of the 1999 Vivienne Westwood evening dress displayed beside it.

Two treatments of yellow and grey

A 1960s Gerald McCann suit and the 1660 silver tissue dress are linked by a similar palette.

Two two-piece costumes

Although very different, the 1938 Schiaparelli ensemble and the 1780s man’s Court coat both feature exquisite embroidery on velvet jackets.

Embroidered velvet

Photograph brightened to show the embroidery

Not all of the dresses in the exhibition are ‘fabulous’ by way of decoration or the name of the designer; some have been included precisely because they are incomplete, examples of what ordinary people wore, or simply intriguing.

Some are undoubtedly very grand indeed.

1760s embroidered Court mantua, with matching shoes

This late 1860s striped silk day dress by an unknown maker has an unfinished neckline. Either the trimmings were removed to be reused, or the dress was never completed.

No fastens or trimming on the neckline

This Worth dress belonging to Mary Chamberlain Carnegie is from the mid 1890s, when ‘dresses’ consisted of two parts. The skirt has been lost or possibly cut up to be reused; only the bodice survives.

Wonder what the skirt looked like?

Each polka dot of this 1940s housecoat by an unknown maker has been carefully outlined in stab stitching, quilting the rayon fabric, the interlining and the cotton gingham lining together, a major undertaking.

The simple appearance belies the work that went into this

The provenance of this printed hessian tunic dress, c. 1910 is a mystery. Undoubted a stage costume, the designer and the production it was made for are both unknown.

Possibly influenced by the Ballets Russes?

Many of the dresses are displayed on ordinary dress forms such as those in the two photographs above. However in a nice touch the exhibition does make use of vintage mannequins, such as this one.

1934 silk net Vionnet evening dress on a period mannequin

Slightly oddly, the 1780s man’s Court coat is displayed on a mannequin, but with no other clothing. I can’t help feeling that this would have looked better on a dress form, as the combination of the beautiful workmanship and pink plastic legs is very odd. Fortunately there are too many reflections in the photograph I took for it to be of any use other than for reference, so I shall spare the mannequin's blushes and not post it!

As this is a fiftieth anniversary celebration, it is only right that the exhibition should end with gold. Sadly my photographs of the final exhibit, a 1925 gold lace and cloth of gold dress by Paul Poiret, are not good enough to post. Instead I’ll finish with some pictures of dress number 49; a late 1820s gold embroidered dress by an unknown maker.

Embroidered dress

Close-up of the bodice

Gold metal strip embroidery on the hem

Peasants and Pioneers

This is a very late entry to the latest Historical Sew Fortnightly challenge; Peasants and Pioneers. It goes back to an idea I had last summer. I was working in the garden on a hot and sunny day, and feeling that the hat I was wearing was not really suitable for the job. It fell off every time I leaned down, and it wasn’t doing much to keep the sun off my neck and shoulders. I decided that what I really needed was a sunbonnet of the sort that Victorian women working outdoors used to wear, like this.

Bonnet 1850-1890 © Victorian and Albert Museum, London

Then it rained for the rest of the summer, and I thought no more about it.

Until the 1920s, when Coco Chanel popularised the idea that a suntan meant that you had just come back from a holiday somewhere hot and exotic, a tanned complexion was to be avoided. It showed that you were poor, and did manual labour, outdoors. Not that the thousands of women who did work outdoors just accepted their tanned lot. Their bonnets were designed to protect them from the worst of the sun, with large brims to protect the eyes and face, and a ‘skirt’ at the bottom to cover the back of the neck. There were numerous variations, but the basic idea remained the same.

"Canal Life" by Herbert Johnson, Illustrated London News 1874

When we were on holiday the other week we went to the Somerset Rural Life Museum in Glastonbury. This is a wonderful place, centred on the magnificent fourteenth century Abbey Barn, which is one of only four surviving barns which belonged to Glastonbury Abbey.

The Abbey Barn

Browsing in the shop I came across a pattern for making a bonnet, based on an original which was worn in Glastonbury in 1870 by Mrs Sarah Cox, the wife of a stonemason. It struck me that this would be ideal for the “Peasants and Pioneers” challenge. Then when we got home I read the Dreamstress’ post on hand sewing, and decided that I would make the bonnet entirely by hand, and try to get to grips with using a thimble at the same time.

The pattern calls for plain fabric, so the original must have looked more like this than the V&A example above.

Victorian Sunbonnet © "Windows on Warwickshire"

The pattern gave a cutting layout, and instructions for how to make the bonnet up. The main headpiece is a large rectangle of fabric, across which creases are ironed at various intervals.

The headpiece with the creases marked

Lines of stitching below each of these creases form the frills and channels, which are then corded with string.

The headpiece with the channels sewn

I don’t know if string is historically accurate, or used in the instructions because it is easier to find than piping cord. Either way, it’s a good excuse to include a picture of my string box, which is also from Somerset.

So cute

The back of the bonnet has three vertical cording channels.

Headpiece, back and skirt with all the cording complete

The headpiece is pinned to the back at the centre and the ends, and the backmost string is then pulled up to gather the headpiece. Then the other strings are then pulled up to shape the bonnet. This is where I was glad I had stitched the cording channels with the running stitch/back stitch combination which the Dreamstress talked about; the fabric is so tightly gathered that a plain running stitch would have pulled apart.

The skirt and ties are rectangles with narrow hems. The bottom of the bonnet is gathered to fit the neck, and the skirt is gathered and attached to the bonnet. Finally the ties are attached inside.

Front view of the completed bonnet

So, was it a success? I can't fault the pattern itself. The instructions seemed a bit confusing when I first read through them, but once I was actually following them, they were perfectly clear.

Looking at the side view, I think that I should have pulled the cords at the back up a bit more - they are a bit baggy. From a purely practical point of view, I would have preferred a deeper brim. I have a little of the fabric left, so I might experiment with making an extra corded strip to attach underneath the front rows of cording. However it certainly looks the part.

Side view ...

... and back view

This is the first time I have made something entirely by hand since I was a student without access to a sewing machine. A friend of mine has an allotment, and says that growing even some of your own food really makes you aware of what life must have been like when, if your crops failed, there was no greengrocer or supermarket to go to instead. At a time when so much clothing in the UK seems to be ridiculously cheap and almost throwaway, sewing this bonnet has made me think more about the time when your clothing represented a considerable outlay of both money and time, and was to be preserved as long as possible.

The Small Print

The Challenge: Peasants and Pioneers

Fabric: 1 metre-ish remnant of putty-coloured cotton twill, from my stash

Pattern: Glastonbury Bonnet from Somerset Rural Life Museum

Year: 1870

Notions: Thread, string

How historically accurate is it? Apart from possibly the string, I think it’s fairly accurate

Hours to complete: Forgot to count, but hopefully I’m well on the way to the 24 hours of hand sewing which the Dreamstress reckons is the time needed to get used to using a thimble

First worn: Just now, to take photos. I am planning to try it out when gardening later in the year (perhaps I should mention that most of our garden isn’t overlooked!)

Total cost: I had the fabric, thread and string already, so 50 pence for the pattern.

Cobblers' bairns

"Cobblers' bairns are poorest shod", is a saying from Scotland, where I grew up. It means that the children (bairns) of a cobbler always have the worst shoes, because their father is too busy making or repairing shoes for other people to attend to the needs of his own family.

Before we went on holiday, I washed all my work clothes and hung them up to dry, so that they would be ready to put away when we got back home with a new pile of laundry to do.

This is the sight which greeted me when we got back.

Black, navy, grey and ...more black

Oh dear. I know that I tend to wear a lot of black or dark clothes for work, but it's only seeing them all together which makes it obvious just how much black I wear. It's like a 21st century mourning warehouse. And even worse, they are all shop-bought. I spend so much time making dance clothes, or fixing things for other people, or making fancy going-out clothes for myself, that I never get round to making myself any ordinary, everyday clothes.

This really needs to change.

Family stories

It's Mothering Sunday (not quite the same as Mother's Day) here in the UK, and as I seem to have inherited the 'sewing gene' from my mum's side of the family, it seems appropriate to post a bit about where my love of all things needlework-related comes from.

(First of all I should mention that the women in my dad's side of the family tended to be good cooks, a trait I definitely haven't inherited, although a near total lack of circulation in my hands does mean I can make good pastry!)

First of all comes Great-granny T, my mum's dad's mother. Born in 1871, she worked as a lady's maid to the Countess of Kingston.

Great-granny T in 1951

A lady's maid did more than simply dress her mistress. She also had to know the correct and fashionable style of dress for any occasion, and be knowledgeable about hairdressing, millinery, making beauty preparations, laundering and stain removal. Because she accompanied her mistress on her travels, she also had to know how to pack properly. Great-granny T travelled to New York with her employer; that must have been a great adventure for a girl from an ordinary background in the late nineteenth century.

Of course, a lady's maid also had to be an expert at dressmaking, alterations and mending. When I'm engrossed in embroidering or beading a dress or a dance costume, I can sometimes imagine my great-grandmother doing something similar on one of the countess's gowns.

Granny T, my mum's mum, was born in 1900, not far from where I now live. This photograph, taken in 1922, shows her with her sister on the promenade at Blackpool. She died when I was very young so I never got to know her, but from what I do know of her I'm not surprised to see that she's got a book in her lap!

Granny T, on the right, with book

When my granny's own mother died her father remarried. Her stepmother was a milliner, and my granny and her sister not only had to work (for nothing) in her shop during the day, but also spend their evenings trimming hats for sale. This earlier and slightly blurred photograph shows the sisters outside the newly renamed shop, with a window full of late-teens era hats; all beautifully trimmed, of course.

Hats, and sisters

As well as knowing exactly how best to wear any hat, my granny made many of her own and her daughter's clothes, and taught my mum how to sew. During World War II, when clothing and material were rationed, like many women they both became adept at squeezing new garments out of very little fabric.

Mum continued to make many of her own clothes after she had left home, and there are many family photographs of her in her wonderful 1950s creations. The 'shell dress' (the fabric had off-white stripes and a pattern of stylized scallop shells on a grey background) in the picture below was a particular favourite of hers.

Mum in 1951

I have many childhood memories of watching Mum dressmaking, for herself or for me. Over four decades later, I can still clearly remember, in slightly worrying detail, the first time I decided to have a go myself.

Mum was making herself a dress out of a bonded crimpelene, which was plain coffee-coloured on the wrong side and a dark brown paisley pattern on an orange background on the right side (well, it was the late 60s/early 70s). I took a couple of remnants, hacked them into roughly rectangular shapes to make a dress for my doll, and 'sewed' them together. This consisted of one enormous stitch for each shoulder seam, and a few more, equally large, stitches for the side seams. I didn't have the motor skills to keep the thread in the eye of needle, and it kept coming unthreaded. Eventually I decided to knot the thread through the eye, which solved one problem, but unsurprisingly made it far harder to get the needle through the fabric.

Mum must have explained to me about sewing the pieces with the right sides together, as I can still picture what happened when I turned my creation right side out: the fabric was so stiff that formed a cylinder which stood up by itself!

Despite all this, I was very pleased with my efforts. Once it became apparent that I was interested in sewing, Mum taught me everything she knew, and I moved on from slightly more sophisticated dolls' dresses to making clothes for myself. As a student I even made loose covers for the slightly dingy armchair in my furnished flat by following the instructions she gave me on a trip home.

Thanks for everything, Mum!

Embellish

When The Dreamstress announced the Historical Sew Fortnightly on her blog, I thought that it would be really interesting to see what people made for the various challenges, but I certainly wouldn't get involved myself. For a start, although I have been sewing for more years than I care to admit to, I have no experience of making historically accurate clothing or other items. On top of that, I barely seem to have the time to make contemporary, machine-based items, let alone anything requiring the time and hand-sewing to be period accurate.

Then I started wondering if I could use some of the challenges for things which I wanted to make anyway. My first attempt at this was a 1920s beaded dance dress for challenge number 4; Embellish.

The dress is based on the 1923-5 dance dress in Patterns of Fashion 2, but with the skirt consisting of 12 painted and beaded panels, loosely based on this example from the Philadelphia Museum.

1920s beaded dress

As I've already mentioned in previous posts, I am nowhere close to finishing the dress, but thought I'd post anyway about what I'm doing to embellish the painted panels.

Panels with the painted areas embellished with beading

My first idea for the beading was to use tambouring, which was how the original dress was beaded, but it soon became apparent that my technique is not up to the job, and/or satin is not a good fabric to tambour on, as it is so easy to snag the threads.

Sewing the beads on singly is definitely not an option, as it would take far too long. I had already strung a lot of beads for tambouring, so I decided to couch the strands of beads on instead. My initial plan was to light my embroidery frame from below, so that I could follow the design lines drawn on the wrong side of the fabric. A good idea in theory, but the reality was that no matter what I did, the hand working below the frame seemed to permanently be in a place to block out the light.

This was where the care I'd taken in painting the designs neatly paid off, as I can light the work from above and simply follow the outlines of the painted areas. To add a bit more interest, I decided to outline the painted shapes with light gold beads, and do the 'stalks' of the flowers in slightly larger and darker beads. I'll also use the darker beads to outline each panel.

Close-up showing the different beads

There's a very long way to go, especially as the skirt panels aren't the only beading on the dress.

'Mystery panels' for the dress

It's definitely a long-term project, but I think that I've caught the historical costuming bug now (this may not be an altogether good thing!) so plan to keep working away at it as my hand-sewing to do when I fancy a break from machine-based work.

Plan B (part 2)

When it came to adding the streamers and sash to the dress, I worked from the pictures in the Victoria and Albert Museum's online catalogue. Judging from the photograph of the dress on a stand, unless the streamers reached almost to the floor, the main part of the dress must have been scandalously short for the time. There again, the dress's original owner doesn't seem to have been a stranger to scandal.

© Victoria and Albert Museum, London

Although the catalogue only mentions two rows of streamers; the top row being orange velvet and the bottom row peach velvet, the close-up photograph shows a third row, attached to the hem of the main dress.

© Victoria and Albert Museum, London

For my dress I only made two rows; one in a shiny, slightly crinkly orange fabric, and the other in a darker, almost tomato-coloured silky satin. I didn't hem the streamers, but painted the raw edges with gold fabric paint, which limited the amount they frayed, and imitated the beaded fringing of the original.

The sash was made from a heavy orange georgette from my stash. It consists of a band of fabric sewn round the dress, with short and long tapered lengths hanging at the side to imitate a tied belt. One thing which I'm not happy with is the position of the 'knot' of the belt; it is too far to the side, and doesn't really show when the dress is worn.

The dress, with invisible sash tie on the right

When I tried dancing in the dress I discovered that the streamers were too light, and tended to get caught on the sash and on one another when they moved. I fixed this by adding a small gold bead 'tassel' at the end of each streamer.

The streamers weighted with beads

I wanted something slightly different for the ends of the sash, and found some orange glass beads in Minerva Beads in Glastonbury, which were perfect.

This may seem a long way to go for some beads, but I'm currently in Glastonbury for the Majma dance festival, and the dress was worn this afternoon to dance to Jelly Roll Morton's "Grandpa's Spells" at the student show which ends the festival.

The completed dress, with 1920s-style shoes and hair

Plan B (part 1)

This week I had to face facts. More specifically, the fact that there was no way the 1920s dance dress I’m making would be done, in its original form, for my original deadline of next Sunday. It might just have been possible if I’d been prepared to take a lot of shortcuts. Unfortunately, I’ve been so pleased with the results of what I’ve done so far, that I soon realized that I’m not prepared to take those short cuts, and water down my original idea.

Equally unfortunately, I still need a 1920s style dance dress for a performance next Sunday.

I decided that the only solution was to make another 1920s style dance dress!

This isn’t quite as mad as it sounds (honestly). I still hope that eventually the original dress will be truly stunning, and at least in some ways, a reflection of the beautiful dresses made at that time. However I suspect that a lot of the detail would be wasted on a dress which will be seen under stage lighting, moving, and from some distance away. So for a week today, I need something reasonably quick and simple, which will look effective in the context of a stage show.

I was a stuck for ideas, until I noticed an ill-considered fabric purchase folded up in my sewing room.

I had seen this in my local fabric shop, and fell in love with the burnt orange colour. It handled nicely, didn’t seem to crease much, and I thought it would be perfect for a dress I want to make. Plus, it was quite ridiculously cheap. It was only when I got it home that I realised why it was so cheap; it was riddled with weaving faults. This rather blurred photo shows what I mean; the warp threads are bunched together in several places, leaving gaps.

Weaving faults

Remembering that life is too short to waste precious sewing time on bad fabric, I put it to one side to use for future toiles. However looking at it again, I was reminded of a dress I’d seen in the V&A last year. I’d even mentioned it in my first post about making a 1920s dance dress.

1925 Voisin dance dress

It’s not a fabric I’d want to use to make a dress which will require a lot of time in experimentation and pattern fitting, and which will be seen close to. However for a costume, it will be fine.

I used the pattern I’d already drafted, and managed to cut it out avoiding the worst of the fabric flaws. This time I overlocked the seams. In the original dress the neck and arm holes are finished with bias binding, and I used a purchased satin binding to do this. There is no facing on the dress, but the binding is quite stiff, which provides some stability. I will have to think how to provide this when I come to bind the original satin dress, as I will be binding it with the same soft fabric.

Binding the neckline was easy, but the sleeves were harder, due to their shape. Whereas a modern armscye has a smooth curve at the side seam, this dress almost has a point. My pattern, scaled up from “Patterns of Fashion”, shows the sharp angle where the front and back pieces meet.

The pattern, front and back

I sewed most of the binding on by machine, but did the bottom of the armscyes by hand. This, and sewing down the other edge of the binding by hand, proved that the fabric is a nightmare to work with. It frays like mad if you so much as breathe on it. It snags the sewing thread for no good reason. And merely wrapping it around my finger to slip-stitch the binding in place caused more of the warp threads to bunch up.

So at present I have what is in effect a bright orange gym-slip. Next I will add the sash and the streamers.

The basic dress, with the bound edges