Criss Cross, or, My Checker’d Past

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Every now and then I look up from what I’m doing (tiny stitches, usually, though sometimes budget math) and realize that Objects in Mirror are Closer Than They Appear. Oops. It was just yesterday I was daydreaming about miniatures, and now I shall want a paintbox and brushes in a mere six weeks– and those six weeks are punctuated by a courier trip, a couple of exhibits, not to mention shepherding The Young Giant through prom and finals.

Top: check silk taffeta, Artee Fabrics Bottom: check cotton, Mood Fabrics

Top: check silk taffeta, Artee Fabrics
Bottom: check cotton, Mood Fabrics

This weekend, thanks to the SFR hunt for collar interfacing of an appropriate weight, I realized I’d better get a wiggle on my own sewing, and managed to hunt up the orange check from hell, pop it in the washer, and hunt up the pattern I intend to use.

Mrs Catherine Morey oil on canvas by Michael Keeling, 1817. (c) Walker Art Gallery; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

Mrs Catherine Morey oil on canvas by Michael Keeling, 1817. (c) Walker Art Gallery

I’m stuck on that 1817-1819 range because of someone’s eventual and particular Mode of Transportation, so I was super pleased to find this portrait while trolling the BBC’s Your Paintings site. Actually, I’m pretty over the moon about this image, since it places that cross-over front firmly in 1817. I’ve made a version of this form already, so I can but hope the next iteration will be even closer to correct for the period, once I tweak the pattern a bit.

The pattern: therein lie so many rubs, often going the wrong way. Still, I remain enamored of the check and of the cross-front gown. Any checkered doubts were dispelled when Alison for reminded me of the sort-of-cross front check gown at the Met, whose catalogers are hiding behind circa 1820 which allows leeway back to 1815. Behold, of course, the ruffled neck of the bodice (I do expect mine will fit a bit better since I am squishier than a mannequin, and possess appropriate infrastructure).

Speaking of infrastructure, the appropriate stays are finished, entirely hand-sewn, and ready for deployment in pattern fittings before they debut at Genesee.

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Six weeks to Genesee: at least one 1817 dress, another sheet, a portfolio and paint box, followed immediately by 18th century stays, a front-closing gown, and a bucket repair. Surely that’s all manageable, right?

Frivolous Friday: All of Everything

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All of Everything: Todd Oldham at the RISD Museum of Art

All of Everything: Todd Oldham at the RISD Museum of Art

Some days were made for a bit of hooky. This week, it was Tuesday– though how much can you consider a museum visit hooky when it’s the business you’re in? We took an outing down the street to the RISD Museum, long one of my favorite places in Rhode Island. The Costume and Textiles curatorial staff mount some amazing exhibits, from Artist Rebel Dandy to this latest, All of Everything: Todd Oldham Fashion.

Every time I go to the RISD Museum’s exhibits, I have serious wants, whether mochaware coffee pots or the Chinchilla Outfit– which my grandmother would also have coveted. There was a tinge of nostalgia in the visit, since most of us had lived through the 1990s, and recognized the styles that eventually leached into ready-to-wear from couture. Cropped sweaters. Shrunken jackets. Embellishments. Pattern mixing. Hey– I still dress that way!

Unknown artist Horace Vernet French, 1789-1863 Illustrations from the Journal des Dames et des Modes, ca. 1810 Engraving on wove paper, hand-colored Museum collection INV2004.506

Journal des Dames et des Modes, ca. 1810
RISD Museum INV2004.506

And legit it is, this pattern mixing. Funny how we stick to the same shapes and forms once we find what we like; so much of what I make and wear are variations on similar themes, no matter the century.

For some, dressing in the past is the only time they’re dressing up; their daily style is almost aggressively (or passive-aggressively) anti-style. But when the top hat comes out, look out: they’re dressed to the nines.

Stay Thy Hand

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Stays. They’re infrastructure: absolutely necessary, a major time commitment, and decidedly unsexy. I am in dire need to two new pairs, one for late 18th century use and one for early 19th century, and each with deadlines looming.

I can manage 19th century attire and Genesee with the chopped-and-dropped corded stays I already have, but New Jersey will not happen at all unless new stays are made. It was like a weekend of penance chez Calash, two straight days of stay mocking up and making.

Of course I bled on them. That’s how I know they’re mine.

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And let’s get this out of the way: I thought backstitching the back seam was a little more difficult on this side, but ascribed it to sore fingers. Wrong! I failed to notice that I was stitching through all the layers, and not leaving one free to fold over and finish.

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A glass of cider and an hour later, I’d rectified the error. These are now fully bound along the bottom edge, and ready for the top edge binding. Somewhere there’s coutil for the straps, and then numerous hand-sewn eyelets later, I will have a finished pair of hand-sewn stays.

New stays deserve a new gown, and since I found this lovely image, I know what that new gown should look like (as well as a portfolio).  Happily, there’s a dress in Cassidy’s book that will serve as a reasonable basis for recreating this image. I’m still pondering the portfolio, and what it might be made of: paper or leather covered pasteboard? As the clock ticks down to June, I suspect I will be using a portfolio I already have on hand.

And then there are the the 18th century stays, with their history of woe.

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I’ve gotten this far with the new 18th century pair, and an interesting business it is. I altered the front side pieces and the stomacher, but cannot see the back well enough (even with a camera and a mirror) to adjust it by myself, so further changes will have to wait until I have some assistance.

The tabs aren’t right in the back, and while the advice is to shorten the stays when the tabs flare this way, I found the fronts were still too low, once again riding at nipple-cutting height. Finally it occurred to me that the problem– slippage–might actually be one of waist. I lengthened the fronts half an inch and nipped the waist in, and found the fit more pleasing.  I suspect the back pieces need to be trimmed a bit before they’ll fit (they’re stitched closed in this version, so you know they’re too big).

Another weekend of work awaits– with focus, those early 19th century stays may be done by then, if there are no more finger injuries.

Wicked Inspiration

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You know that musical? The one you can’t get tickets to unless they were willed to you by your grandmother because she was lucky enough to stumble out of the Tardis right at the box office on opening day, but had to buy them for, like, six years from now, and they’re actually for the Kansas City production? The one in which the founding fathers are, you know, brown? My friends and family assumed I’d hate the whole idea, but I don’t. Like so many people, I love it, and not just for the music, though my preferred method of psyching myself up for GeeDubs1790 or What Cheer Day is listening to the Stones or the Beastie Boys all the way up.

So, what then, interests me in “Hamilton,” and why do I think it relates to interpretation? This: the way that the show filters the concerns of the late eighteenth century through the lens of the twenty-first could make for enlightening listening.

My Shot gives me goosebumps: why? Is it because history and civics are finally sexy?

Maybe. But “Hamilton” as a whole, per Rebecca Mead in the New Yorker, “is a hymn to the allure that America promises the immigrant who aspires to reach its shores; it is also an argument for the invigorating power that this nation’s porous borders, and porous identity, have always offered.”

Porous identity. That’s part of why I’m fascinated. But just as “Sleep No More” and Occupy Providence (really really) were partial inspirations for What Cheer Day, “Hamilton” strikes me as the kind of production worth paying attention to. No, I am not suggesting that the paunchy reenactors start channeling their inner Biggie, though I might well pay to see that.

No, what I’m suggesting is that we reconsider what it is we’re doing out there on the field and in the historic houses, and not just what but how and why. Hamilton takes an unexpected approach to history and it’s going gangbusters, while Amazing Grace tanked. So it’s not about the costuming authenticity, though I implore you not to give that up. It’s about the passion. It’s about coming at things sideways.

What makes you love doing laundry, drilling with precision, telling local gossip, making soap, or whatever it is that you love best about your place in the past? Why does all this matter to you so much? What is it that we can learn about today as you teach us about the past? Let loose that love and passion, share those insights, and ten to one you’ll have more fun and excite more visitors.

Maintain an Even Strain

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Dude: I am conflicted. There are folks out there doing excellent work, but after reading some recent posts around the interwebs, I kept thinking, “Stockholm Syndrome much?”

I’m as much of a narcissist as the next person, and I think I recognize some of the folks being called out in various places for being critical of women’s roles in living history events. So, organize my own events? Come up with my own things to do?

Cool: challenge accepted.

I am, in fact, throwing down for the pleasure and pain of running a farm in late June. No, I didn’t organize it, but I was asked to take on a challenge and I have accepted, roping my favorite tailor into the effort as well. It’ll mean a bunch of studying, but in a pinch, I can always clean the house. We can rake, make refugees stay in the yard, and try as hard as we can to keep Quakers from putting radical ideas in the slaves’ heads. I think it will be hard, unpleasant, and uncomfortable—and that’s what I don’t like about the suggestions in the otherwise honestly well-intended and meant-to-inspire posts.

Playing at Quadrille. Oil on canvas by Francis Hayman. Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery

Playing at Quadrille. Oil on canvas by Francis Hayman. Birmingham Museums and Art Gallery

They’re so nice. They reinforce women’s subordinate roles in the past and present. Children’s activities? I might die, really, I might. If that’s your bag, go for it, please! We need it. It’s simply not something I can do.

No more can I talk about What People Wore. It’s not that I don’t care (y’all know I do) but that I want to move past the surface.

It’s not enough just to look great.

The Heir: Tom Finds New Wealth. William Hogarth.

The Heir: Tom Finds New Wealth. William Hogarth.

Dive deep: find the dirt. Find the hard stuff. You don’t have to be nice. That’s my personal problem with what I’ve been reading: between the lines I keep hearing a voice suggesting that we be nice girls, that we simmer down. No, I’m sorry. I can’t. Reader, if you can, go for it.

But if you can’t, I want to tell you: Keep pushing. Keep asking. Keep speaking up. Challenge the status quo. Our Girl History did a great post on Well Behaved Women, and I fully support the work people are doing to represent the Well Behaved and the marginalized (shout out to the veteran with the knife-grinding cart: well imagined, sir!).

Russell, John; The Blind Beggar and His Granddaughter; The Bowes Museum;

John Russell. The Blind Beggar and His Granddaughter, oil on canvas, 18th century. The Bowes Museum UK.

Bring it. Bring the ordinary.

But if you can’t be ordinary or run the children’s games or be subservient or show how women dressed, that’s okay. For the love of god, someone, be desperate.

Be hungry, be angry, be resentful, be religious.

Whatever you do, don’t be afraid to speak your mind.