My Godmother sent me this brief article on David Hockney‘s withering opinion on artists such as Damien Hirst who rely upon assistants to “do the work” — Hirst has only painted five of the 14,00 in existence, and he was quoted as saying that many of his spot paintings are produced by others “because he finds it boring to do the detailed work.” I think it’s easy to cluck and tsk and agree with Sir Hockney — how could an artist relinquish responsibility for creation and/or execution to others? My stars, I bristle at the very suggestion!
But let’s step back for a moment and entertain the idea that this may actually be a matter of context and expectations. Some arts — painting in particular — have a history of being conceived and executed by one person. However, even that is not a hard and fast rule. Andy Warhol famously oversaw assistant-produced art at The Factory, and in fact the decentralization and democratization of the creation process was essential to the concept, which often involved the repetitious and machine-like branding of store items. It could be made and reproduced by practically anyone. Warhol hired Gerard Malanga, among others, as his assistant in 1963 and together they made some of “Warhol’s” best known silk screened works of art. Below you see Malanga working with Warhol, and two unidentified assistants playing with the collaborative Flowers while Warhol commands center stage while they literally blend into the background:
There are plenty of artistic professions where it is actually expected that a work is produced with the help of — or even in its entirety by — workers other than the name attributed to the final design. Architects work with teams who specialize in interior stairwells and elevators, energy efficiency, etc.; not every architect involved in the highly complex work of designing, say, the Whitney Museum’s expansion, will be known by the public: Renzo Piano‘s will be, though. And if we’re talking about they physical production of art (or pawning it off, as the case may be), architects do not physically build “their” buildings at all; they simply provide the plans.
Renzo Piano "holds a model of his design for the new Whitney," 2011
This is more like the work of Sol LeWit, who has made his name as an artist by redefining the role of the artist as more of a designing architect, providing plans that disseminate the art-making to anyone who wants to follow his instructions. In the late ’60s, LeWit began a series of now-famous wall drawings, providing clients and galleries with plans for murals they could make themselves at any scale, with any colors, on any surface, displayed anywhere, and labeled “Sol LeWitts.” Some more exacting instructions are miniature versions on paper; other, more conceptual works are described with words, as with Wall Drawing #65. Here are the instructions:
“Lines not short, not straight, crossing and touching, drawn at random using four colors, uniformly dispersed with maximum density, covering the entire surface of the wall,”
…and the product, seen in progress at the National Gallery of Art:
Assistant executing Sol LeWitt’s Wall Drawing #65
Though the point of this art is that anyone may create or “finish” them, the instructions, minimal as they are, are proved authentic by being presented on numbered certificates which interestingly include previous installations, as seen below:
Sol LeWitt wall drawing #541 certificate -- click to enlarge
Street artist JR deliberately includes local residents of the often violent and/or impoverished areas he targets for his building-sized photos, acting more like a project coordinator than a street artist (a.k.a. “graffiti artist”). Like LeWitt, he encourages people to take his idea and make it their own — in fact, this is essential to his work. He gained recognition with his posters of eyes and close-up portraits of residents pasted along war-torn borders or poverty-stricken neighborhoods and countries. JR’s latest efforts take this a step further by doing less of the actual art production. In the economically depressed (and notoriously rough) Hunts Point neighborhood in the South Bronx, he collaborated with the Hunts Point Alliance with Children to engage the neighborhood by making residents responsible for beautifying and “taking back” their own neighborhood. He had an open call for portrait volunteers — who would hold photographed eyes of neighborhood mothers — and he taught the willing participants how to make paste and install the enormous portraits he enlarged, effectively rallying the community in an art project and humanizing the neighborhood to residents and visitors alike. Distancing himself from the production of his art has become central to JR’s name which nonetheless brings cache to projects he undertakes. “They started to brainstorm and I just became a witness to the event,” he said. “I’m really just the printer.”
Anthony Ramirez II and Matt Rodriguez on JR Hunts Point project, 2011
JR's Hunts Point project, Bronx, 2011
This concept of authenticity and identity most certainly applies to fashion, too. Fashion designers, particularly those with recognizable labels and certainly those in haute couture, have armies of helpers to mold and build any garment. In Valentino: The Last Emperor (an outstanding documentary from 2008), you can witness “the emperor” Valentino loosely sketch a dress, merely make a bow with fabric on a live model to illustrate how he’d like the embellishment to fall before handing it over to his head seamstress, the formidable Antonietta de Angelis, who will guide her own team of seamstresses who must work backwards to create a pattern, cut fabric, stitch together (by hand!), and then present for critique to Valentino, whose name will, of course, be on the label.
Valentino draping Antonietta's instructions
Antonietta & seamstresses working on Valentino dress
Some fashion designers are more hands-on, some favor pattern-making or draping themselves, and some even sew garments themselves, but this is by no means the rule. And unless you’re phenomenally naive as an admirer or consumer of such goods, you don’t expect the designer to have done much more than come up with the idea of any given dress. I just finished reading Japanese Fashion Designers: The Work and Influence of Issey Miyake, Yohji Yamamoto and Rei Kawakubo (my review here), and the intimate collaboration between fashion designer and textile designer is really stressed, yet it is typically the fashiondesigner whose name is recognized by the general public.
Costuming for films has touched upon this theme of credit: you may remember the recent controversy when the influential Mulleavy sisters of Rodarte demanded costume credits for their seven collaborative ensembles in Black Swan (2010), but Amy Westcott was the official Costume Designer who oversaw all costume choices (ironically, many movie-goers only recognized the Rodarte label, due to their successful self-promotion). Edith Head was similarly credited with the entirety of the costumes for Sabrina (1954), though now-famous Givenchy provided all Audrey Hepburn‘s stunning gowns.
Natalie Portman in Rodarte dress from Black Swan
Audrey Hepburn in Givenchy dress, Sabrina
So I can see why people like David Hockney are dubious of Hirst’s artistic credibility when it seems the dissemination of the artistic process is not actually part of the overarching concept, but instead mere laziness. But money is very much a part of this argument, just as much as fame, or “credit.” People get their knickers in a twist when their concepts of authenticity are challenged, especially if you’re a wealthy art / fashion patron who is presumably throwing around a lot of cash for the satisfaction of not only buying something beautiful / spectacular but something that has retail value and ideally will appreciate in monetary value over time (see my earlier post on collecting). Un-wealthy consumers (we’ll call them “the norms”) are notoriously un-picky about “authentic” artistry, as proven by the rampant fashion knock-off industry.
About a week ago, I experienced research serendipity: while sitting in front of my computer in Sweden, searching the archives of Baker Business Library at Harvard University, I came across this little number:
Two women from Dalarna, from a Singer Manufacturing Co. trade card, 1892. From the Baker Business Library at Harvard University. Photo: uncredited.
I was looking for Boston dressmakers and tailors in business in the 1890s (harder than you’d think), and this popped up! My unofficial interest sneaking into my “official” research.
I’d know that dress anywhere: she is a woman in traditional folk dress (folkdräkt in Swedish) from the town of Rättvik, in Dalarna county, Sweden. This place is close to my heart and the dress is familiar to my eye, since my boyfriend’s family comes from the neighboring town of Boda. Dalarna is also famous for a lot of non-Ikea Swedish things you’ve heard of:
Knäckebröd, or "really huge round cracker" as they are called in English. Here with the very Swedish topping of eggs, red onion, and Kalles Kaviar. From the Leksands Bakery website. Photo: uncredited.
And now: Rättvikdräkt!
What is interesting to me is that this sweet girl, in this same traditional dress, is always the visual chosen to represent the region of Dalarna, although each of the small towns has its own very specific system of folkdräkt. For example, see this tablecloth I picked up at a second-hand store:
Traditional folk dress from "Dalarna" (more precisely, Rättvik, in Dalarna) from a tablecloth. Other counties are represented similarly. c. 1940-60. From author's personal collection. Photo: Arianna E. Funk
Definitely a fun 1940s/-50s take on the same outfit!
On the Singer card, she also represents all of Sweden. Like the Dalahäst.
Here’s another example of of a Singer trade card from the Baker collection:
Trade Card for Singer Manufacturing Co., 1892. From Baker Business Library at Harvard University.
These guys are described on the back of the card as being from the “Extensive Empire of the British Crown “. Interestingly, cards featuring women show them in the act of sewing, or at least with a project in progress. These guys, on the other hand, are “native employees” of Singer in India in their “usual costume”.
I just love finding new sources. Trade cards are hardly a stretch as a costume source, but it was certainly a treat and a surprise to see her peeking out among the Corsets and the Emporiums and the Gentleman’s Hats. I especially appreciate any glimpses into the history of the history and documentation of costume.
Have you found any surprising or unexpected sources recently? Share them below!
Corsetry has been the foundation of all women’s clothing over the ages. It’s important that people should not forget this, elegance requires a foundation…. These days people are more fascinated by the complications of a voicemail on their mobile phones than unseen sophistications. –Mr. Pearl
Video: Diane Pernet, A Shaded View
Mr. Pearl, the corsetiere extraordinairewho humbly denies this title. An unseen voice in Diane Pernet’s video, its calm, precise timber evoking calmer and more precise times past; a craftsman known to work corsets until his fingers bleed; a submissive devotee with 18-inch-waist—such details construct the mystery that is Mr. Pearl, a seemingly otherworldly being born of the melding of the corset, desire and discipline.
I am no sadist. Wearing a corset myself means that I can empathize with my client – making a corset becomes a shared experience rather than the imposition of an overly exacting couturier. Perhaps this makes me some kind of feminist?
His Story: Surrounded by such mystique, biographic data feels extraneous. Although it seems responsible to report here, it hardly seems to matter that Mr. Pearl was born Mark Pullin or that he is originally from South Africa. Only slightly more insightful is word from his brother, a motorcycle mechanic, who said young Mark was bullied in school and during military service. And, what to make of the words of his estranged father, a toolmaker, who told The Daily Mail,“I knew he was gay from the day he was born.” (There is no word whatsoever from his ex-wife, actress Terry Norton.)
Mr. Pearl was destined to be a citizen of the world’s great cities. From London, which he embraced “as soon I could leave my military service,” he moved to New York City, where he began corseting after seeing a photograph of Fakir Musafar, father of the modern primitive movement. Mr. Pearl was then 30 years old.
Fakir Musafar
By 1994 he was telling Art Forum that he was three-years into receiving “a corset education, among other things” by Jeanette, who the publication called “London’s principle disciplinarian.” Since then, except for when he bathes, he has been corseted 24-hours a day. (Art Forum)
He opened his Parisian headquarters in 2002. His personal vision has lead to collaborations with designers such as Thierry Mugler, John Paul Gautier, and Christian Lacroix. He has helped to shape the images and the waistlines of celebrities such as Dita von Teese, Kylie Minogue and Victoria Beckham.
Dita in Mr. Pearl. On wearing the corset, he says, “the body becomes voluptuous and palpably ‘there’ rather than repressed.”
His Style: “To wear the corset all the time, the way I do, is my true discipline,” he explained toVerbal Abuse magazine. He defines his relationship with the corset in no uncertain terms. “It is the corset that is the dominant. If you give yourself over to it, in wearing such a garment you are giving yourself up, losing yourself in the discipline.”
Let’s think about it: Mr. Pearl’s consistent wearing of the corset, combined with his fastidious, dapper appearance separates him from the average man on the street, one who may be dashing off to the local Target in disheveled khakis.. Yet he is a reluctant celeb, shying away from blatant fashion stardom—a bit unexpected for someone whose style naturally garners more than a few passing glances. Initially, research on body modification seems applicable; and there are fabulous scholars in our field, such as Assistant Profs (and friends of WT) Theresa Winge, who has focused on subcultural body modification], and Francesca Granata, who has written on Leigh Bowery. Rather than head toward the idea of body modification as group identification or as distinction from others Pearl heads a little closer to some of the research on fetish, of which there’s been some grand writings including Valerie Steele‘s benchmark book on the subject.
Yet the concept of “symbolic self completion” may be most apt in this exploration. Although research in this area is frequently used to discuss fulfilling the performance of a role in society—such as wearing luxury items to be a high roller or a suit to exemplify an ideal worker—in Mr. Pearl’s case it works in its purest form. He is taking the idea of completion out of the social sphere and moving it internal. He’s ignoring societal expectations and focusing, first and foremost, on his own sense of self.] There is symbolism wrapped up in how Mr. Pearl wears the corset and what it represents to him. It’s about how he sees himself and how he feels thoroughly expressive. It’s only through the action of dressing in a corset and its role in his self- presentation that he feels he embodies his true self. That’s unusual I think, as many of these theories are about doing something with others in mind, and yet Mr. Pearl seems to be doing this solely for himself. This makes him an ultimate Anarchist of Style.
After the success of Balenciaga: Spanish Master, it should come as no surprise that the Queen Sophia Spanish Institute was enthusiastic to present another exhibition that focuses on clothing. Joaquín Sorolla and the Glory of Spanish Dress contains a gratifying combination of painting and traditional Spanish attire that simultaneously works to showcase the vision of a talented artist and the richness of Spanish dress.
The exhibition is divided between three floors of the institution. Beginning at the basement level, the first portion of the show contains the greatest quantity of large paintings, and the bright colors splashed across the walls pick up on the intensity of the hues that are synonymous with the Spanish sun and which pop from areas of Sorolla’s dynamic plein air canvases. Paintings are juxtaposed with glass cases of costume, many pieces of which, derive from Sorrolla’s private collection–acquired during his travels and in some cases directly from his models– adding a documentary dimension to the exhibition and creating a fascinating interplay between the art and costume on display.
While the paintings are breathtaking on their own, the ability to examine the intricate embellishment that adorns some of these costumes highlights the appeal of Spanish regional dress as a significant part of the Sorolla works on display. Many of the garments included were worn as a part of custom and ritual, and thus are imbued with layers of symbolism. The jewelry in particular, was piled atop several of the women’s ensembles, and it was a great decision to include a separate case of jewelry in one area that isolated the individual pieces that comprise the heavy bibs of necklaces seen on the mannequins. Materials included stones like tourmaline, garnet, coral, and mother of pearl among others. Each bead, cameo, locket, and amulet seems to tell their own story, often serving auspicious or apotropaic purposes for the wearer such as the corazón de novia or bride’s heart. Additionally, the multiple layers of jewels and garments were a means of establishing wealth and class while also functioning as a portable asset.
There is also a case of garments that include sumptuous brocaded silk textiles such as a Valencian ensemble from the first half of the 20th century that is referential to 18th century fashion and the robe à l’anglaise. Among these is a dress that was worn by the Baroness of Alucuás during the floral games of Valencia in 2006.
A 20th century women’s ensemble from Extremadura includes a montehermoso cap, which houses a small circular mirror at the center top of the item. Single women would wear these mirrored hats that served a functional purpose when they could be utilized to check ones appearance before meeting a potential suitor, simultaneously signaling the marital status of the wearer. Once married, the mirror is removed.
The show continues on the ground floor of the institution. A Nicolas Ghesquiere for Balenciaga coat from Fall 2006 in the lobby was inspired by Basque fisherman–muses for both Ghesquiere and Sorolla–and ushers viewers into the second room where the archetypes of the Flamenco dancer and the Bullfighter are addressed with splendor.
A 1980s cotton broderie anglaise bata de cola flamenco dress that was designed by Lina, and featured in a Lord Snowdon photograph for Vanity Fair in 1987, worn by Naty Abascal, mirrors the exuberance of Sorolla’s Flamenco Dancer from 1914. The pairing underscores the integrality of movement to both dance costume and the interplay of light that characterizes Sorolla’s impressionistic work.
There is also a cluster of lavishly embroidered and embellished bullfighter’s ensembles comprised from a range of pieces from the 1920s through 2011 that utilize new montera, bullfighters hats. The work that goes into the capes in particular is stunning, and even the shocking pink hosiery that swathes the legs of the figures cannot detract from the colorful appeal of these garments.
The topmost floor of the show continues with video footage of Jacqueline Kennedy at Seville’s Feria with the Duchess of Alba in 1966, reproductions of Sorolla’s murals that adorn the walls of theHispanic Society of America, and a grouping of periodical spreads and mannequins that feature contemporary fashion influenced by traditional Spanish dress.
While I’m never unhappy to come across fashion in a museum exhibition, I must confess that in some ways I felt that the inclusion of the contemporary Spanish-inspired design pieces detracted from the show somewhat for me. The essence of the exhibition, and the strength of it in my opinion, was the documented relationship between the many garments that were collected by the artist and their significant contribution to his work and ideas about national identity in general. In some ways, it felt as if the inclusion of items, like a Karl Lagerfeld 2005 dress for Chanel, almost undermined the standalone power that the assemblage of traditional Spanish garments and accessories held on their own. Understandably, the inclusion of more contemporary fashion demonstrates the prevailing influence of more traditional forms of dress and culture on a more global scale today–while also making the exhibition appealing to a larger demographic–but I found the basic story of Sorrolla’s use and acquisition of Spanish dress as an important tool in his painting to be a compelling enough thesis on its own. It would have been nice to see it shine without the pervasive hegemony of haute couture intruding on this vision.
With this in mind, some of the contemporary fashion designs on display are particularly wonderful. There’s a gorgeous Carolina Herrera black velvet gown from Fall 1991 with an asymetrical one-shoulder sleeve and tiers of golden-yellow silk that cascade from one hip with a matching black lace and yellow silk chiffon veil. There is a Stefano Pilati for Yves Saint Laurent evening suit from Spring 2006 with impeccable tailoring, and the Christain Lacroix wedding ensemble from his Fall 2009 couture show that was inspired by the Virgin del Rocío, the patron saint of Almonte, makes a strong case for a future fashion exhibition that focuses solely on the influence of saints and religious icons on contemporary fashion. (I would love to see that piece next to a Gaultier! Any takers?)
All in all, Joaquín Sorolla and the Glory of Spanish Dress is a captivating exhibition and I highly recommend devoting an afternoon to viewing the show. I couldn’t resist picking up a catalog on the spot, which includes essays by Oscar de la Renta, André Leon Talley, Harold Koda from the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Mitchell A. Codding, Covadonga Pitarch Angulo from the Museo Sorolla, Irene Seco Serra from the Museo del Traje, and an essay on Spanish regional jewelry by Maria Antonia Herradón Figueroa. Molly Sorkin and Jennifer Park are also editors for the catalog, and I strongly suspect, the women behind the informative and illustrated label copy throughout the exhibition. You can find more on the catalog here.
Joaquín Sorolla and the Glory of Spanish Dress will be on view at the Queen Sophia Spanish Institute through March 10th, 2012. For more info, please reference their website.
* All images are published in the exhibition catalog Joaquín Sorolla & the Glory of Spanish Dress *
The new year always leads me to reflect on my past so that I can set new goals. This year will mark the start of my third year teaching fashion as an adjunct instructor. Looking back at this experience, I have identified one main key to success. This key will work in any course, across disciplines, and keep your students engaged and learning. So what is this mysterious tenet?
What I’ve learned from my experiences is that keeping students engaged and learning requires you to keep a balance between teaching and entertaining. Consider this your mathematical equation for success:
50% information + 50% entertainment = 100% learning success
Now, that means as an instructor I am ALWAYS searching for new materials, new techniques and ways to reach my students. The classroom is a stage, I am the performer, and my students are the critics.
Entertaining students with factual information isn’t as difficult as it sounds. It usually involves presenting the information, illustrating how that information is relevant to today’s world, and then giving them an activity to internalize the information. I’ve found this formula is particularly helpful when teaching a history of costume course.
Chasuble, late 1500s. Italian voided silk velvet and silk brocade with linen lining. Allentown Art Museum.
Let’s face it: some historical eras can seem inaccessible and therefore boring to students. For example, when teaching the Middle Ages, I’ve found a lot of resistance in discussing monastic dress. Students tend to immediately dismiss this topic as stodgy and completely irrelevant to anything they’d want to design. So it’s up to me to change their minds. Challenge accepted.
Local museums are often a fantastic and overlooked resource. Quite honestly, I sometimes forget to investigate smaller museums, assuming that they are too small to have a costume or textile collection. Yet I was pleasantly surprised by my recent visit to the Allentown Art Museum. The museum had a small exhibit entitled Heaven on Earth: Textiles of the Renaissance and Baroque. I was immediately inspired to create an assignment for my history of costume class.
I’ve found that after lecturing on topics, it’s best to have an activity that reinforces the information you’ve covered. To really drive the point home, I always ask for a comparison to the present day. (You’ll see this in the activity I created below.) Without understanding the evolution of history and it’s impact on today’s world, you’re entering treacherous waters. I never want my students to be wondering “when am I ever going to use this?”. If you can illustrate why topics are relevant and important to your students’ careers, they’ll be much more likely to remember the content of your course.
For this assignment, I would take the class to the museum and conduct a brief review of the Middle Ages and Italian Renaissance. Then I would have the class break into small groups and complete the following questions:
In your own words, describe who would have worn a chasuble and what were its historic origins.
Even though these textiles were made in Italy, how do they showcase cross-cultural influences? Please discuss where the design motifs originated and how they arrived in Italy.
Detail of Chasuble, late 1500s. Italian voided silk velvet and silk brocade with linen lining. Allentown Art Museum.
Clothing communicates identity. Aside from the chasuble being a uniform, what did the quality of the textiles used say about the wearer? Please compare the chasuble to the garments of common people at the time and explain how this indicated status.
One of the major sources of information about dress of the time comes from illuminated manuscripts and religious art. How accurate are these sources compared to the textiles in this exhibition? Please compare and contrast a textile and painting of your choice. (A great source for illuminated manuscripts is the Morgan’s online exhibition, Illuminated Fashion)
Detail of Vestment decoration, c. 1625. Italian silk satin with embroidery. Allentown Art Museum.
Italy became the velvet capital of the world during the Middle Ages and Renaissance. In your own words, please describe the technology needed to make velvet and why it was so “cutting edge” at the time. Compare and contrast this to the leading technology of our era.
Orphrey Fragment of The Annunciation, early 1400s. Italian silk with gilt foil-wrapped thread, brocade weave. Allentown Art Museum.
Before leaving, I would have a discussion where each group share their answers. For homework, I would have them do either one of two assignments:
Sketch a contemporary garment inspired by the textiles and garments from our museum visit.
Research a contemporary designer who designed a collection based on textiles and garments from this time period. Write a brief response to their collection, and describe your favorite look. Compare this look to what we saw on our museum trip. (Remember to print image)
Either homework assignment will illustrate how these historical trends can be used today. When I assign a sketching assignment, I only assess it for neatness and connection to the material covered. I wouldn’t grade it in the same manner as a portfolio course. Here is an example of a similar assignment I gave when teaching the 18th Century. My student, Sandra, designed a modern-day take on the chemise a la reine by using a traditional silhouette with contemporary fabrics.
Modern-day take on the chemise a la reine. Illustration by Sandra Church.
Generally, I write about exhibitions and events that I have the opportunity to attend. But today I wanted to let WT readers know about a show that I have been working on, and extend an invitation to all who are going to be in the NYC vicinity to come check it out! The opening is this evening from 6-8 p.m. Details below:
Over the course of my recent holiday travels I was pleased to finally make it to the Bata Shoe Museum in Toronto. This institution, as you may have already surmised, is completely devoted to the history of footwear. The museum is comprised of four floors, each which house separate exhibitions and I was thrilled to take the time to wander through all of them.
The lower level of the museum contains a semi-permanent exhibition that provides an overview of footwear through time and geography. While this exhibit was the most straightforward, arranged in a chronological time-line sort of layout in comparison to the more aesthetically considered special exhibitions on display throughout the other floors of the museum– I found this installation to be the most compelling. After years of looking at footwear in painting and illustration, film and photography, and in bits and pieces in other museum shows, it was extremely gratifying to walk the perimeter of the room and examine physical specimens of centuries of footwear in this manner. I am a huge proponent of object-based study, and the Bata Shoe Museum made a strong case for the merits of this approach time and time again.
The timeline begins with the Anthropologist Mary Leakey’s discovery of human footprints in Laetoli Tanzania in volcanic ash in the year 1976, addressing the significance of upright walking for human development, and ends in the 21st century with the largest pair of sneakers that I have ever seen. In between were examples of Etruscan footwear, bejeweled Indian Mojaris and Padukas, Renaissance velvet Chopines, Turkish Nalins with bells around the perimeter, and examples of the Islamic Babouche to name a few. While I have seen many examples of small silk-embroidered gin lien shoes from China designed to accommodate bound feet, it was fascinating to see heavily treaded black leather boots of this size meant for women from lower socio-economic classes who were required to do manual labor, exemplifying the far reach of foot-binding practices in early China. Another pair from the early 20th century when the custom had become outlawed incorporated ‘western-style’ elements into Chinese women’s shoes as a way of accommodating this transitionary time when many women still had modified feet from earlier years of binding. A personal favorite from western fashion was a pair of teal, navy, and silver shoes produced by André Perugia c. 1937-38 for Elsa Schiaparelli’s Circus Collection that were previously owned by la Spinelli.
Other floors included a small exhibition: Footprints on the World Stage, which contained an eclectic assortment of ‘celebrity’ footwear that ranged from shoes worn by Justin Bieber to the socks that Napoleon Bonaparte wore during his exile to St. Helen in 1821. There was a charming pair of crocheted peacock feather shoes worn by Margaret Atwood and a mid-1980s pair of Halston-designed pumps that were worn by Elizabeth Taylor. This portion of the museum was the most hit or miss. While certain items, such as a black leather “Beatle boot” worn by John Lennon create a historical link between popular historical footwear styles and the influence that celebrity can maintain within fashion– as much as I was intrigued to find a pair of socks worn by Napoleon Bonaparte, I’m not sure what their presentation in this context really said about the history of footwear.
Beauty, Identity, Pride: Native North American Footwear, showcased the strength of the museum’s collection, and provided inspiring examples of fringing, beadwork, and other forms of embellishment while revealing interesting information about natural dyes and traditional Native American design. The top floor of the museum has an exhibition titled Art in Shoes ~ Shoes in Art, which included a fascinating mix of caricature and illustration juxtaposed with fine-art and decorative arts objects that approached footwear from a variety of perspectives.
The Roaring Twenties: Heels, Hemlines, and High Spirits was a perfect balance between aesthetics and history. Examining the tenets of modernism in a post-war society, this exhibition did an excellent job of illustrating the significance that societal change inflicted on footwear. Through themes like the women’s suffrage movement and speakeasy culture, social convention was shown to influence ideas about the symbolic nature of dress and footwear. Via technological changes such as the growth of the automobile industry and increasing industrialization, practicality concerns about the very shapes of shoes as well as appreciation for certain methods of hand-embellishment verse machine made production were addressed. The significance of lifestyle activity, such as the growth of jazz culture in an era when dancing was a considerable form of entertainment for many was exemplified through an emphasis on the decorative and dynamic nature of 1920s footwear. As a supplement to the striking shoes on display that included items like a jewel encrusted pair of André Pérugia shoes, there were also some hats, a pair of dresses, and many fashion illustrations that provided context for the many cases of footwear. Additionally, there were areas where 1920s film clips were projected, which contributed to the overall milieu and provided the necessary motion that is tantamount to footwear.
Overall, I found the Bata Shoe Museum to be a fun and engaging visit. The museum offers a variety of events and educational programming that encourages all ages and interest levels, and the programming seemed to balance the diversity of their audience in a skillful way. For those who will not be in the Toronto area anytime soon, the museum also hosts online exhibitions that can be found here.
All images are from the Roaring Twenties exhibition taken during my visit to the museum. Click here for more information about theBata Shoe Museum.
In December 2010, Lisa ntroduced us to Barbette, aerialist phenomenon of the 1920s and 1930s famous for his high wire and trapeze stunts dressed as a woman.
“He walked with a tightrope high above the audience without falling, above incongruity, death, bad taste, indecency, indignation.”
—Jean Cocteau
We suspect that Barbette, aerialist phenomenon of the 1920s and 1930s, might disagree with being categorized as an “Anarchist of Style.” Anarchy can be, well, so disruptive. In his heyday, his closest were tout Paris; in 1969 this “spare and very erect man,” cringed as a waitress lay down a spoon with a tad too much noise. “Since those years in Paris,” he told a journalist, “I’ve never been able to readjust to crudity.” [1]
Nonetheless, Barbette came to fame doing high wire and trapeze stunts dressed as a woman. His performances were, in his words, “not just an imitation of a women’s trapeze act, but, rather a mystification and a play on masculine-feminine contrast.” [2] Mirroring the enthusiasm of elite Parisian fans such as Jean Cocteau, Janet Flanner, in a 1930 correspondence for The New Yorker, described a chute d’ange fall as taking on “mythical quality of a new Phaethon deserting the sky.” Jean Cocteau, who considered Barbette a muse, called him “an angel, a flower, a bird.”
His Persona: While clothed as man in daily life, Barbette’s extravagant onstage costumes included a sequined cape and a dress adorned with 50 pounds of white ostrich plumes.
Cocteau described Barbette’s presence on stage as “a real masterpiece of pantomime, summing up in parody all the women he has ever studied, becoming himself the woman—so much so as the eclipse the prettiest girls who proceed and follow him on the program.”[3]
“On stage, against black velvet curtains appeared a young woman in a silvery-gold wig topped with plumes and feathers, with a train of rich lamé and silver lace, undressing on a couch of rich oriental carpets,” wrote author Jacque Damase in his history of the Paris music-hall.
“The woman then rose, naked except for the gems on her breast and belly, and began walking a [low] steel tight-rope. Her eyes shaded green, like some mysterious Asiatic jewel, she walked backwards and forwards along the tight-rope, dispensed with her balancing-pole, and contorted her thin, nervous body as the entire audience held its breath… Then Barbette leapt down on to the stage, gave a bow, tore off her wig and revealed a bony Ango-Saxon acrobat’s head: gasps from the astonished audience, shattered by the sudden brutality of the action.” [4]
His Story: Born Vander Clyde in 1904 in Rolling Rock, Texas, Barbette’s mother changed his life. “The first time she took me to a circus in Austin,” he said, “I knew I’d be a performer, and from then on I’d work in the fields during cotton picking season in order to go to the circus as often as possible.” [5]
After graduating high school, he joined the sister-act, the World Famous Ariel Queens in San Antonio. His first act of gender-bending was pure business. In his interview, one of the sisters explained that “women’s clothes always make a wire act more impressive—the plunging and gyrating are more impressive,” Barbette recalled. “She asked if I’d mind dressing as a girl. I didn’t and that’s how it began.”
As Barbette began to develop his own act, the gender bending took on a more intellectual inspiration. “I’d always read a lot of Shakespeare, and thinking that the marvelous heroines of his plays were played by men and boys made me feel like I could turn my specialty into something unique. I wanted an act that would be a thing of beauty—of course it would have to be a strange beauty.”
After performing across the United States, Barbette traveled to Paris in 1923. He was soon taken up by society and the avante guard. He was cast in Cocteau’s first film, Le Sang d’un Poete (The Blood of a Poet), as one of a group of Chanel-clad theater-goers giving a standing ovation after the suicide of a card player. (He was “absolutely dismayed” upon seeing the film.)
In 1938, after performing at Loew’s State in New York, he was stricken by pneumonia and “a sudden crippling affliction of the bones and joints.” Hospitalized for 18 months, the great performer had to learn to walk again. He continued in the theater, although backstage as a trainer. But it seemed he missed the refinement of the good old Paris days. “I know I’ll be lucky” he told a reporter in 1969, “ if in return for my very handsome salary I succeed in persuading a few young trapezists just not to chew gum during the act. Imagine!”
Barbette committed suicide in 1973.
(Lisa and Monica collaborated on this post.)
For further discussion see:
Cocteau, J and Man Ray. Barbette, 1989
Goldbarth, A. Different Fleshes. Hobart & William Smith, 1979.
Tait, P. Circus Bodies: Cultural Identity in Aerial Performance. Routledge, New York. 2005.
Notes:
[1-3, 5] Steegmuller, Francis. “An Angel, A Flower, A Bird.” The New Yorker, September 27, 1969.
[4] Damase, J Les Folies du Music-Hall; A History of the Paris Music-Hall from 1914 to the Present Day, English translation of the original 1960 French edition, Anthony Blond Ltd, London, 1962.
A while ago a volunteer asked how to identify the difference between little girls and little boys dresses from the 19th Century. She had an example from her museum collection and wanted me to confirm whether a girl or a boy wore it. It is confronting when you get asked something like this, there are so many nuances in fashion that it is not always easy to identify dress as something in particular. Brenna wrote a post about the use of colour in gender stereotyping for children in the United States during the post World War 2 period. In this post, I want to look at some of the complexities of identifying boys and girls dresses from the 19th Century.
Before the early 20th Century small boys and girls both wore dresses up until boys were breeched. Breeching is the occasion when young boys, between the ages of six and eight were first dressed in breeches or trousers. Popular in Western Europe, it was common up until the early 20th Century. It was the outward demonstration of his passage from the care and guidance of a woman, his mother or nurse, to preparation for his future as a man in the world. When in their mothers care they wore dresses, and once in the care of men, whether father or tutor, they wore breeches. For girls, on the other hand, there was no break with childhood clothes; they moved slowly into adult dress. Breeching clearly expressed the separation between the educations of young girls and boys.
It can be difficult to determine the difference between dresses worn by little girls and boys during the 19th Century. There are, however some subtle differences that can help differentiate. These include the use of slightly simpler embellishment and fabrics in boys dress. This little boys dress from the early 20th Century illustrates this. It is made of cotton velvet; it has a round neckline and square sailor collar at front and back with 6 mother of pearl buttons down the front
Dress, boy's, cotton velvet / silk / mother-of-pearl, maker unknown, made in Australia, 1900-1901, Collection: Powerhouse Museum, Sydney
Girl's dress, shot striped silk, frills & fringed. c. 1880 Collection: Powerhouse Museum, Sydney
This little girls dress, although of a slightly earlier period (c. 1880) demonstrates the use of embellishments in little girls dress. It is made of silk, has a full flounced skirt with lace edging around the neckline and cuffs. This dress is similar in style to fashionable women’s dress of the same period. Some of the differences between these two dresses include the use of lace and silk on the little girl’s dress as opposed to the plainer use of brown velvet and no frills on the boy’s. The boy’s dress also uses a sturdier fabric and is simpler in style.
Dress, boy's wool, late 19th century, early 20th century, Collection: Powerhouse Museum, Sydney
On the other hand, this little boys dress from the late 19th Century uses lace decoration at the neckline and around the sleeves. These embellishments are similar to the little girls dress above.
Similarly, this boy’s dress, dating from between 1875 and 1899 is made of burgundy silk velvet with a gold coloured embroidered trim. It is also an example of an embellished boy’s dress.
Boy's dress, wool flannel, trimmed with cerise velvet tabs and small pearl buttons, England, c. 1860 Collection: Powerhouse Museum, Sydney
Lastly, this boy’s dress dates from the 1860s, made of wool flannel; it is trimmed with velvet tabs and small pearl buttons. It has a full skirt similar to the 1880s girls dress.
Looking at these examples of boy’s dresses it is easy to see how it can be difficult to determine the differences between boys and girls dresses from the 19th and early 20th Century. Although, as a general rule, boys wore plainer dresses to girls before breeching, there are some examples of embellished boys dresses. This is a reminder that it can be difficult to identify dress. Without provenance you cannot be sure if something is one thing or the other, especially with something as tricky as boys and girls dress in the 19th Century.
For more information on 19th Century children’s clothing, I recommend the following publications:
-Buck, Anne, ‘Clothes and the Child: A handbook of Children’s Dress in England 1500-1900′, Ruth Bean Publishing, Carlton, 1996
“Sweden has long been known for its beautiful women, but its reputation for clothes has been popularly based on wearing none at all.” LIFE Magazine, October 6, 1958 (1)
With the increasing global visibility of Swedish labels from Cheap Monday to Ann-Sofie Back, the concept of “Scandinavian Design”–so rooted in interiors of the mid-twentieth century–is slowly expanding to include clothing and fashion. (2) Perhaps in light of this, many costume curators are looking back through Sweden’s fashion design history and have found exciting new topics in this well-researched era. Blogs and boutiques here are overflowing with mid-century dress, but often they are inspired by French or American images from the time. Instead, museum curators seem eager to concentrate on Swedish subjects, highlighting and rediscovering designers and fashion houses all but forgotten in the twenty-first century.
As Karin Falk notes in her new book, Det svenska modeundret [The Swedish Fashion Miracle], “Sweden exporting both style and lifestyle internationally is nothing new. The elegant and functional ‘everyday’ products of the 1950s won world recognition as ‘Scandinavian Modern.’” According to Falk, fashion designers such as Mah-Jong and Katja of Sweden were able to develop and export functional, forward-thinking, political clothing in the 1960s and 1970s. (3) Swedish community ideals and Social Democratic leanings jibed well with burgeoning ideologies and youth movements worldwide, and their expression found in the wildly colorful, comfortable outfits from Mah-Jong were certainly something to wear to the next protest against Suits–or just against wearing a suit. (4)
Katja of Sweden was a hit in America, and is arguably the most famous name in Swedish vintage. However, the exhibition “Vävda Modedrömmar: från Ripsa till New York” [Woven Dreams of Fashion: from Ripsa to New York] at Hallwylska museet seeks to give recognition to a forgotten contemporary who balanced the color of Mah-Jong with the traditional textiles and shapes associated with Scandinavian dress, and exported a more conservative side of Sweden.
Set in three rooms of the von Hallwyl mansion in the center of Stockholm, this straightforward exhibition features the textile and clothing design of one woman, Countess Ebba von Eckermann, through the personal collection of another, Ann Forsberg, wife of the former American ambassador. I found the flow of this exhibition to be palpable and well thought-out, and the narrow scope satisfying and inspiring.
The Countess Ebba von Eckermann in the "Ripsa Skirt" of her own design, c.1955. Photograph: Ebba von Eckermann.
This is an interesting exploration of the role of weaving in fashion; even though in Sweden weaving was still an art and a pastime in the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s, the awareness of the average clothing consumer was shifting away from process and technique.
"In the Weaving Studio 1961." Inga-Lill Andersson warping a loom. There were seven looms in the workshop. Published in Den glömda kjolen.
As the fashion industry explored the futures of synthetics and electronic machinery, weaving woolen cloth on a human-powered machine must have seemed a bit quaint. One contemporary writer lamented,
“‘Handwoven’–that might sound a little outdated to many ears in these automated times. No-one has very sentimental views on hand-weaving nowadays. That which people presently demand shall first and foremost be practical, correspond to their needs, preferably be beautiful and furthermore be reasonably priced.” (5)
However, that Ebba The Countess had woven many of the textiles herself in the Swedish countryside played to the pastoral fantasies of her clients, and her stylish eye translated these traditional-looking fabrics into fashionable, if conservative, dresses and gowns. (6)
The first room of this exhibit was set in the ladies’ drawing room of the Hallywyl house. The visitor is introduced to the designer’s most well-known garments, heavy woven skirts with wide elastic waistbands, and short coats that–with a little Swedish ingenuity–are simply blankets, folded and buttoned:
Directions on how to assemble a Ripsa "pläd", published in Den glömda kjolen.
Dior was enchanted by the countess’ ingenuity, and offered both garments in his Paris boutiques in the 1950s, introducing the small Swedish brand to the global fashion market. But this is the first and last we hear of him: this exhibition is about Ebba. Seventeenth century tapestries hanging on the wall remind the visitor of the long history of textile construction, and sounds of shifting heddles and rolling shuttles transports the visitor to the weaving rooms at Ripsa, the idyllic countryside town in the Södermanland region of Sweden where these fabrics and garments were produced.
Model in "Marg" Ripsa Jacket (named after the Countess' mother), 1952. Modern photograph recreating contemporary outfit. Photograph: Jens Mohr.
Contemporary photograph of model Erika Sundt in "Marg" Ripsa Jacket, 1952. Photograph: KW Gullers. Published in Den glömda kjolen.
These workaday noises gave way in the next room to tinkling laughter and clinking glasses, overlaid with slow jazz. In concert with the grand piano and the chandelier in the von Hallwyls’ grand ballroom, this soundtrack set the scene for more than twenty colorful, woven dresses and gowns for day and evening, some with matching coats. These were garments aimed at women such as Mrs. Forsberg, who worked as hard as they played, balancing traditional ideals and national identity (here represented through weaving) with contemporary silhouettes and color palettes.
Colorful wovens in the ballroom. Photograph: Erik Lernestål, LSH.
The first word I thought when I walked in was, färgstarka!: literally, “color-strong”. Sure enough, that’s how the curators describe Ebba’s typical customers:färgstarka kvinnor, colorful women. These complex textiles were crafted into simple silhouettes–“basplagg”in Swedish–common to the 1960s or 1970s, especially smart for showing off the expert weaving that was central to the Ripsa name. And the sparkle! Metallic fibers woven into garments displayed a modern attitude toward the ancient craft.
Woven dress and coat, 1960s. Photograph: Erik Lernestål, LSH.
The strength of this exhibition was that the emphasis was on the objects. Much of the accompanying text is available only through printed handouts (in six different languages), giving the audience the choice to engage further with the objects–or just be present. There is plenty of background on the designer in the attendant book (available in the gift shop!) and perhaps the idea is that this information is better consumed at home, along with a cup of tea and a kanelbulle, after you’ve had the chance to see these garments up (relatively) close and personally.
I find this material-cultural approach exciting. Of course I also value well-researched text-rich exhibitions, but the apparent simplicity and near uniformity of these garments is enhanced by the pared-down presentation. This telescopic view of seemingly omnipresent mid-century fashions is valuable for a more complex understanding of these decades. The exhibition offers a local counterpoint to the clothing the visitor sees on TV while maintaining the glamour that draws people in. I think there’s something to be learned here about the breadth that can be found in a narrow focus.
(1) I assume this is referring to notorious Swedish pornography, famously “exposed” in the article “Sweden & Sin” from TIME Magazine, April 25, 1955.
(2) “To many people, the link between Scandinavia and design is still a familiar story of functionalism and the social democratic welfare states of the twentieth century. But until recently, the Scandinavian countries–Denmark, Norway, and Sweden–had not sought to connect themselves with fashion design. This, however, has changed since the turn of the millennium.” Melchior, 2011, 177.
(3) Falk, 31
(4) For more on Mah-Jong, please see Eldvik, 101-120, and Söderholm, 99-125 [Swedish].
(5) Lundbäck, 21, my translation. A more nostalgic view can be found in Henschen’s Handcraft in Sweden, where the authors long for pre-industrial handweaving done in the home. [Swedish and English]
