Something I’ve learned about fashion and textile exhibitions is that size really, truly doesn’t matter. It is generally the big exhibitions — the Met’s annual gala and accompanying show, the de Young’s Balenciaga exhibition, etc. — that get the press, but I have found it is the smaller, more intimate shows that tend to stay with me and which can genuinely surprise me. Such is the case with the Asian Art Museum‘s Woven Luxuries.
As I said in my last post, Woven Luxuries is a small exhibition of only ten pieces from the Indictor Collection in New York and many of those are mere fragments. I was tempted to put quotations around “mere” in that last sentence because what the Asian does in this exhibition is prove that in the right hands, even the smallest fragment of textile can shine. I have see this done before, such as my favorite piece in the de Young’s From the Exotic to the Mystical. But unlike that exhibition, which had over 40 objects many of which were intact, Woven Luxuries is built on ten fragments and it uses them to tell the story of silk velvets in India, Persia, and Turkey and their roles in their respective cultures and empires. No small feat for ten pieces of fabric, but one which they perform masterfully.
At first glance, Woven Luxuries was set up in a similar manner to LACMA’s Art Deco Textiles, though this perception is quickly challenged by the exhibition itself. Opening with the map and wall text you see in the opening image, the Asian sets the ground work for what we will be examining, the collection from which these textiles come, and how important velvets were in Indian, Persian, and Turkish society beginning in the sixteenth century. The exhibition space is dark and cool, as is fitting for displaying delicate, historic textiles. But this darkness also increases the feeling of intimacy, quiet, and contemplativeness that pervades the show.
There is one bench in the room, in front of a video display that plays on a loop. There is no sound, only subtitles against a background of paintings and other artwork from the focus countries which you realize as the video progresses, and zooms in and out on particular details of these paintings, feature the very textiles you are about to examine. The video is slow, but not to the point of becoming aggravating. Instead, this deliberate pace rather cleverly sets the pace for the entire exhibition. Having driven through the insanity that is San Francisco’s Bay-to-Breakers marathon traffic to get to the exhibition, this deliberate, quiet pace was an intense relief — an oasis, if you will, before I had to venture out again.
The video also communicated succinctly the place these textiles held in Turkish, Persian, and Indian court life. Used as tents in a time before hotels when travelling from one court to another, their designs often mimicked the architecture of the various palaces and temples. They were also an indicator of status — though not necessarily wealth — since they were given by the emperor/king/maharaja (depending on which country and which area of that country they were in) to those he felt had done him great, and often personal service.
The next large text panel explained in detail how these luxurious fabrics were made. The weaving process was very precisely outlined, and yet the panel had less text on it than the opening map. It was startling to think of these amazing, luxurous textiles — all of which were made of silk if not in their entirety, at least in some part — being laid on the ground and used as tents. And as you moved through the exhibition, the tombstones continued this theme of being succinct, but informative — using the individual textiles to further the story of velvets in these three countries, and to underscore points that had already been made.
Another wonderful aspect were the magnifying glasses positioned strategically throughout the exhibition (you can see them above). Having just read such a marvelous description of the weaving process, it was wonderful to be able to see elements of that process (the cut silk threads that created the plush, the interweaving of brocade and velvet, etc.) up close without worrying that I would damage the textile or bring down the wrath of a gallery attendant for getting too close. And as you can see from my photographs of details below, it was definitely worth getting up close and personal with these textiles.
The exhibition grouped the textiles by region as well, which was fascinating because you could track the influence the three cultures had on each other through trade and diplomatic contact (those travelling tents I mentioned earlier). Since I did my master’s thesis on India’s influence on Britain, I focused very heavily on the textiles of India before I could look at its influence on British dress and textiles.. And naturally, the interplay and exchange of aesthetics are of great interest to me. Being able to track the evolution of the boteh (flower), or paisley, from something asked for by European traders into something that was distinctly Indian, Turkish, or Persian into what we now think of as the boteh, or paisley teardrop was genuinely fascinating. Especially since I was looking at three distinct evolutions. It also explains why almost all of my close-ups are of flower motifs. I try to keep my personal research interests in check at exhibitions, but sometimes I don’t notice until I look back at my photos that I didn’t entirely succeed.
The tombstones were genuinely informative. They would tell you not only about the particular textile, it’s origin, what it was originally a part of and used for, and the tombstone would invariably find a way to add to the story of velvets in Indian, Persian, and Turkish culture, their relationship with Europe, or the place textiles held in art and material culture of the time period. You can see in the following photos that they often included photos either of paintings that featured the type of textile — as the video did — which importantly shows the culture’s perception of the textile to go with the research the museum has done. Or it might show a similar, intact textile so you could imagine what the piece you are looking at must have looked like when it was “whole.” But my favorites were those which included photos of architectural details with similar designs, so you could compare the design elements, or those like the one below which explained why we might be looking at fragments. It wasn’t because the textiles weren’t valued, but precisely because they were that people tried to preserve as much of these fabrics as they could as the normal wear and tear of time (and being laid on the ground as tent material) took hold.
The photo above shows my absolute favorite part of the exhibition. And in an exhibit I loved as much as this one — that is definitely saying something. To the right of the last textile displayed on the walls of the room, there is an eleventh textile, contemporary in creation, but made in the traditional way. Next to it are visual demonstrations of how textiles in general are woven, and how velvet is woven by comparison.
Even more divine? The sample textiles you COULD TOUCH below these displays! After wall text and video captions and tombstones describing centuries of artistic luxury, I confess I desperately wanted to find someone at the museum and say “look I’m one of you! If I promise to wash my hands, can I please touch the pretty?” Except, I didn’t have to. The museum provided samples. Something that I feel many textile exhibitions should include, because they are just so tactile.
The exhibition, while wonderful, was not perfect. Admittedly nothing is — and this one came very close — but there were a couple things that were disappointing. The first were the fantastic quotes about textiles, which you couldn’t quite read. They were color on color, in low light, high up above the textiles in full light, in a dark room. It genuinely became too much effort to read them all, having to duck and shuffle back and forth to try and get enough shadows that you could read them. They would have been much better placed lower, so they would be more easily read.
The other critique I would make would be that there was one aspect of the story that was not discussed: the weavers themselves. My area of focus is predominantly Kashmir shawls, and I am fully aware of the rather atrocious conditions the weavers lived under during the “golden age” of the shawl in European fashion. I would have loved to know about the weavers of these beautiful velvets, rather than just about their “consumers,” if you will.
However, these two disappointments did not in any way detract from my admiration of this exhibition. Woven Luxuries is beautiful, provided such a wealth of information and it did so in the best way possible: it let the textiles speak for themselves. It is definitely worth a visit if you will be in San Francisco any time soon.
Woven Luxuries is on display until November 1, 2015.
Have you seen Woven Luxuries? What did you think?Are there any small, intimate exhibitions that have stayed with you for weeks afterwards? What were they, and why did they linger? Please share your thoughts in the comments below. And if there are any exhibitions or events that you feel Worn Through readers should know about, please mention them below or feel free to email me the details and I will put them in my next column!
Since I can’t be alone in dreaming of swimsuit weather (even here in California, it’s still too chilly!), and am still covering for Emma, I’ve decided to share this wonderful 1898 video from the British Pathé archives. It features several dancers who scandalized the Brighton Council with their “wanton” display of “flesh” in these glorious 1898 swimsuits. We can live vicariously through them in their warmer weather and laugh at far we’ve come (and haven’t!) in regards to modesty, fashion, and the human body.
To be very honest, Déboutonner la Mode (Unbuttoning Fashion) is probably one of the fashion-related exhibitions I was least excited about this season. Not that the subject did not interest me (being obsessed by the fact of looking at garments from behind, buttons surely occupy a prominent place in my passion) but rather was I worried to find its presentation a little boring. Not easy to create an imaginative and dramatic exposition with such tiny accessories! Yet the Arts Décoratifs made a fabulous job in designing a captivating black walled display that not only brings the attention on the buttons as objects of embellishment but also as true artistic and historical works. Another fascinating element of this exhibition is the story that lays behind: that of a collector, Loic Allio whose 3000 button collection is the main actor of the display. With creations by Alberto Giacometti for Elsa Schiaparelli, Hans Arp, Sonia Delaunay, the sculptor Henri Hamm or the jewelers Francis Winter and Roger Jean-Pierre, raging from the 18th century, its age d’or, to the contemporary period (the display is organized in a chronological order), the exhibition is highly eclectic as it testifies of the variety of craftsmen that have lent their talent to button designs. Thanks to many photographies, drawings, paintings but also garments by Paul Poiret, Christian Dior or André Courrèges, the exhibition perfectly contextualizes the creativity and the cultural significancy of buttons as well as their influence on the aesthetic and silhouette of fashion while it helps us link the miniature objects observed within glasses cases to their greater background, thus adding dynamism to the display.
Buttons par Henri Hamm
The fashion department in the museum always presents its exhibitions on two floors. Here, the first floor ends with the 1910 decade and shows how buttons had become a luxurious and social adornment item during the 18th century – they then responded to strict rules that defined their position on the garment as well as their making – but also the means of political propaganda during the French Revolution – a fantastic example resides in a button garnished with the depiction of a slave and bearing the words: ‘Am I not a man and a brother?’. In the 19th century, buttons become more discreet and practical thanks to the industrial revolution. Buttons feature various sizes and colors and appear on almost every fashion item: from lingerie to shoes.
Women Garments in the 19th century display
With the early 1910s and the Art Nouveau Movement, buttons bear a precious identity again as they are created by artists and jewelers. From social objects, they become decorative naturalistic works and adornments that families adoringly keep in jewelers boxes and pass on to future generations. Paul Poiret emphasizes their importance, believing that knowing where to place them on garments answers ‘a secret geometry that is the key to beauty’. On the second floor, we enter the Art Deco aesthetic of the 1920s while French great couturiers collaborate with gifted craftsmen to design the exquisite buttons of their creations – Madeleine Vionnet accompanied her bias cut dresses with buttons that enhanced the fluidity and asymmetry of her aesthetic – and eccentric designers such as Elsa Schiaparelli dare to collaborate with avant-garde artists such as Pablo Picasso, Hans Arp or Salvador Dali. With World War II, buttons convey noble political messages and symbols again while postwar haute couture uses delicate creations – Christian Dior adds narrative to his garments with buttons while Cristobal Balenciaga believes that a perfectly calculated amount of buttons sculpts the entire structure of his designs – and emerging ready-to-wear associates its minimalist identity to graphic and geometrical buttons.
Elsa Schiaparelli, 1937
With the 1980s, zippers become the norm and the use of buttons has since declined but such designers as Jean Paul Gaultier or Yves Saint Laurent who believed that buttons are the precious stones of clothing, prove to cherish those fragile adornments when they install them at the centre of their creations’ embellishment.
While there is something incredibly familiar with buttons as they belong to our everyday existence, as they have accompany us from the learning of fastening our childhood clothes to that of the sensual gesture of unbuttoning one’s garments during a romantic encounter, with this exhibition we observe how much they have been and are the allies of elegance and ornamentation, building the cut of a garment and thus structuring the silhouette. Today as they have become most often minimalist and almost invisible on our contemporary everyday clothes, they nonetheless are the agents of technical innovations and history.
Exhibition held at the Arts Décoratifs until 19th July 2015
Take a look at Tove Hermann’s post about buttons enemies: zippers
The exhibition’s catalogue: Belloir, Véronique. Déboutonner la Mode. Paris: Les Arts Décoratifs, 2015.
With the V&A’s Hollywood Costumehaving overlapped with the opening of this year’s Art of Motion Picture Costuming, I had wondered what was in store for me when I headed down to Los Angeles this weekend. I was, of course, not disappointed. There may have been some competition for costumes this year, but Michael Black is a master at finding them — especially those by FIDM alumi — after all this time and the museum staff put together a truly wonderful exhibition.
Angelina Jolie’s Maleficent costume, which you see above and below, opened the exhibition and set the tone for drama and fantasy that rather pervaded this year’s exhibition as it pervaded many of the 2014 films.
As the exhibition is entitled The Art of Motion Picture Costume Design, opening with the Maleficent costumes was a perfect way to emphasize the artistry that goes into costume design. The dramatic silhouette of Angelina Jolie’s costume is of course the first thing you notice, but there is a intricate interplay of textures and fabric that draw you in closer and must have been wonderful to see on screen. The train on the gown, coupled with the collar and the sleeves don’t compete for attention but all combine to create a perfect garment for, I confess, my favourite Disney villain EVER. And this was not a case of emphasizing one character at the expense of the others.
Above you see the costumes for not only the fairies, but Prince Philip (in hunting garb) and Princess Aurora when in hiding as Briar Rose. The mediaeval origins of the costume designs are clearly present, but adapted to create a fairy tale world in which dragons and griffins and sleeping curses exist. Having been disappointed before by costumes that turned out to be printed fabrics, it was delightful to see embroidered details on even the fairies’ aprons and gowns, and detailed trimmings on Philip’s hood — minor characters who still received the designer’s full attention.
FIDM Museum’s skill at exhibition design was far more subtle even than the black on black details of Maleficent’s costume. It wasn’t until I’d been all the way through the exhibition that I realized how well the exhibits flowed from one film to the other, from one film genre to the other. Moving in a clockwise motion around the Maleficent display, you saw most of the other fantasy film costumes on display: Exodus, Dracula: Untold, Guardians of the Galaxy, and Night at the Museum. Oddly the biblical costumes for Exodus with their ancient Egyptian armor were the perfect segue into the fantastic interpretations of Turkish and Eastern European clothes found in Dracula.
I loved the Egyptian gown above for its clear links to Fortuny. Even more interesting was the use of the alien villain, Ronan’s costume as a transition from the Eastern European aesthetic of Dracula into the pure SciFi of Guardians of the Galaxy — the similarity in lines between the Turkish armor from Dracula and Ronan’s armor would never have occurred to me had the two not been displayed. I found myself wondering what the Guardians of the Galaxy designer’s inspirations and research included, and what their design process was — exactly the purpose of the exhibition, to highlight the expertise and broad range of knowledge designers must have to draw upon when it comes to even designing for a “comic book” movie (albeit one I rather enjoyed).
It was the next transition that I realized later was absolutely brilliant — it was so subtle that it was only as I flipped through my photos choosing which one I would use for this review that I noticed it. Moving again in a clockwise motion, we went from Guardians of the Galaxy to Birdman, which has its contemporary costumes, but also Michael Keaton’s ‘Birdman’ persona and its extravagant, feathered suit lurking in the background. This was the perfect transition from the purely fantastic movies we had begun with to the more contemporary or historical costumes that dominated this next section of the exhibition.
This section was also the point at which I realized I really hadn’t seen many movies this year, because wonderful as the costumes were (Gone Girl, Get on Up, Step Up — the last costumed by a FIDM alumna) I hadn’t seen many of them.
The next genre shift wasn’t as smooth as the Birdman transition, but it made sense in my head from an historical costuming perspective. Between the fantastic dance costumes from Step Up and the rather incredible costumes by Colleen Atwood from Into The Woods (possibly my absolute favourite Sondheim musical, and it starred Meryl Streep, need I say more?), was a display of costumes from Baz Luhrman’s The Great Gatsby. This made sense in my head because upon seeing the purple dress Carey Mulligan wore as Daisy it became obvious that it wasn’t ruffled, they had simply sewn on little satin “tassels” if you will to simulate ruffles. A way to save fabric no doubt, but in combination with the menswear’s trouser legs being much to narrow for the time period, with Into the Woods costumes beyond it seemed to emphasize the fact that this was a fantasy version of the 1920s — and Fitzgerald’s novel, for that matter — rather than trying for any historical accuracy. Again, a juxtaposition that revealed aspects of the Great Gatsby costuming that would have escaped me otherwise.
I will try not to spend too much time waxing rhapsodic about the small collection of Into the Woods costumes — perhaps it is Disney’s seemingly bottomless budgets, but their costumes always seem to actually be good quality rather than simply appearing good on screen — but I absolutely adored the fairy-tale mix of genres: The 1890s leg o’ mutton sleeves seemingly constructed out of feathers on Meryl Streep’s blue gown, and the adaptation of a seventeenth-century doublet into a rocker-cool leather jacket from Rapunzel’s prince were absolutely brilliant.
The rest of the costumes seemed to rather mirror each other, Big Eyes (set in the 1950s and 1960s) next to the costumes from Jersey Boys, and directly across from them the costumes from Selma, those from The Theory of Everything down the way, with the wonderfully eccentric costumes from The Grand Budapest Hotel mixed in. This was a wonderful grouping because it showed the myriad ways in which a single era of clothing could be interpreted to fit a film’s aesthetic and tell a story.
Also on display were the costumes from The Imitation Game — mixed into the 1960s smorgasbord you see above — and those from X-Men: Days of Future Past. The latter was what you saw as you moved from this main display space back into the opening room with the other fantasy and science fiction costumes — so again, an excellent transition out of historical interpretation into fantasy, especially since I understand that movie involves time travel back to the 1960s. The planning of this exhibition’s displays and layout is absolutely incredible.
This is born out by the fact that as you exit the Motion Picture Costume Design exhibition you see two sets of costumes from two British historical films: Belle and Mr Turner. The latter I have not yet seen (but very much want to), and the former I would not have seen if not for a wonderful podcast review over at Frock Flicks.
Putting these two films together made absolute sense simply from the perspective of grouping the costumes together by genre; but when I tell you that these are the last sets of costumes you see before you round the corner to see the eighteenth-century historic clothing on display from the Helen Larson collection, it becomes apparent that this is also excellent exhibition design.
And this is where I get very, very excited. It’s not that I don’t love movie costumes, it’s just that I love historic garments that much more. In my own research I tend to focus on menswear which is something that does not often make it into exhibition displays — at High Style there wasn’t a single man’s item of clothing to be seen — so I was utterly delighted to see more menswear in this display than women’s clothing. This could just be because the men’s silhouettes were so much narrower for the time period and display space is at a premium in the Helen Larson collection gallery, but the FIDM Museum managed to create such a masterful display that it really captured the range of clothing worn by ladies and gentlemen of the eighteenth century.
There were two full court suits, four waistcoats, and four coats for men; there were four gowns for women including robes à la française, anglaise and a robe volante. My mother had come with me to share the driving and was absolutely fascinated by the latter, especially since the tombstone explained that it was the transitional style that would eventually lead to the other styles on display. Through four gowns FIDM managed to convey the evolution of women’s eighteenth-century court attire. The unfortunate nature of the display space, though, was that since the backs of all but one of the gowns was emphasized it was nearly impossible to see the fronts of the gowns on the other three. I imagine mirrors would have amplified the light which would not have been good for the silk, but it still would have been lovely to see as close to a 365º view of the gowns as possible.
I, naturally, was in raptures about the menswear. Here, too, there was a range of decades in menswear so you could see the breadth of choice that men once had when getting dressed in the morning before the “Great Masculine Renunciation” of color in clothing. I loved the contrast of the velvet court suit with the bright coral silk suit opposite it on the platform. These two suits and the range of coats and waistcoats showed the various ways that menswear in the eighteenth century could be decorative. There might be embroidery, the fabric — as with the velvet suit (my personal favorite) — might be decoration enough, or you might have not only an exquisite fabric but appliqués and tassels as with the coral court suit.
And to put the finishing touches, if you will, on the period — there were a number of accessories on display including a fan, a work bag, and two pairs of very elaborate (of course!) shoes.
These two exhibitions have confirmed my belief that a visit to the FIDM Museum is always worth the trip.
The 23rd Annual Art of Motion Picture Costuming exhibition closes this Saturday, April 25, so get there while you can! Opulent Art: 18th-Century Dress from the Helen Larson Historic Fashion Collection will be on display until July 4th.
Have you seen either of these exhibitions? What did you think? Do you have an exhibitions or events happening near you or at your institution that you would like to share with Worn Through’s readers? Feel free to leave a comment, or to email me the details!
I’ll say straight out that as an admirer of the work of Amy de la Haye and Judith Clark, I was happy to see a publication on fashion exhibitions coming from these two accomplished and innovative curators. As many Worn Through readers are likely aware, Clark and de la Haye have curated several exhibitions for the Victoria and Albert Museum (V&A) and are faculty at the London College of Fashion. They take very different approaches to the practice and subject of fashion curation, which often intersect with each other. Clark has been careful not to call herself a “dress historian”, preferring to use fashion to “talk about other things” (Clark and Philips, 2010: 110) and make linkages in aesthetics, philosophies, and design techniques and strategies across time and space. De la Haye takes an object-based, historical approach guided by material culture studies and the social life of dress. The front and back covers illustrate these approaches and the ultimate goal of the book quite nicely, with an archival installation photograph of the main subject of study, “Fashion: An Anthology by Cecil Beaton” (front cover), and its trajectory into the future with a recasting of the exhibition’s promotional imagery and Beaton’s garment selection through a photograph from Harper’s Bazaar in 2013 (back cover).
Front and back covers of Exhibiting Fashion: Before and After 1971, Yale University Press, 2014
This study is not an exhaustive overview of the history of fashion exhibition themes, strategies, protagonists, or techniques (de la Haye directs readers to Lou Taylor’s excellent Establishing Dress History  for more detailed historical analysis). The title alludes to this incompleteness by referencing a specific pivotal date in time–the year 1971. The authors take “Fashion: An Anthology by Cecil Beaton” (henceforth referred to in this review as “Anthology”) as a significant marker that changed how fashion was interpreted and displayed, “a moment of shift in fashion curatorship” (p. 6). Overall, the focus is squarely on the V&A and Beaton’s exhibition, with brief discussions of exhibitions and exhibiting strategies at other museums in the UK, Europe, and the U.S. (the latter mainly the Metropolitan Museum of Art). Because Anthology is not discussed by Beaton in his diaries or by his subsequent biographers, de la Haye and Clark saw a gap in discussion and an opportunity to give this exhibition the scrutiny it deserves, utilizing the recollections and research of past V&A curators, the institutional papers, and archival photographs.
De la Haye and Clark set up their case by first giving some crucial historical context as to why Beaton’s exhibition matters so much (the first three chapters are written by de la Haye). Historically, garments were first kept at the V&A because of the quality or importance of the textile only, or the trimmings or embroideries as evidence of craft. In the context of the V&A, modern, contemporary fashion was not collected pre-1971. Up to that point, the goal of bringing legitimacy and respectability to the study of fashion and dress continued to be hard-fought, with the prevalent attitude to costume throughout most of the 20th century as being a “a sort of rather unholy by-product of the textile industry,” to quote Charles Gibbs-Smith commenting on the occasion of James Laver’s death in 1975 and the respectability that Laver brought to the study of costume in England (p. 38). De la Haye dedicates several pages to three British dress study and curation pioneers–James Laver, Doris Langley Moore, and Anne Buck. These “curatorial case studies” not only acknowledge their contributions to the field but also act as a foil or significant antecedent to the display and curatorial choices within Beaton’s exhibition.
An important point de la Haye emphasizes is that the only two exhibitions of modern fashion at the V&A in the 20th century (pre-1971) were organized by non-professional curators, or by those outside of the museum world–Beaton in 1971, and the 1946 exhibition, “Britain Can Make It” (BCMI), by James Gardner, affectionately known as “G”. Both exhibitions were also connected to the commercial side of fashion as well–the Council of Industrial Design for BCMI, and the talents of window dressers from major department stores and the inclusion of contemporary London boutiques for Anthology. BCMI was an industry show of mixed media with a large emphasis on contemporary fashion for men, women, and children–some fashions so new that they were not yet available to the buying public. The role of exhibition designer did not exist before WWII, and BCMI showcased innovative and “fantastical” exhibition techniques and tableaux by Gardner that were new to the presentation of fashion. This is evident in numerous archival photographs found at the Brighton University’s Design Archives that reveal spaces filled with theatricality, a sense of movement, and a touch of Surrealism, and contrast with photographs of costume display at the V&A pre-1946 in previous pages, which tend to show garments in rows of display cases or configurations that call for contemplation of single or small clusters of garments in a spare, uncluttered space. Interestingly, BCMI continues to be the highest attended show in the V&A’s history. Eye-catching, theatrical, and highly designed exhibitions continue to draw crowds and capture the public’s imagination today.
Next, de la Haye discusses Beaton’s artistic practice. Numerous examples of his innovative approaches in film and theater design, photography, and his love of fancy dress and the fashionable people he often photographed inform how he envisioned his collection, and ground the presentation of dress seen in the exhibition images in Chapter 3. One can see Beaton’s penchant for creating tableaux with unusual, “low tech” materials (such as distinctive foam masks on mannequins, originally intended for their packing and transport), and his love of illusion and “metamorpheses of space” that were realized through the work of exhibition designer Michael Haynes.
Beaton first suggested the idea for an exhibition of modern fashion to the museum’s then-director, John Pope-Hennessy, in 1969. Couture would be its “central tenet”, and it was accepted by the director with the stipulation that the exhibition would steer clear of celebrity and promote the garments as “works of art”, not “socially salient objects”, in keeping with the V&A’s emphasis on design (p. 69). Ironically, this focus would fall short of Beaton’s original vision of highlighting the specific personalities and tastes of the fashionable women he admired (this would be done four years later at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s “American Women of Style”, curated by Beaton’s close friend, Diana Vreeland). Instead, the exhibition was broken up into 16 sections, some chronological (1920s, 1930s, 1950s), some dedicated to a particular designer (Dior, Balenciaga, Givenchy), some to English contemporary design (Mary Quant, Biba), some to a particular “look” (Space Age) or group (Royal Family).
De la Haye examines this loss of object biography in an extended discussion of Diana Vreeland’s sequined Chanel pyjama suit, which she first considered in her article on Beaton’s Anthology in Fashion Theory (Haye, 2006). She not only considers Vreeland’s ensemble in the context of Anthology, but also how its presentation and attendant meanings have shifted and changed in the years before and after 1971, both at the V&A and other institutions worldwide. This is a good set-up for Clark’s later section, which traces the outward and inward reverberations backwards and forwards in time of the styling, construction, display, and conceptual approaches in the exhibition.
One of the strengths of this book is the copious illustrations, many of which have never been seen before this publication, and that dominate the central section of the book. There is not one section of this publication that is not significantly illustrated. In talking about and researching exhibition history, images are crucial, and oftentimes they are all we have in reconstructing a curator’s vision or intention. Sometimes there are none at all left to posterity. The size of the publication, nearing coffee table book-size at 12 inches in length, lends itself well to showing off the color and black-and-white installation photos to their best advantage.
Complete documentation of installations is common now, but much more unusual for exhibitions of the past. De la Haye notes that often the timing of publication and exhibition do not coincide, and that studio shots are generally privileged over installation images. Likely because of the high-profile nature of the Beaton exhibition, many installation photographs exist; several photos show the same installation from different vantage points. This is extremely helpful for analysis, as both de La Haye and Clark note that the object selection for exhibition was done very hastily, and the exhibited items are not noted in the catalog (all 405 garments and accessories from Beaton’s collection–donated to the V&A, the first significant gift of contemporary fashion–are listed). De la Haye describes Beaton’s installation and Haynes’s design as “enticing, exacting, and original” (p. 72) even to our eyes today, and the photographs of extremely varied and dynamic tableaux are very convincing of this point. As Judith Clark points out in her later section (#15, “The Mannequins–Gestures”, p. 145), the shorthand or “simplistic equations” for mannequin choices were not established as of 1971. Anthology’s configurations and mannequin types (especially the bald, makeup-less ones) may look very familiar to our contemporary eyes and we may forget how experimental they were at the time. Some viewers found the bald mannequins, their heads draped with chiffon, unattractive, “as though there was a bank raid in progress” (p. 104); it was also revolutionary at the time for designer boutiques to use mannequins–the standard method was flat display for garments.
When the book shifts to dusty rose pink pages with red ink print, this aesthetic clue tells us that we are shifting gears–the visual equivalent of “now for something completely different.” Despite this signal and pleasing color combination (and not the only case in the book where color is used to indicate a transition in direction), I must say that the red print on pink paper is extraordinarily difficult to read, even in the best of lighting situations.
Judith Clark chooses “28 Aspects” of the exhibition on which to focus her attention,whether it is the multiple meanings of a styling prop (#6, “Wigs”; #15, “The Mannequins–Gestures”; “Peach Mirror”), the employment of certain kinds of materials (#14, “Gauze–Blurring”; #10, “Perspex”), future exhibitions inspired by the methods or motivations of Beaton’s Anthology (#4, “Environments, 1996″; #24, “After Beaton, Jones”), a design or museological strategy (#13, “Rotations”; #1, “Finding Space”), or exhibition images that elucidate Anthology catalog entries (#7, “Painted Backdrops: Dali, Bosch and Lepape”), to name a few.
Clark weaves a web of connections between the exhibition and its designers, collaborators, and overall aims to other exhibitions, designers, imagery, museum practice and display approaches past and present. For example, she considers how contemporaries such as Anna Piaggi and vintage dealer Vern Lambert affected Anthology and Beaton’s vision (#23, “Italian Vogue”) and how future designers like Gianfranco Ferre followed threads considered by Anthology and engaged fashion past and present simultaneously (#4, “Environments, 1996″). In the majority cases the visual and textual evidence for her time and space traveling is intriguing and compelling. She uses Anthology to “talk about other things” (her quote referenced above) and raises some interesting questions, such as, “If the object (dress) is already defined by its commercial production and established means of dissemination, does it mean that the exhibition can only be an extension of this, or can it be a critique of it too?” (p. 151).
Some readers may find this open-ended, non-conclusiveness unsatisfying, but in many cases a definitive answer to many of these questions is not possible nor necessarily desired, and leaves the question open for the reader to consider. However the reader chooses to view 28 Aspects, I find that Clark takes an interesting approach to dissecting the meanings and significance of the various exhibition strategies and circumstances, and how they have been culled from both the past and contemporary practice and reverberate forward into the future. Clark’s meditations are about exploring possibilities and connections, anticipated and unexpected.
The final section, “An Incomplete Inventory of Fashion Exhibitions Since 1971″ by Jeffrey Horsley, is also illustrated and invites the reader to chart further the traces of or departures from Anthology throughout subsequent exhibitions, from 1971 to 2014. The image of a robe à la française at the Musée Galliera reflected in an infinity mirror (p. 199) recalls the optical illusion mirror in the Dior section of Anthology, or the concentric black and white squares behind Beaton’s costume for My Fair Lady that greeted visitors at the exhibition entrance.
Horsley culled exhibition dates and titles from colleagues, his own collection of exhibition brochures and ephemera, and from exhibition reviews in journals. Exhibition trends, though not conclusive, reveal that exhibits of wedding attire, 18th century dress, and accessories (hats, shoes, etc.) are perennially popular. The “thought show”, or exhibitions examining cultural and social issues surrounding fashion continue to grow since the 1990s; designer monograph exhibitions are also very popular but remain Eurocentric, with the exception of Japanese contemporary designers.
Beaton reflected on his regret that he could not include or acquire everything he wished for for the exhibition and the larger collection with the statement, “I comforted myself that an anthology, by its nature, is always incomplete” (p. 71). Those looking for a definitive, complete study of international fashion exhibition history in this publication will be disappointed. This publication offers instead a thought-provoking, creative–and incomplete–approach to looking at exhibiting fashion and a pivotal moment in fashion exhibition history. Overall, Clark, de la Haye, and Horsley’s study successfully demonstrates how Anthology was, especially for the V&A, a plunge into uncharted territory with new and exciting presentations of not just historical fashion, but clothing of the moment. It provides fascinating material to return to again and again, and leaves out a welcome mat for all who wish to venture further into the research of the fashion exhibition.
Clark, Judith and Phillips, Adam (2010). The Concise Dictionary of Dress. London: Violette Limited.
Haye, Amy de la (2006). Vogue and the V&A Vitrine: An Exploration of How British Vogue has responded to Fashion Exhibitions at the Victoria & Albert Museum from 1971 to 2004, with specific reference to the exhibition, “Fashion: An Anthology by Cecil Beaton” and garments imprinted with wear. Fashion Theory (10): 127-151.
Taylor, Lou (2004). Establishing Dress History. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.
If I didn’t know better, I would claim that someone at the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco knows that March is my birthday month. Not only did Botticelli to Braque: Masterpieces from the National Galleries of Scotland open at the deYoung at the beginning of the month — institutions I visited frequently while earning my master’s degree in Edinburgh — but High Style: The Brooklyn Museum Costume Collectionopened a week and a half ago at the Legion of Honor. I was lucky enough to visit on Saturday as part of a Costume Society of America, Western Region event.
I had been aware of the wealth that is the Brooklyn Museum Costume Collection, even while a graduate student new to the field. This speaks to the magnitude of the collection, that even in cold Edinburgh with the Victoria & Albert a four-hour train ride away, I was avidly following the Brooklyn Museum-Metropolitan Museum of Art costume collection merger. Not that I need tell anyone reading this blog that this is an incredible collection. That being said, I was extremely keen to see High Style, since as a California resident I had no idea when I would have such an opportunity again.
The exhibition was extremely popular, as fashion and costume exhibitions are wont to be, with a hugely diverse audience. The exhibition moves to a certain extent through decades which gives a sense of continuity and impressions of a general aesthetic for each era from 1900 to the 1980s. This was an intriguing background for the clothing of the visitors who might be “old” or “young” (both being relative terms), from hipsters to well, anyone and everyone else. To me, this diversity speaks to the universal appeal fashion exhibitions have to the public, especially when they are as well done as this one.
I went through the exhibition twice. Once with my ‘Worn Through Managing Editor’ cap on, the other as myself — because it was such an amazing exhibition. Having purchased and looked through the catalogue after these two walkthroughs, it became very apparent that the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco (FAMSF) selected only a small portion of the collection available to them. This was clearly both purposefully and masterfully done. While the late-eighteenth- and early-nineteenth-century historian in me is a bit sad that I did not get to drool to the side of the garments from those eras, I was extremely impressed by this exhibition, and surprised to be.
Considering the wealth of talent in the Bay Area, the FAMSF museums often fall short in the exhibition design department. There is a lot of stepping on toes, nearly colliding with other patrons, and looking lost as you look for the next audiotour track number — if you are using an audiotour — because where you are supposed to go next is anything but clear. This may be a personal quirk of mine, but the flow of an exhibition’s layout and design is something that I am always hypercritical of when I am visiting exhibitions. Even when I enjoy an exhibition, I can feel myself tut-tutting at the layout in the back of my mind if it is very noticeably vague. I don’t want to be distracted by the art because I’ve just nearly — or possibly not “just nearly” — collided with another visitor. This is possibly unfair — one of those “museum insiders make the worst museum visitors” instances — since I am fully aware that the museums are often left adapting spaces that are not ideal, but it is still something that needles me. That being said, High Style is beautifully laid out and uses the temporary exhibition space in the Legion of Honor’s basement to perfection.
The FAMSF selections as I said take full advantage of the catalogue offered them by the Brooklyn Museum, but to tell a story they wish to tell. The story they chose is the story of haute couture and high fashion from 1900 through 1980s. While the first arresting gowns are evening and presentation gowns of the 1920s — who can object to a little glitter to start off an excellent exhibition — the museum expertly uses its awkward exhibition space to give patrons a crash course in fashion history. We begin with the heyday of haute couture, with gowns by Doucet and Worth from 1900 to circa 1913. This careful, meticulous, visual lecture in both haute couture history and the history of 20th-century fashion was so well done that I was not limited to just my fellow Costume Society of America members for pleasant interchanges, instead I had the unusual experience of connecting with several other visitors — virtual strangers — but also the gallery attendants and other museum employees about the garments, their construction, and which were our favorites.
As you can see in my photo above, which shows the first group of gowns, the excellence of curation in these three gowns properly, and as completely as possible, shows the evolution in silhouettes from 1900 until the eve of the First World War. There is also the subtle detail, elegance, and exquisite workmanship that illustrates in a way no wall panel or catalogue could the expertise that goes into the creation of an haute couture garment.
From these three, the exhibition led visitors into what I have always thought of as an awkward, random room in the temporary exhibition space. You go into it, you can even exit from it, but it often disrupts the flow of the exhibition even when it’s not intended to. For High Style FAMSF made it what I think of as the “Accessories Room.” It was in this awkward space that the millinery and the glorious shoes and shoe prototypes were displayed. Again, this was brilliant exhibition planning because these objects were extremely interesting — you can see a fashion student in my photo below sketching one of them — but they didn’t quite fit anywhere else in the exhibition. And since so many of them were from the period between 1900 and 1930 that the entrance room focused on, the time frame fit: this is how (posh) people bought shoes before online shopping or chain and department stores. This is something that has long interested me: how fashion was disseminated and consumed in previous eras, so to have the design and marketing of shoes so prominently explored was absolutely wonderful.
As you exit the room the mastery of the topic becomes particularly clear to those of us “in the know.” Instead of leaping straight into the 1920s, which you couldn’t blame the museum for doing with the post-Gatsby/Downton Abbey Season 5 fever upon many visitors, you are instead treated to four mannequins in Liberty & Co. and Callot Souers garments, all dating from 1900 t0 circa 1913. This is pure brilliance on the part of the exhibition. Through seven mannequins the exhibition managed to show the breadth — including the socio-political issues — of the pre-WWI fashions without drawing so much attention to the topic that it became the only subject of the display. This may or may not have been the point at which my mother texted me to “STOP” sending her pictures because the 1910s are her favorite era and she hasn’t had a chance to visit the exhibition, yet. I neither confirm nor deny anything.
As you can guess, the exhibition followed a strict chronology from this point on. There were the gorgeous 1920s evening and presentation gowns from the beginning to peruse again — viewing the amazing detail at the backs — as well as other glamorous garments from the era and one day dress that was arresting in its exquisite, delicate, simplicity amidst the glitter and embroidery.
The next section was suitably “shocking.” I won’t apologise for the pun. The next five garments and three pieces of jewellery were all dedicated to the eclectic brilliance that was Elsa Schiaparelli. There isn’t much need to explain further, since I’m sure most if not all readers of this blog already know Schiap’s contributions to fashion history. What I will say is that seeing Schiaparelli pieces in person was a bit jaw-dropping as someone who had only ever seen them in photographs until Saturday.
I was most amazed, being able to see them in person, by the detail on Schiaparelli’s accessories. Only three necklaces were featured, but those that featured leaves were beautifully articulated to properly mimic the imperfections of color you often find in leaves. This again underlined what the true meaning of haute couture meant, even if it was executed with a sense of art and whimsy.
I was stopped dead in my tracks, however, by a Madame Grés and a Madeleine Vionnet gown in the same display. These two women have long been my favorite French designers. So, to see not one, but two gowns by each woman was nothing short of a dress historian’s dream come true.
The rest of the room rather naturally focused on post-World War II European fashion. Again, through excellent curation, FAMSF selected pieces from Dior, Givenchy, Balenciaga (swoon), Yves Saint Laurent (swoon again), and 1960s Chanel to show the breadth of silhouette, technique and elegance that Europe revitalized after the depravations of World War II.
It was from here that the exhibition diverged into American fashion design andcouture. This was a brilliant contradiction — if you will — in style. As you enter (as you can see below), the main image is that of austere, classical elegance, a logical extenuation of the constraint seen in the post-WWII European fashions. But as you move about the room, first behind you and then in a counter-clockwise path you notice the differences: American freedom but innovation in shape, and overwhelmingly the sense of fun especially as concerns use of fabric and color. This is not discussed in the wall texts or tombstones at all, it is simply a visual impact that speaks for itself.
The exhibition ended as fabulously as it had begun, with Charles James. Again, this was not simply a catalogue of James’s accomplishments but a true exploration of his genius. It emphasized that while American fashion can be trendy, ridiculous, and fun, that does not preclude elegance. Featured was a wide array from James’s career, from muslins for his most famous dress silhouettes beside the actual finished garments, to trouser skirt-suits for women who married into the Hearst family and his famous clover-leaf ball gowns.
Even more spectacularly, the final “room,” if you will, was a “design studio” that featured some of James’s most complex designs below which were animated screens that dissected and demonstrated how the garments were constructed. I thought this was a phenomenal way to end the exhibition, which had emphasized the craftsmanship and couture, to show how much engineering and ability went into these incredible gowns which can only be described as works of art.
As you exit the exhibition to enter the gift shop (an evil place full of temptation), the walls are lined with original Charles James design sketches. Having done my master’s internship working with a collection of works on paper, this seemed the ideal way to end such a phenomenal exhibition.
The exhibition was unsurprising as a dress historian. It was “simple” in that it merely followed the trajectory of high fashion from 1900 through to the 1980s. However, the execution was absolutely marvellous, and I have to confess it was wonderful to simply go through an exhibition without having my “critic” hat on, or keen to learn anything earth-shatteringly new, but simply to admire the garments and the execution for what they were: the very reason I became a dress historian.
Have you seen High Style? What were your thoughts? Do you have any comments or critiques to offer? If so, please feel free to agree or disagree with me in the comments below! And if you know of any upcoming exhibitions or events happening in your area, please feel free to mention them or to email me so that I can feature them in my next column!
Due to a bout of spring flu, here is my post from this time last year discussing the BBC’s The Great British Sewing Bee, which had then completed its second season. The third season has just come to a close so it’s a nice time to reflect back!
‘I watched Bake Off and couldn’t believe how upset people got,’ Chinelo says. ‘Now I totally understand. At one point I couldn’t even thread a needle, my hands were shaking so much.’
The statement above was made by Chinello, one of ten contestants taking part in a BBC television programme called The Great British Sewing Bee, currently on air here in the UK. This second series succeeds the first in both size and grandeur. While the first was set over four episodes and located in a Georgian building in the heart of Dalston, East London, this one contains eight episodes and places more contestants in a lofty but grander converted warehouse by the Thames, offering everyone panoramic views of the capital city at the front while at the back, there is an extensive, well stocked haberdashery at their disposal.
The Great British Sewing Bee invites the participants to take part in weekly sewing challenges, which finds them spending two days completing three tasks: make a basic pattern, customize a piece of ready made clothing and finally making their own pattern, which must fit to a live model. Their efforts are judged not by an audience vote but by two authoritative figures, who in this case are a Woman’s Institute sewing teacher with more than forty years of experience teaching and a director of a successful tailoring company located in Savile Row, London. A television host, whose fundamental role is to mediate between the novice participants and the expert judges on behalf of the viewer, also joins them.
Contestants on The Great British Sewing Bee, Series 2
Each week, the two judges decide which contestant must leave the competition, based upon their performance across the three set challenges. The most concise and in-depth review of the programme can be found in The Daily Telegraph, where Kate Bussman highlights how the nature of television production creates much tension for the contestants as they are constantly required to stop their sewing for ongoing sound bites, camera shots and set pieces.
For me, the most interesting contestant in The Great British Sewing Bee is Chinello, a twenty-six year old dressmaker who does not use paper patterns, having learnt to cut forms directly onto the cloth. Chinello’s approach to clothesmaking is riveting because she engages with fabric directly, choosing not to mediate the process with the use of representational tools such as paper patterns. Her process involves thinking and working with design in a very three-dimensional way; Chinello is like a living, breathing 3D printer.
The setting for the series is an old Thameside warehouse, seen here in the background while Chinello, one of the contestants, is cutting out her pattern in the foreground.
Another fascinating part of the programme is the way in which the historical context and social commentary about dress is approached. Every week there is a theme explored, which might be a particular era or the type of material being used in the sewing challenges, such as stretchy fabric or patterned textiles. The television host then engages with a range of scholars and academics to discuss interesting aspects of that weekly theme. This part is fascinating because they draw upon a range of scholarly disciplines, from anthropology to consumption studies to performance and fashion, in an effort to contextualise the weekly challenges set for the contestants.
Prof. Giorgio Riello, Textile Historian, who discusses the advent of chintz and printed cottons in the 18th century
The Great British Sewing Bee provides us with a contemporary snapshot of academic interest in fashion, dress and textile studies. Craik’s (2009:264) identification of five types of fashion writing – language of fashion, fashion reportage, promotional writing, critical writing and intellectual analysis – makes no mention of the representation of these studies within the media of television yet it seems that in this one programme, there is visual evidence of all types of fashion writing taking place.
My interest in fashion and dress television programmes, particularly with a focus on historical context and cultural commentary, has its roots in a childhood spent avidly watching The Clothes Show each week. The Clothes Show was this unique mix of contemporary affairs and intellectual discussion about fashion and dress but whose content has now been taken over by the internet or reality television programmes that concentrate on how to improve the individual identities of ordinary people through fashion and dress. These would include Trinny and Susannah’s What Not to Wear, How to Look 10 Years Younger or Gok Wan’s How to Look Naked, to name but a few of a growing genre focused upon the daily anxiety of colloquial dress.
While the Great British Sewing Bee has a lineage that certainly relates it to reality television programmes (its sister production is The Great British Bake Off), it does go some way to filling the gap left by the likes of The Clothes Show with its efforts to discuss and inform the viewer about the wider scholarly interest in fashion and dress. In future, it could be part of a small archive of British television programmes that focus on fashion and dress history, perhaps beginning with Doris Langley-Moore’s What We Wore in 1957. I would be very grateful to hear of reading suggestions on the subject of historical dress and its representation through the medium of television. With the increasing complexity of internet coverage, it seems there is still a place for television to capture our attention with contextual discussion of dress and fashion for longer than just a brief click. Research into how this is done, with particular reference to the second half of the 20th century, is definitely worth further consideration.
It’s exciting to finally see the dark evenings receding, spot little floral bursts of white, purple and yellow amongst the grassy urban verges and feel like my winter coat’s days are swiftly numbered! To celebrate this arrival of spring, here are some interesting events related to fashion taking place in the capital this month.
Jacket, Alexander McQueen, It’s a Jungle out there, Autumn/Winter 1997-8. Image: firstVIEW
On Saturday 14 March, the V&A Museum will welcome visitors to the eagerly awaited exhibition Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty, which runs until 4 August. I can still remember booking my ticket this time last year for what will definitely be one of the most talked about fashion related events this year. It will be interesting to see what the V&A’s fashion curator Claire Wilcox has done with the exhibition given its new European location.
Fashioning Professionals Symposium, 27th March Gaby Schreiber Industrial/Interior Designer (1916-1991). Photographer: Bee & Watson, 1948. Design Council Archive, University of Brighton Design Archives.
Finally, Friday 27th March is a popular day for fashion symposia here in the city! Competing for our attention is Fashioning Professionals at the Research Department in the V&A Museum and Fashion and the Senses at London College of Fashion. As it was impossible for me to be at both, I decided to attend Fashioning Professionals as this is more closely related to my research interests. I will report back in April, hopefully along with a review of McQueen.
Worn Through is pleased to have another guest post from fashion historian Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell*
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FROM KIMBERLY: Twenty years ago, when I first started working on the project that would become my new book Fashion Victims: Dress at the Court of Louis XVI and Marie-Antoinette, I loved talking about it to anyone who would listen. Ten or twelve years later, my friends and family had learned not to mention the book; I was in the midst of a dispiriting crash course in the harsh realities of academic publishing, and my frustration was painfully obvious.
Now that Fashion Victims is out at last, my unpublished colleagues keep pulling me aside and asking in hushed tones how I did it. How did I choose a publisher? How did I score 90,000 words and 220 illustrations? How I you negotiate a contract? These are the same questions I had before starting the publishing process, and I can finally say with confidence that we’re all asking the wrong questions.
If you’re thinking of writing a book about fashion, you should be asking yourself the following: How many images do I need? Where am I going to find these images? Who’s going to pay for them? Answer those three questions, and the rest will quickly start to fall into place.
I probably don’t have to convince Worn Through readers that an appropriate number of high-quality images are essential to any discussion of fashion; that number will vary depending on the particular subject and methodology, but–whether it’s ten or 200–every image should serve the text rather than simply illustrate it. Lackluster or irrelevant images are a red flag, raising doubts about the quality of the writing. The same is true, however, about books that are mostly pictures. On the other hand, I’ve happily bought lousy books just for the pictures. Images are evidence. Neglect them and you do a disservice to your readers, and, more importantly, to yourself.
The number and type of images you want to use in your book will dictate so many other factors. There are only a handful of publishers who will even consider fashion books—or illustrated books of any kind—and many of those have strict minimum and maximum image counts. A few publishers told me they’d love to publish my book with ten, twenty, or even fifty images—fine for a cultural history or museum studies book, but not nearly enough for an art historian to do justice to the infinite variety of fashionable dress under Louis XVI. Others were more generous with images but wanted me to cut half the text (and all the footnotes). Yale University Press routinely publishes books with 200 images and footnotes galore, so that’s the one I targeted. Yale’s deservedly stellar reputation in the field, its well-established distribution networks, and the chance to work with legendary editor and designer Gillian Malpass were equally strong attractions.
Two hundred images may sound like a dream come true (and it is) but someone has to pay for all those images. That means paying for both the photo itself (or, more often, the digital file) and the reproduction rights, calculated on a sliding scale based on print run, image size and placement, distribution, and so on. With academic books, it’s usually the author who pays; the picture research, captions, photo credits, and paperwork fall on the author, too. Trade publishers often give authors a budget for images, but it doesn’t go far; it’s much more expensive to license images for commercial use, and the author is still responsible legally if not financially.
For Fashion Victims, I was able to cobble together grants, savings, and favors to cover my image costs, but the process of seeking out funding was time-consuming and soul-destroying. There are not many grants out there for publishing, although academics can sometimes get subventions from their universities. And a grant application can take up to a year from start to finish, with no guarantee that it will be successful.
Fortunately, many forward-thinking museums and archives have begun to make their image libraries available to anyone, at no cost, through “open content” programs. Other institutions offer free images for academic publishing. I was able to take advantage of this welcome trend, and it was certainly something I took into consideration when making the final decisions about my images and cover image. I also got very creative about sourcing mass-produced images. Why pay a picture agency for a fashion plate when I could get it from the British Museum for free? For contemporary subjects, authors can save money by taking their own photos; I was once advised by a journal editor that licensing a movie still would be cost-prohibitive, but my own photo of a billboard for the same movie could be published legally and at no charge.
However, I fear that the open content trend is only going create new problems, as the same images from the same collections will be published over and over again while other collections remain inaccessible and unknown. I am absolutely guilty of this; more than half of the 220 images in my book come from the same five institutions, largely because they were searchable online and free (or at least inexpensive) to license. Similarly, many publishers have agreements with certain museums or picture agencies that make their images more affordable than others.
But the money I saved on open content images allowed me to have other key objects photographed and published for the first time. So for every free, familiar image, there’s one that you’ve never seen before that cost me $500. Because I work on the eighteenth century, I generally don’t have to worry about copyright, which can drive the costs even higher. But if you’re using contemporary fashion photography or publishing with a trade press, you might need to sell a kidney. If I had to do it again (and I do—I’m already working on a sequel to Fashion Victims), I’d pay more attention to image costs during the research and writing stage, rather than face sticker shock and a lengthy fundraising drive at the end. Indeed, knowing how the whole publishing process is likely to unfold has made the early stages go much more smoothly.
If dealing with the images was the hard part, negotiating the contract was the easy part. A reputable academic publisher will offer you a fairly standard agreement with little wiggle room, especially for a first-time author. (My editor graciously fought for a few additional perks, like more color pictures and extra author copies—another reason why a good editor is as important as a good publisher.) If you’re publishing with a trade press, you should have an agent or lawyer negotiate for you. If you’re hoping to make money from publishing, your time would be better spent writing textbooks, or maybe romance novels.
But there are many other compelling reasons to publish your work, like getting tenure, giving back to your field, or increasing your chances of getting a job, raise, or promotion. If you’ve already done the research and writing (for a dissertation, conference paper, or exhibition, for example), why wouldn’t you want your efforts to have a permanent, public impact in print? Personally, I’m amazed at how much great research goes unpublished—not because publishers aren’t interested, but because the authors never submit it to publishers.
Ultimately, getting Fashion Victims published—finding a publisher, revising the text, raising grant money, locating and licensing illustrations, and slogging through the year-long editing process, from copy editing to proofreading to indexing—took roughly the same amount of time as writing it in the first place: nearly two decades in total. The book started as my MA thesis, then spilled over into my PhD dissertation, only to undergo a total rewrite before I even considered submitting for publication. Over the next few years, I continued honing the text as I figured out how I was going to pay for the image rights and reproductions. It evolved from a formal and somewhat fragmentary series of chapters—many of them originally developed as stand-alone conference papers or journal articles—into an organic narrative, ironically becoming much truer to the themes that got me interested in the subject in the first place.
During the same period, I worked in some museums, had a couple of kids, attended conferences, moved house a few times, and published a bunch of journal and magazine articles and essays in edited volumes and exhibition catalogues. Along the way, I discovered new objects, images, and sources; made valuable contacts; and learned the ropes of the publishing business; all of those things ultimately benefitted the book. At the time, I was intensely annoyed with myself because I hadn’t managed to publish it yet. But, looking back now, I can see how useful that season of discontent was. Fashion Victims is much richer for it, and so am I. And it was worth waiting to work with the publisher, editor, and images I wanted all along. The book I’ve had in my head for twenty years is now in print, and it’s even more beautiful than I could have imagined.
*Dr. Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell is an art historian specializing in fashion and textiles. She has worked as a curator, consultant, and educator for museums and universities around the world. She is a frequent contributor to books, scholarly journals, and magazines, as well as an experienced lecturer. Her areas of expertise include European fashion and textiles and French and British painting and decorative arts of the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries
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Trivia question: Who painted the portrait on the book cover?
First person to email Monica the right answer wins a copy.
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