The sad news of the passing of Eiko Ishioka, Japanese art director, stage and costume designer, was reported worldwide last week. In the past three decades, her costume work became well known when her designs for films such as The Cell (2000), and Bram Stoker’s Dracula (for which she won the Best Costume Oscar in 1992).
Jennifer Lopez in an Eiko costume in The Cell (2000)
Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula (1992), wearing one of my favorite film costumes of all time
Eiko’s costume work was not restricted to the screen, and designed the costumes for the opening ceremony of the 2008 Beijing Olympics as well as for The Cirque du Soleil’s Varekai and the current Broadway production of Spider Man Turn Off the Dark.
Eiko's Villain costumes for Spider Man: Turn off the Dark
I was fortunate to have an up-close look at Eiko’s costumes for Spiderman a few weeks ago, when I was treated to a backstage tour of the theatre and wardrobe departments by a friend who works on the show. The costumes for the villains are spectacular – sculptures more than costumes that look as amazing up close and dismantled as they do on stage.
Eiko's costume for Icarus in the Cirque du Soleil's Varekai
With Spiderman running at full force, and the upcoming release of what will be Eiko’s last film, Mirror, Mirror, it is ensured that her work will continue to delight, enchant and inspire fans of excellence in costume design.
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.
Suzanne Lenglen, tennis phenomena and patron of Patou—true, but like saying Elizabeth Taylor “was married.” The real truth is in the details. A six-time Wimbledon winner, Lenglen was the first woman to train in the aggressive style of men. In seven years (1919-1926), she lost only one match. But it was her injection of the new woman, the insouciant flapper, into the still-patrician world of tennis that fueled her fame.
Lenglen won her first match wearing a short skirt, rolled silk stockings and baring her arms; her competitor was demurely, and traditionally, clad in a long-sleeved, ankle-length tennis costume. She sucked on cognac-soaked sugar cubes as she played. Once in the spotlight there was no giving it up, on or off the court: “she drank, she danced, she smoked, she swore… she had lovers.” No matter the weather, she wore fur coats to the court, where she was also inevitably accessorized by an adoring posse of handsome young men. She claimed “the fox-trot and the shimmy were excellent training for tennis.” She conducted press interviews from bed, clad in silk nightclothes.
So here’s her real truth: “Lenglen, in the liberated style of her play—full of acrobatic, even balletic leaps and lunges—her dress and her life, introduced sex to tennis, and vice versa.”(1)
Monica and Lisa are partners in Anarchists of Style.
Reading list
1) Pigelli, S.”The lady in the white silk dress.” Sports Illustrated. September 13, 1982. http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1125933/1/index.htm
You may have noticed this month that the column “On Teaching Fashion” has been rejuvenated by new contributor Monica Murgia. Click over to her bio to learn all about the classes she teaches as well as her international research presentations.
We’re also happy to welcome Kelly Cobb to the fold, who will be a team with Monica M. on the teaching posts. You may have read Kelly’s previous guest posts and she has dutifully covered the International Textile and Apparel Association conferences for Worn Through for the past two years!
Now together they’ll alternate weekly discussing teaching strategies, curriculum and assignment ideas, classroom management, colleague relations, and anything else they can think of about teaching apparel related courses, particularly at the university level.
We’ve had some great educators write for the On Teaching Fashion column and I’m pleased to continue in that tradition with Monica M. and Kelly C.*
*clarification of last initial only because of other contributors with the same first names
There comes a moment in your teaching career when you are assigned a new course. It may be your very first time leading a classroom, or you may be a seasoned professional tackling a special topics class. You’re eager, and ready for the challenge.
Then, the bleak reality of the situation sets in: you have two weeks to design your course. This means creating a syllabus, tests, assignments, and seemingly endless hours of lectures and activities. It starts out innocently enough. The syllabus and assignments are created, and the semester starts. You’re ahead of schedule . . . until one day, you’re not anymore. The information starts to feel overwhelming. How can you condense all of your research into a neat, 1 hour and 45 minute class? It seems like you’re spending 8 hours preparing for 1 lecture.
Class starts. You present the lecture and feel great. All of the main issues were covered, the images were great, and you even made a handout. What a great lecture! Or was it?
Cartoon courtesy of brownsharpie.courtneygibbons.org
As academics, we can become engrossed in our topics of expertise. So engrossed, that it becomes difficult to gauge our students previous knowledge on the subject, as well as what they are retaining from our classes. This affect can be compounded when you’re teaching a course for the first time. You’ve spent the last 3 days preparing a lecture on fashion during the Reformation, but your students might not remember what the Reformation was.
Cartoon courtesy of cartoonstock.com
It’s critical to gauge your students’ knowledge and understanding of the material when you’re teaching a course for the first time. It can be tricky the first time around, but here are some tips:
1) Always state the obvious. You have a post-secondary degree. Your students do not. Don’t gloss over the obvious, essential points when lecturing. It’s a great review for them, and the perfect way to introduce more complicated material. Not every single student will be interested every single second of your class, especially if they have some previous knowledge. But keep in mind, many of them don’t, so don’t be afraid to start at square one.
2) Start class with a review. Have 4-5 questions and present them to your class. Make sure the questions cover the main ideas from your previous lecture. This is a sneaky, 2-in-1 move: it gets the students to participate and recall the relevant points you taught. By making the review discussion-based, your students will construct the knowledge on their terms. This equals greater retention of information.
3) Introduce relevant current events. When you make your course relevant to current events, students see the practical applications. They may even see a different perspective on the information you’re covering. Target industry-based publications and popular media, and skim the latest news daily. Here’s a fun discussion I used in my history of costume class: Pharaohs in ancient Egypt wore false beards to indicate their status as ruler. Pharaohs were always male, until the reign of Hatshepsut. (Hatsheput, a woman, reigned as pharaoh c. 1497 -1458 B.C.) How might have the citizens of Egypt felt about this blurring of gender roles through dress? Compare and contrast this to Lady Gaga’s appearance in the 2011 VMA’s, dressed as a man (aka Jo Calderone). This created an interesting discussion about gender roles and how identity is communicated through fashion. It also illustrated that people still have strong opinions about cross-dressing.
4) Let them teach you. Assign presentations and projects that put your students in the driver’s seat. Ask them to bring a quote from the assigned reading which they related to, or found inspiring. Have them review the historical accuracy of different films for a project. If a particular chapter is difficult, ask them to bring topics or passages that they did not understand. When the students take an active role in the course, it’s easier to identify what they are learning, and what you need to review.
These are just some of the techniques I’ve found to work along the way. Many of you might have other tips and tricks for tackling for teaching a new course. I hope you’ll share what has worked for you in the comments.
I spent a portion of the winter holidays back in my hometown of New York City, and in addition to participating in frantic shopping, and catching up on some fantastic museum exhibitions, I was the thrilled recipient of a small and eloquent piece of New York fashion and retailing history. In my Cabbage Patch Kid stocking (circa 1983) this year, my Mom passed on to me a fashion accessory that we believe belonged to my maternal great-grandmother. Strange to our eyes now, this metal tool ending in a small hook, was once an ordinary part of a woman’s dressing ritual accoutrements.
The dress hook was utilised to close the numerous and fussy buttons on Victorian and early 20th century garments. Think of high-buttoned turn of the century shirtwaists, deep blouse cuffs and the dainty buttons on fine boots.
Dress hooks in a 19th century catalog
Without a lady’s maid or other helping hand it is nearly impossible to fasten such buttons on both sides of the body! Thus, the dress hook was a handy tool to make dressing an easier task.
My great-grandmother’s dress hook was not only a nifty time saver, it was also a promotional item for famed downtown New York City department store, Wanamaker’s. The handle of the hook is stamped with their signature, and I imagine these were given away with purchases as a customer bonus.
Vintage postcard depicting the Wanamaker building, NYC
While Wanamaker’s is not as well known as other department stores such as Macy’s or Bloomingdale’s, it was a domonant presence on lower Broadway in the early 20th century.
The Wanamaker building now houses contemporary retail giants Gap and Ann Taylor on the ground floor, but it was once a multi-floor shopping palace inspired by the model of grand European shopping arcades.
Broadway and Wanamaker Place, New york City, Dec. 27, 2011
I took a stroll down to Broadway and 9th Street, to see the old Wanamaker building up close, and was pleased to discover that the South cross street between the former store building and Broadway is named Wanamaker Place. So, although dress hooks have faded from necessity, and the shopping palace of Belle Epoque New York has given over to modern brand outlets, the name of Wanamaker shall still be spoken on the streets of New York. Test a cabbie next time you’re heading downtown, “Take me to Broadway and Wanamaker place, I need a new dress hook…”
For more information on the rise of the department store in Europe and the USA, check out these recommendations from my fashion library:
By the time this is published, I will be on my way back from Phoenix, having just attended The National Needlearts Association Winter Trade show with the yarn dye studio I work with. Having thus had knitting and yarn on my mind quite a lot recently, I was pleasantly reminded of an LA Times article about men learning to knit ‘behind bars’.
The article focuses on a rather successful program at a low-security, pre-release facility in Maryland where these soon-to-be former convicts are literally queuing up to learn how to knit. And the program seems to be doing the men more good than simply teaching them how to make their own scarves: the warden for the facility reports that the violence rates in the men who have taken the course and continue to knit are lower; and that the inmates will behave better in order to qualify for the class.
The program’s founder and instructor, Lynn Zwerling, believes it is because through knitting the men are learning ‘ …skills vital to human existence — setting goals, completing a project, giving to somebody else’.
Tove has previously written about charity knitting, and various projects that exist and the good they do. And a Fashion Byte about a Brooklynite who sews her own clothes led to some insightful, informative comments discussing the importance of learning to sew, knit, weave, spin, etc., and correcting my own statement within the Byte that learning to break a three-dimensional garment down into a two-dimensional pattern was an unsually difficult task. Clearly learning to make things has more benefit than simply getting you a scarf or a sweater. In our increasingly consumer-driven society, there seems to be an increased spotlight on those who make rather than buy their clothes.
What are your thoughts on the program? Do you think it is doing the men involved good in the long term, or is it simply something to do while they are incarcerated? Do you believe learning to make something, whether it is knitting, or another creative endeavor, has larger benefits than simply ‘vocational’? What are your thoughts about the increase in attention to do-it-yourself movements? Do people miss being able to make things themselves? What have we lost by distancing the ‘average’ consumer so far from the construction of the items they are buying?
Physically numbering textiles and fashion is a big part of my job at the moment. I’ve been cataloguing and researching the historic lace collection and basic museum practices include making sure all collection objects have their correct accession or registration numbers attached to them in some way.
With the lace collection this includes sewing small labels with registration numbers onto centuries old lengths of lace. Although I’ve sewn countless labels onto textiles and fashion objects over the years, I still find it slightly daunting. The first time I had to physically number an object I was very nervous and wondered why and how the Registration department had let me loose in the collection! Especially with such old, valuable and significant objects, it is scary to attach labels with a needle and thread to a fashion or textile object.
In this post I’d like to give you a quick run-down and some tips on how I’ve been taught to physically number fashion and textiles. I’d also like to hear from you with any tips and tricks you have used to number fashion and textile objects, or if you have a completely different method all together. My colleagues and I all have slightly different methods for numbering objects and its intriguing to hear of other techniques.
These are the instructions in my official numbering guide for fabric based objects:
Write the registration or accession number onto the fabric label using a black pen (I use a base and top coat to prevent it marking the object).
Object label for A1471 Cushion cover, 'daisy square' design, St Helena lace, bobbin lace and embroidery, cotton, place and date unknown Collection: Powerhouse Museum, Sydney
Turn in any raw edges, then sew label onto fabric using small running stitches on one short edge. Hold the needle at right angles to the object surface and pass needle back and forth through the spaces of the weave of the object to avoid breaking threads. When possible choose thread to match the background colour of the fabric and choose a soft cotton thread. It is also important to sew the label onto an area of the garment which is not visible on the outside.
Detail of fabric label for 98/165/1-1 Coat, part of ensemble, womens, silk / metal, designed by Collette Dinnigan, Sydney, 1998. Collection: Powerhouse Museum
Do you have any tricks or techniques that you use or have been taught to physically number fashion and textiles in a museum or gallery collection?
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.
At the end of this month, an expert jury should have convened to judge the entries for the Lacoste Elysée Prize 2011. Instead, as reported in the Guardian two months ago, the prize has been cancelled due its main sponsor, Lacoste, withdrawing funding over the inclusion of Larissa Sansour‘s nomination as a finalist.
Lacoste’s position is that Sansour’s entry, a multi-media piece, ‘titled Nation Estate which the artist says imagines a “Palestinian state rising from the ashes of the peace process”‘ was not in keeping with 2011′s theme of ‘La Joie de Vivre’, and that their actions are being misinterpreted as political when they are not. However, according to both a press release from Musée d’Elysée, and the Guardian’s email interview with Sansour, the interpretation of ‘La Joie de Vivre’ was at the complete discretion of the artists who entered.
The interesting point for me was a quote from Sansour stating that she was happy the museum had sided with her, the artist, rather than its corporate sponsor. In economically strapped times when museums are suffering funding cuts, it struck me as an extremely bold move for a museum to so openly side against a corporate sponsor. The subject of sponsorship has been discussed by Tove in the past, and mentioned in a previous Fashion Byte, but this seems to be a unique break from those discussions, with the museum defying the corporation.
What are your thoughts on the situation? Are museums gaining more power that they can risk the loss of sponsorship, or is this a unique example of the museum defending artistic freedom? Do you think such corporate sponsorships of prizes and exhibits help or hurt museums? Or does it depend on the balance of power within the relationship? Is Lacoste wrong in telling the museum who it can or cannot include in its own competition, or do they have a legitimate voice in that it is their money being used? What does Lacoste have to gain — or any corporate sponsor have to gain — from supporting artistic competitions and museum exhibits? And who really holds the most power in these exchanges?
