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A smock of nettles

Of all the fairytales, the one that intrigued me most growing up was The Wild Swans (also known as The Swan Princes).

There are many variants of the story, but basically it is about a girl (Hans Christian Andersen, in his version, calls her Elise) whose brothers are enchanted and turned into swans.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

In order to free them from their spell, our heroine must make each of them a shirt of stinging nettles: and while she spins and sews (or knits, depending on the version), she cannot speak.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

Some of the local villagers are suspicious of the silent girl who gathers prickly weeds, and of the garments she is creating.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

When, desperate for a new source of nettles, she gathers them from the churchyard, the villagers turn against her completely, and try her as a witch.  She desperately sews even as they tie her to a stake and pile the wood around her.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

As they light the fire, her swan brothers fly overhead and circle around her, and she throws the shirts over them.  Unfortunately she hasn’t quite finished the sleeve of the last shirt, so her youngest brother retains his wings.

With her brothers finally freed from the spell, our heroine can finally speak and explain why she was making stinging nettle shirts.  The villagers are apologetic, and everyone lives happily ever after (presumably).

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

I found the fairytale interesting firstly because fabric and sewing are so central to the story, secondly because the girl is so much the heroine of the story: saving her brothers and freeing herself, but mostly because of the fabric the heroine works with.

Making a shirt of nettles sounds like a mad fantasy, but there is actually a fabric made from nettles: ramie.  Ramie is similar to linen, and has been used as a fabric since ancient times.  There are Egyptian mummies wrapped in ramie bandages, rather than linen.  More of interest to me, I’ve read accounts that mentioned that ramie was used in the Middle Ages when linen could not be sourced (presumably because of droughts or warfare).  While the mentions are very third hand, and I’d like to see the original research, I was fascinated by the idea of a medieval ramie garment.

Last year I managed to get my hands on two metres of handkerchief weight ramie (at Fabric-A-Brac, of all places).  It was sold as linen, but I’m pretty confident the fabric is ramie.

So I handsewed a 14th century (more or less – it could be worn any time up until the early 19th century) ramie smock inspired by The Wild Swans.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

For the photoshoot my sister and I tried to capture the essence of Elise’s story: gathering nettles (we settled for wild parsley) and watching for her swan brothers, all while isolated and outcast from the normal world.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

I wore the shift (I know, not quite how the story works, but I had no need to make mens shirts) myself.  Since it’s very under-clothes-y, and sheer, I’m wearing it over a bra and knickers and tap pants and a slip for maximum modesty.  Very important especially since we did some photography on a beach right by the road!

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

I’ll do a post about the shift construction, but with these images I just wanted to create a fairytale.  I certainly got the essence of it when it came to pain: my feet are so bruised from limping around on the rocks by the seashore!

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

After taking pictures on the beach, I noticed a little goat trail heading up the hill, and we explored it, which turned into a mad scramble straight up a steep hill spotted with pine trees.  Those images look a little more ‘Snow White running fleeing into the forest’ than Wild Swans.

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

After 30 minutes uphill, we were rewarded by a sunlit meadow at the summit:

14th century nettle shift thedreamstress.com

So my smock has already been well worn in: I’ve gone tramping in it!   It’s very comfortable, though pricklier than linen, but wearing it over a synthetic slip wasn’t.

The Challenge:  #6  —  Fairytale

Fabric:    2 metres of handkerchief weight ramie – $5

Pattern:  None, drawn up based on basic smock/shift pattern construction and conjectures about Medieval undergarments

Year: intended to be 1380s, but this basic construction could be used from 1200-1800.

Notions:  silk thread – probably less than $1 worth.

How historically accurate is it?   Medieval undergarments are a bit of anybodies guess, there is so little extent textile or visual evidence, though, having made mine, I suspect my construction is unlikely, simply because it creates significant weak points (I’ll tell you about that in a construction post).  And, of course, having a raime undergarment is based on the slimmest historical evidence, especially since I don’t particularly trust my sources.  So there could have been a 14th century smock that looked just like mine, but it’s more likely that it’s completely off.

Hours to complete:  4.5.

First worn:  For the photoshoot and a mad scrambly hike over the Miramar hills, because that’s what everyone does in a Medieval shift, right?

Total cost:  $6 (woohoo Fabric-a-Brac frugality!

Terminology: What is matelasse or marseilles cloth?

As I’ve just finished a matelasse waistcoat,  it’s high time I (finally) finished my matelasse terminology post and added the term to the Great Historical Fashion & Textile Glossary!

18th century waistcoat thedreamstress.com
Matelasse or  Marseille’s cloth (sometimes shortened to marcella or called pique de marseilles) is also known as woven quilting, because it is a weave specifically designed to imitate quilting.  It looks like a fine quilt, or like a slightly bubbly, blister-y brocade.  Matelasse is sometimes patterned in simple geometrics, or (like my waistcoat), in elaborate foliate designs.  It can range from a heavy, bulky fabric, to a fairly light but still puffy and squishy crepe.  A very similar fabric (sometimes sold as matelasse, and it’s difficult to tell the difference on some examples), is cloque.

From a technical standpoint:

Matelasse  is a figured fabric made with either three or four sets of yarns. Two of the sets are the regular warp and weft yarns; the other sets are crepe or coarse cotton yarns. They are woven together so that the yarn sets crisscross.  When the fabric is finished the crepe or cotton yards shrink, giving the fabric a puckered appearance.  Heavy cotton yarns sometimes are used as stuffer yarns beneath the fabric to emphasise the three-dimensional appearance of the fabric…Cloque is made of four sets of yarns: two warp yarn sets and two weft yarn sets.  The interlacing pattern is complex and simulates the appearance of quilting stitches on a solid coloured surface. Since there is no shrinkage of some of the yarn sets as in matelasse, cloque is a flatter fabric.

In the early 18th century quilted petticoats (along with other quilted items such as waistcoats, banyans and pockets) were hugely popular, and Marseilles in France was particularly famous for its quilting, especially of what would come to be known as whitework or trapunto quilting.  England, always eager to promote British made goods and to discourage importation, sought to control the importation of the quilts through taxation and import restrictions.  Various societies and manufacturers also offered rewards to anyone who could come up with an alternative to Marseille’s quilting.  In the early 1740s one Robert Elsden invented a technique for imitating the hand-quilted look on a loom.  He was immediately awarded a prize by the Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufacture & Commerce.*

Elsden’s technique was probably quite rudimentar, because it was not until the 1760s that woven quilting became commercially available, probably after much refining to the technique to make it workable and viable.  Capitalising on the fame of Marseilles’  quilting, the cloth was sold in England as ‘Marseilles cloth’, and soon became extremely popular.  Merchants in England and the American colonies could choose from dozens of patterns, sent out in samples books, some of which still exist in museums.  The fabric was sold for bedcovers, petticoats, waistcoats, and even in special designs for small items such as pockets.

In 1783 the SEAMC congratulated themselves on the success of the fabric their reward had supported:

When the proposition was first made in the Society, of offering a premium to encourage the making in the loom, an imitation of that Species of Needlework, long known by the name of Marseilles Quilting, it was almost rejected as visionary and impossible; but the laudable spirit of  enterprise, which has always distinguished the Society, determined them to publish the premium, and the consequence has justified the venture. The manufacture is now so thoroughly established and so extensive, being wrought in all the different materials of Linen, Woolen,  Cotton, and Silk, that few persons of any rank, condition, or fix……exist who do not use it in some part of their clothing”

18th century Marseilles cloth consisted of two layers of fabric woven together, with the patterns defined by cord.  As the Societies advertisement stated, it could be made in silk, cotton, wool or linen, though most varieties, and silk in particular, were more decorative than durable, so few early examples survive.

While the English called the fabric Marseille’s cloth, the French did not want it to compete with their prized hand quilting, so they took a name from the French matelasser – to quilt, hence the modern matelasse.

Marseille cloth disappeared from fashion in the early-mid 19th century, though it remained popular for bedspreads and furnishing.  There are a few reasons why matelasse fell out of fashion.  First, the fullness that matelasse would give to skirts was no longer desirable with the slim Regency silhouette.  Second, lighter, simpler, less bulky fabrics were fashionable for the first few years of the 19th century.  In addition,  the line between underclothes and outerclothes became more distinct in the early 19th century, especially where petticoats were concerned.  Because petticoats were no longer interchangeable with skirts, expensive decorative petticoats fell out of favour, and fabrics associated with petticoats became undergarment only fabrics, rather than general fashion fabrics.

Finally, fabric manufacturing methods were revolutionised by the invention of the jacquard loom (yes, I’ll be doing a post on that!) in 1801.  Today matelasse is usually made on a jacquard loom, but I’ve not been able to determine when the jacquard loom was first used for the manufacture of matelasse.   It probably took some time to adapt the jacquard to the matelasse weave, so matelasse was eclipsed in popularity by other previously expensive fabrics like brocade that could be cheaply (or at least less expensively) be produced by a jacquard loom.

So for the first half (and a bit) of the 19th century, matelasse was quite rare as a fashion fabric .   When examples of it are shown in fashion magazines, they make it quite clear that the reader would not be familar with the fabric.  It was seen as a fabric for bedcovers, and for the occasional petticoat, like this example from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, with a cotton matelasse hem which would help to bulk and smooth out an elliptical hoopskirt:

Jacquard manufacture of matelasse may not have happened until the early 1870s, when the fabric reappeared in fashion in a big way: being mentioned in dozens of fashion articles in late 1874.  It was marketed under the name matelasse in both English and French speaking countries, showing the French dominance of fashion, and a clear break with the link to quilting that had made it so popular in the 18th century.

A fashion column of autumn 1874 describes the fabric and the types of styles made from it, and makes it clear that most women would not be familiar with matelasse as a fabric for clothing:

a novel fabric, which is matelasse.  It is silk with a satin face, and as thick as though it were wadded.  It is woven to look like fanciful quilting in small diamonds, arabesques and floriate designs.  It is made in black, olive green, chestnut brown and a variety of other colours; in fact, matelasse jackets, polonaises, and  skirts will be all the rage when colder days arrive.  In pale pink, blue and white the material will be mainly used for skirts for wearing under trained evening or dinner dresses.

Another fashion article of the same period also describes matelasse in great detail:

The new curiasse, however, the tight bodice, with closely fitted basques, is to be made of fabrics specially manufactured for it, and called matelasse.  These fabrics are very thick and firm, and will set closely to the figure like cloth.  They are generally made with a background of wool, and perhaps a little cotton, but in some entirely of silk.  The more modest specimens are what we might term silk pique, and have geometric patterns upon them.  A more elegant style is covered in handsome designs worked in the stuff itself, that looks as if it were embroidered upon it, and is really one of the most effective materials I have seen for a long time.

Matelasse remained fashionable throughout the rest of the 19th century, though after the 1870s it was used primarily in capes and other items of outerwear.

Examples of matelasse as a fashion fabric are reasonably rare (though certainly not unknown) in the early 20th century.  By 1923 fashion papers described it as ‘a rather old fashioned weave’, though there was an attempt to reintroduce it (or a type of cloque, as the fabrics were often confused) as ‘Cloky‘ (an unattractive re-naming if I ever heard one, and one which thankfully did not take!) After a few decades as an unusual fabric, matelasse experienced a resurgence of fashion in the 1930s, especially as lightweight matelasse crepes in silk and rayon.

Gown of gold lame matelasse, Mainbocher, mid 1940s.

Gown of gold lame matelasse, Mainbocher, mid 1940s.

It was once again at the forefront of fashion in the 1960s, when bulky matelasse brocades, often in the new synthetic fibres, lent themselves well to the stiff, sculptural silhouttes – just as they had as ‘quilted’ petticoats when the fabric was first developed.

Evening dress, Paris, France, ca. 1955, Givenchy, Silk matelasse brocade, Victoria & Albert Museum, T.270 to B-1975

Evening dress, Paris, France, ca. 1955, Givenchy, Silk matelasse brocade, Victoria & Albert Museum, T.270 to B-1975

*well, that covers pretty much everything

Sources:

Maitra, K.  Encyclopaedic Dictionary of Clothing and Textiles.  New Delhi: Mittal Publications.  2007

O’Hara, Georgina.  The Encyclopedia of Fashion: From 1840 to the 1980s.  London: Thames and Hudson Ltd.  1986

Peck, Amelia.  American Quilts and Coverlets in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  New York: Dutton Studio Books. 1990

Rowe, T (ed.) Interior Textiles: Design and Development.  Cambridge: Woodhead Publishing Limited.  2009

Shaeffer, Claire.  Claire Shaeffer’s Fabric Sewing Guide.  Iola, Wisconsin: Krause Publications.  2008

Rate the Dress: Velvet & Roses in the late 1880s

Usually I think it is silly to like or dislike a Rate the Dress based on how it would look on you, but I found I could only like last week’s very  decollate  1810s frock if I imagined it worn by my early 19th century twin, both in body and temperament.  Even when I’m not very skinny I have a very wide, bony clavicle and chest, so that even the most daringly low cut neckline looks respectable until it begins to show my navel.  And I’m so innately prim and prudish and flat out innocent (usually) that I can make the tartiest dress look demure (in high school a classmate told me that if the whole class walked into a room and found me and a guy in our altogethers they would assume there was a perfectly innocent explanation for it – because it was me).  So on someone that it could not possibly look provocative on?  I love the dress!  On anyone else?  Oh dear…

The question of who it was worn by was uppermost in the rating conversation for all of you as well.  Was it someone very small busted, who could pull off the plunging neckline? (side note: it’s not just about how small your bust is, but how far apart it is and how little jiggle there is in the middle that makes a neckline look revealing or not)  Or perhaps it was the frock of a member of the demimonde? (though your discussions on this topic made me suspect that some of you have gotten far too much of your Regency history from romance novels!).  Someone pointed out that the embroider pattern on the body of the fabric might not just be kissing lips after all, which does put a whole new spin on the dress!  (I said “Oh, OH, OH”, and blushed on the other side of my computer screen).  It came in at 9 out of 10, not surprising as only two of the 35 ratings were below an 8/10.

This week, for the last day of the fairytale challenge, I’ve picked a frock that could fit in a fairytale.  It’s not the frock of the pretty young princess, or something for the wicked Queen, but rather a frock for the fairy herself: if she were a woman of a certain age and certain gravitas.  I could imagine costuming Sleeping Beauty’s fairy godmother in this if the story were set in the late 1880s.

All of the details of the outfit are quite fantastical, from the lush florals to the beaded fan at the base of the jacket:

Even the matching bonnet is fairy worthy:

And look at the detail of the embroidery on the fabric!  Even if you think the dress is hideous, you must admit that the needlework is exquisite!

Despite the whimsical collar, the fantastical beading and the romantic embroidery, this frock was no fancy dress outfit.  It was worn by the wife of a senator to President Benjamin Harrison’s March 4th 1889 inauguration.  Seen in that light, the lush velvet and embroidery become symbols of prosperity, the florals spring and hope and new growth, and the whole look makes sense for a politicians wife.

Green-gold and pink seem to have been very much the fashion for the inauguration, because I’ve shown another dress worn to one of Harrison’s inauguration events in a similar colour scheme.  You were distinctly not keen on that dress, but perhaps this one will fare better?

Rate the Dress on a Scale of 1 to 10