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Just Saying No – for fairy tale princesses and ordinary girls

In researching for the Historical Sew Fortnightly Challenge #6: Fairytale, I came across all the versions of Donkeyskin/Allerleirauh.

It’s an old fairy tale based around the premise that a Queen dies leaving a daughter, and her father the King declares/promises he will only marry a woman who is as beautiful/wise/kind/etc as his first wife.  The daughter grows up and is the spitting image of her mother, so the King decides he will marry her (yes, really.  It’s sometimes called The King Who Wished to Marry His Daughter).  The daughter puts him off by saying that first she needs a dress as golden as the sun (or something equally as un-obtainable), and when this is procured, a dress as silver as the moon (ditto), and when this is managed, one as dazzling as the stars (you get the idea), and finally a coat made from the skins of one of each of all the birds and beasts that exist/the skin of her father’s prized donkey that poops gold (no, I didn’t make that up either!).  When her father manages this she realises she can no longer put him off, so she stuffs her dresses in nutshells, puts on the coat, and runs off into hiding as a servant at another castle.  There she goes to balls in the dresses and the prince falls in love with her and they marry.  And they live happily ever after, more or less.

What I realised in reading these fairy tales is that they are very early examples of the way women are taught that we mustn’t say no.

Yes, we’re supposed to say no to drugs, and peer pressure, and excessive alcohol, and sex, but we still aren’t supposed to tell men “No.”

We aren’t allowed to say “No, you can’t have my number.”  “No, I don’t want to dance with you.”  “No, I won’t go out with you” much less the far worse, just plain old “NO” to any of those scenarios.  Instead, we’re supposed to give fake numbers, to claim sprained ankles or that we’ve promised the dance already, to make up non-existant boyfriends, or say we are taking a break from relationships.

Donkeyskin is doing exactly this.  Her father is demanding to marry her and she can’t say “Umm…you’re my dad and what you are asking for is horrible and dreadful, so NO!”  Instead, she has to come up with excuses: I will once you have made me a nearly impossible frock.  And another impossible frock.  And an even more impossible coat.

Her dad wants to marry her!  “No” should be more than sufficient!

Yes, I understand that in the context of the story she is buying time and trying to find a way out, and in the context of medieval society women had few choices, and it was hard to say no, but in modern society women are taught to give excuses, rather than a simple “No” – just as our crazy-skin wearing princess gives excuses rather than saying “No.”

Another example of not saying no is The Franklin’s tale, from Chaucher’s Canterbury Tales.  Dorigen is happily married, does not want or encourage Aurelius, but is finally pestered by him so much that instead of saying no she gives a joking evasive answer of “I’ll sleep with you if this improbable thing happens.”   Aurelius, of course, manages to make the improbably thing happen, and Dorigen has to face the consequences of her promise.

Now, my parents were really good at teaching me a lot of kinds of “No.”  No to the aforementioned drugs/peer pressure/all alcohol/sex etc came easily to me.  I was even good at the “No” to requests for phone numbers and dates and dancing. when I wasn’t interested.

But I wasn’t taught, and most women aren’t taught, to just say “No” to doing favours.  We are told we always have to be there for friends, we have to be on every committee, plan every party, wear every dreadful bridesmaids dress, bake every batch of cookies for the school fair, help out at every stall, make every frock, and generally say “Sure, of course.”  And if we really don’t want to, if we really can’t – we still can’t say no.  We have to give an excuse.  “Oh, that’s the same day as X”, “Sorry, but X has a cold”, etc, etc.

It was my friend Theresa of Existimatio who introduced me to the idea of just saying “No.”  Not giving a caveat, not giving an excuse, just saying “No”.

She and I and Chiara of Ampersand and some other lovely ladies and even a few men sat around and discussed how to just say “No,” and how that would feel from both perspectives.  Most of the ladies, and certainly myself, found the idea of just saying “No” hard to face.  We’ve had so many years of societal pressure to be nice, and saying “No” isn’t nice.  We’re supposed to soften it – to wrap it in sweet excuses.  We’ll go as far as to go out with two phones – our ‘real’ phone, and a junk one, so we can give the junk ones number and not be caught out in a lie if they text it right away.  The men pointed out that a blank “No” is nicer than a fake phone number.  They also acknowledged, that some men, like Aurelius, are just dicks who won’t take no for an answer.

The solution to this is not to eventually give an excuse.  In modifying our “No” to make it softer and more socially acceptable, some men come to think that “it is usual with young ladies to reject the address of a man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time.”

Now, there is no excuse for men to not believe a “No”, however it is phrased, but not saying “No” didn’t help Dorigen with Aurelius, and nothing but a societal smackdown, no pretty excuses, is going to get those men to understand.  We owe it to ourselves, and to men, to simply say “No”, when we aren’t interested.

Clearly the issue of men asking for phone numbers and dates is not one that troubles me much anymore – I have such an obvious excuse that I never feel obliged to give it, just a “No.”  I’m taking the idea further and working on the other refusals in life: at learning not to give excuses or to say yes to requests for favours that I don’t actually have the time and energy to supply.

I’m not very good at it yet, but I look at  Donkeyskin/Allerleirauh and I think “Sweetie, you really aren’t the best role model.  Your dad just asked to marry you and you couldn’t just say “No.”

We don’t live in a fairy tale.  We don’t live in the Middle Ages.  Hopefully none of us will ever get put in a situation as dreadful as  Donkeyskin/Allerleirauh’s, but even for the small unwanted situations, maybe we should think about just saying “No.”

The HSF ’14: Challenge #6: Fairytale

And now, with a fanfare of trumpets and a wave of a wand, announcing the Historical Sew Fortnightly 2014 Challenge #6 (due Tuesday 1 April): Fairytale

Fairytales are full of beautiful costume imagery, from Little Red Riding Hood’s cape, through the dresses as golden as the sun, as silver as the moon, as dazzling as the stars, and the coat made of the fur and feathers of every beast and bird their was in Allerleirauh, to Cinderella’s famed slipper (whatever it was made from) and beautiful ballgown, and the Pied Pipers pied tunic.

In this challenge, imagine your favourite fairytale set in a specific timeperiod, and make a historical garment from the fairytale.  Your fairytale can be classic, modern, Western, non-Western: as long as you can articulate why you think it qualifies then it counts!

Rather than providing historical garments as inspiration, here are how some illustrators have imagined various fairytales over the years:

Here is a charming 1920s does late Rococo take on Little Red Riding Hood from Project Gutenberg:

Little Red Riding Hood from Project Gutenberg

And a medieval meets Grecian Donkeyskin from Lang’s The Grey Fairy Book of 1900:

Lang, Andrew, ed. The Grey Fairy Book. 1900

Anne Anderson did most of her illustrations in Medieval costumes, as with this version of The Swan Princes:

Old, Old Fairy Tales- The Swan Princes by Anne Anderson

Her Cinderella, though, like many Cinderella’s, was set in the 18th century

Cinderella, Anne Anderson

This cunning picture-changing Victorian Cinderella by Dean and Sons ca. 1875 filters Elizabethan fashions through a mid-Victorian lense, with a hint of 18th century.

Dean & Son Cinderella, Date	c. 1875

This illustration of the Twelve Dancing Princess as medieval maidens by Ruth Sanderson has been one of my favourite inspiration pieces ever since I recieved the entire image as a fold-out birthday card when I turned 10:

The Twelve Dancing Princesses by Ruth Sanderson

But I also love the 18th century twist that Errol le Caingave to the princesses:

Twelve Dancing Princesses by Errol Le Cain

And to finish off, here is Snow White as drawn by Franz Jüttner in 1910, in a simple Medieval inspired frock that reflects her youth and innocence:

Franz Jüttner (1865—1925)- Illustration from Schneewittchen, Scholz' Künstler-Bilderbücher, Mainz 1910

And the Queen, in the elaborate finery one would expect from her:

Franz Jüttner (1865—1925)- Illustration from Schneewittchen, Scholz' Künstler-Bilderbücher, Mainz 1910 2

Whether you go for simple or elaborate, I can’t wait to see what you make!

Rate the Dress: Maria Christina in lace, lace, more lace (and some diamonds)

Oops!  Sorry!  I’m sure many of you woke up this morning and went to check on the Rate the Dress, and there was nothing there.  The sad truth is that I was so tired last night that I got confused and thought Rate the Dress wasn’t until tomorrow.

Last week I posted a simple 1860s gown, and the initial consensus was that it was so boring that it was neither wonderful nor dreadful.  But then Tenshi pointed out “It’s not a ballgown, so it shouldn’t be judged like one” and a rather interesting conversation about ordinary clothing developed.  The eventual rating acknowledged, that yes, it was the simple, practical dress of its time, but a reasonably good one at that, and it rated a 7.4 out of 10

This week I’m playing with the idea of not every dress being made for a pretty young thing on her way to a ball, but taking the concept almost as far as it can go in the opposite direction.  I’d like to present an outfit that very clearly demonstrates that it is NOT a simple work dress, nor simply a pretty dress for a wealthy woman.

María Christina of the Two Sicilies, Queen of Spain by Vicente López y Portaña (1772—1850), 1830, Collection of the Prado Museum

María Christina of the Two Sicilies, Queen of Spain by Vicente López y Portaña (1772—1850), 1830, Collection of the Prado Museum

Maria Christina of the Two Sicilies outfit clearly demonstrates her wealth, status, and position in every detail.  It starts with the evening gown of rich silk brocades with silver thread, over which is layered a diamond encrusted or silver embroidered belt, and a silk ribbon sash.  Over this goes a diamond necklace that would make the infamous ‘Affair of the Diamond Necklace’ necklace (which Marie Antoinette thought tacky) pale in comparison, and earrings dripping with enormous pearls.  On her beautifully styled hair is a lace mantua of such fine lace that you can almost touch its lush delicacy in the painting, topped with a collection of rare feathers (ostrich feathers being so last century), and surmounted by a diamond headpiece of such enormousity that I get a headache just looking at it.  And she has a diamond encrusted fan, and kid gloves, and lace on her sleeves, just for good measure.

Maria Christina was never a particularly beautiful woman, but her portraits and clothes had to convey something more than just physical attractiveness.  She was the forth wife of her uncle (I know, blech), who he married out of a desperate need for an heir.  When this portrait was painted she was pregnant with their first child (one of two daughters, to the disappointment of the King).

Maria Christina is playing sweet and demure in this portrait, but when her husband died in 1833 she revealed that she had a bit more backbone and character than anyone had given her credit for, holding the regency for her daughter against a rebellion led by another uncle, and secretly marrying the man she actually loved, a palace guard, less than four months after her husband died.

I sometimes wonder if Maria is pulling our leg in this portrait – taking Marie Antoinette’s practice of hiding a less than satisfactory life under frocks and jewels so far that it becomes a parody.  I hope the rest of her life was actually more satisfactory, and I’m fascinated to  hear what all of you have to say about her ensemble.

Clearly, it’s too much, but is there such a thing when you are an unloved fourth wife of a rich and powerful king?  Does it convey her status, and the hope of her pregnancy?  Do you like it?

Rate the Dress on a Scale of 1 to 10.