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The ‘please don’t photograph me’ 1930s-ish nautical skirt

Remember how I made a mid-1930s skirt to wear with a nautical outfit for Windy Lindy 2011  way back in August?

Well, I’ve been trying to get good images of me in that skirt ever since, and I tell you, that thing just doesn’t want to be photographed.

So I’ve finally conceded defeat, and am just showing you some mediocre images.

The inspiration for my skirt was a common mid-30s design with outward facing pleats front and back.  I can’t find the actual image I used for inspiration, but you Wearing History has posted some images of similar skirts, like this adorable one with lacing (on the right) and a simple one in flat silk crepe (on the left).

The skirt

Like I said, very common design!

For my skirt I used the same white  cotton with irregular diagonal rib that I used for the 1770s man’s redux waistcoat and breeches.  It’s not a period accurate fabric for the 1930s, and the resulting skirt is a bit more structured and tailored than a real 30s example would be.

The very crisp pleats

I lined it in plain white cotton: not a traditional lining fabric at all.  I sew modern clothes so rarely that I don’t own a lot of lining fabric, and didn’t have any on hand for this skirt (though I had just de-stashed some to an op-shop only a few days earlier – such is life!).  So far it has worked incredibly well: it’s nice an supportive for holding everything in place, and thick enough that I can wear dark undergarments without worrying about it.

The cotton lining with mini-bias hemming

Since the skirt wasn’t going to be exactly period accurate due to my fabric choices, I decided to just make it ‘modern – period inspired’.  So it has an invisible zip (which, of course, the pull on broke right away).

The cotton lining and invisible zip

I did go for a beautifully done period bias tape and hand-stitched hem.  Sometimes the old ways are really the best ways for getting something to lie perfectly!

Bias-tape hemming

To hold all of the pleating perfectly, and to add a little dimension to the diagonal fabric, I topstiched the pleating seams

Topstitched pleat

The one place where I may have cut a few corners is in the edge finishings.  For reasons that elude me completely, I left them totally raw.  Quite unlike me!

Now why didn't I finish you?

Minor “Why did I do that?”s  aside, I’m quite happy with the resulting skirt: it’s a nice twist on the traditional pencil skirt.  I wouldn’t say that it is exactly 1930s, and I’m not sure that the double pleats are doing me any favours (they just seem to get a little odd and boxy at the hem), but it’s comfortable, fun to wear, and I can dance in it.

It doesn’t photograph well though!

Meh 1

...and back

Some lovely ladies and I had a nautical picnic yesterday, and I wore the skirt with the intention of giving it one last try in photographs.  What do you think?

Sailor togs by the sea

A historical account of the perils of dyeing

This story comes to you courtesy of the Grey River Argus, 13 June 1883.

A lieutenant in the Russian Army, and a Count pardessus le marche, having paid marked attention to the prettiest girl in Moscow, her father, by profession a dyer, asked him if his intentions were honorable or otherwise.

As the young nobleman’s reply was evasive (says an exchange), the worthy dyer naturally concluded that they were otherwise, and requested that he bestow his attentions elsewhere.

The young gallant kept out of the way for some time, but at last passion got the better of prudence, and he re-commenced his flirtation with the dyer’s pretty daughter during the absence of her  worthy sire.

The inevitable occurred.  Papa surprised the lovers, and without much ado collared the young warrior, doused him in the first handy vat of dye, and then reasoned with him a posteriori.

When the Count got home he discovered that neither cold water nor hot, neither spirits of wine nor benzine, neither soap nor silver sand, would remove his new complexion – a heavenly azure.

The Governor-General of Moscow was informed of the tragedy, summoned the dyer to his presence, and ordered him to remove the stain at once, but the delinquent proudly answered that the azure was his own invention, and a fast colour, which neither he nor anybody else could wash out.  He admitted, however, that it could be changed to black, and he would do it gratis.  The young Count nearly lost his senses.

Every chemist in Moscow tried his skill, but without avail.

At last the heroine of the story wormed out the secret from her father.  The Count’s complexion is restored to its pristine pink, and she is a Countess.

I’m sure it’s complete bunkum from start to finish (no dye will ever stain your skin permanently), but it’s certainly amusing!  Also, a posteriori is my new favourite saying.

What to wear under a quilted petticoat?

A reader has just finished her own hand-quilted 18th century petticoat (massive kudos and envy here!) and wants to know what to wear under it.

Quilted petticoat, silk, 18th century, Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

Based on my research: anything from large formal hoops to nothing but a shift and perhaps another petticoat, but bumrolls and small panniers were probably the most common, at least for the relatively well-to-do in the later 18th century.

When I get around to making a proper silk hand-quilted one myself I plan to pleat my petticoat with an even hem, but extra pleating at the sides, so it could be worn with small panniers and a bumroll, or without, as we see in this petticoat:

Lozenge quilted petticoat, 1750s, American, MFAB

Quilted petticoats were informal winter (well, cold-weather) wear ubiquitous across England, and common in France and America as well.  Buck calls them “the undress of the country gentlewoman” (p. 72), though some extent petticoats seem to have been worn with more formal gowns.

As they were generally informal, I found few mentions of quilted petticoats over wide hoops in the later 18th century, though Robert Dodsley’s 1775 poem  The Fable of Ixion: To Chlorinda  mentions one as he describes how a goddess tricks an misguided suitor by dressing a cloud as a simulacrum of herself:

This cloud which came to her stark naked,
She dreÅ¿s’d as fine as hands cou’d make it.
From her own wardrobe out she brought
Whate’er was dainty, wove or wrought.
A smock which Pallas spun and gave her
Once on a time to gain her favour;
A gown that ha’n’t on earth its fellow,
Of finest blue and lin’d with yellow,
Fit for a Goddess to appear in,
And not a pin the worse for wearing.
A quilted petticoat beside,
With whalebone hoop six fathom wide.
With these she deck’d the cloud d’ye see?
As like herself, as like cou’d be:
So like, that cou’d not I or you know
Which was the cloud, and which was Juno.

I very much doubt that real 18th century ladies were wearing hoops six fathoms wide, but the the indication is still that the quilted petticoat is worn over a wide hoop.

Certainly wide hoops were worn under quilted petticoats earlier in the 18th century.  Van Aken’s ca. 1720  An English Family at Tea  shows the clear outline of hoops under the mistress of the houses’ white quilted petticoat and black gown.   Two decades later  Devis’s Mr and Mrs Atherton shows Mrs Atherton in fashionable undress of the 1740s: stiff stays and a white satin ‘nightgown’ (not worn in bed!) worn over a quilted petticoat.  The style was not confined to England either.  Gravelot’s The Judicious Lover of 1743-5 also depicts a quilted petticoat supported by wide hoops.

On a slightly less formal note, many women probably wore quilted petticoats over small panniers.  Certainly Nelly’s skirts appear moderately wide, but not-quite hoop-width at the sides in her Reynold’s portrait:

Nelly O'Brien by Sir Joshua Reynolds, circa 1762-4, the Wallace Collection, London

The shining silk skirts and beautifully worked petticoat of the matriarch of the Sharpe family also seem quite wide in the hips:

The Sharp Family by Johann Zoffany, 1779-81, National Portrait Gallery London

Later in the 18th century, when the emphasis moved toward the back of the outfit, it appears that panniers and bum rolls could be worn under quilted petticoats.  Certainly the observant fashionista in No Resisting Temptation has augmented her natural form, both side and rear, in some way, though her dress is less formal than her naughty companions.

A Bagnigge Wells scene, or, No resisting temptation, Printed for Carington Bowles, 1776, Lewis Walpole Library, Yale

An example of a semi-formal robe worn with large panniers and a quilted petticoat in the later 18th century:

Woman's gown and petticoat (petticoat) English, about 1780, MFAB

On a more informal note, the pretty young things in polonaised dresses playing at bowls in  Miss Tipapin going for all nine are either wearing no supports under their petticoats and pinned-up dresses, or ones small enough that they can still frolic and compete in.

Miss Tipapin going for all nine from the original picture by John Collet, in the possession of Carington Bowles. 1778. Lewis Walpole Library Yale

Quilted petticoats may have also served in place of panniers or bumrolls.  Certainly Buck indicates that they were worn instead of hoops (p, 43), and my experience is that they significantly augment the width of your skirt.

Moving down the rungs in society, the poor market sellers in their quilted petticoats in The Abusive Fruitwoman  and The Enraged Macaroni (which sadly, the Library of Congress have not yet digitised in their own collection)  do not appear to have any extra width or padding under their petticoat, and certainly it would have been impractical in their line of work.

In addition, there are numerous mentions of runaway slaves in America wearing quilted petticoats, and it is very doubtful that they would have been wearing them with any elaborate under-supports.

What really strikes me with all of these images and mentions is that quilted petticoats are not confined to one level of society or another in any way.  The Bagnigge Wells visiting ton sport them, as do the fishwives in the London Markets, and buxom country maids, and  the lowly apprentice’s innocent sweetheart.  Neither does the quilted petticoat carry any implications of character or lack thereof:  the country parson’s wife wears one in her modesty and thrift, as does the cobbler’s wife in her unseemly obsession with fashion, and the dirty, ragged Nan on the dockside.

The continence of a Methodist parson, or, Divinity in danger, 1776, Lewis Walpole Library Yale

Useful links:

Quilted Petticoats at the 18th Century Notebook

Brocade Goddess’s exquisitely constructed 18th century petticoat

A costuming student makes a hand-quilted petticoat

Sources:

  • Baumgarten, Linda and Watson, John with Florine Carr.  Costume Close-Up: Clothing Construction and Pattern 1750-1790, Williamsburg: The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation. 1999
  • Buck, Anne.  Dress in 18th Century England.  B.T. Batsford Ltd: London.  1979
  • Burnston, Sharon-Anne.  Fitting and Proper