Thread for Thought

Fashion inevitably looks to history to interpret and re-interpret previous fashion trends. At the recent SAG Awards, I noticed 2 Egyptian-influenced dresses, worn by Toni Collette and Nicole Kidman:

As I’m never content to stay in the current era for long, let’s go back 100 years to trace a century of Egyptomania….

The Egyptian style has been adopted and interpreted by practically every generation. Cleopatra (69BC – 30BC) has always held special fascination for people. Documented by writers Plutarch and Casius Dio, the lady was “a woman of surpassing beauty, and at that time, when she was in the prime of her youth, she was most striking; she also possessed a most charming voice and knowledge of how to make herself agreeable to every one. Being brilliant to look upon and to listen to, with the power to subjugate every one, even a love-sated man already past his prime, she thought that it would be in keeping with her role to meet Caesar, and she reposed in her beauty all her claims to the throne.” The mythology of her man-seducing ways never gets old; she notoriously bedded Julius Caesar and his successor Mark Antony resulting in a Roman-Egyptian political alliance of unsurpassed breadth, and took her own life in a marvelously morbid manner. Having become an almost mythological creature, she’s been depicted in art ever since. With the dawn of the 20th century’s art form — the moving image — a new crop of Cleopatras have been etched into our collective consciousness. With each Cleopatra film, a new variation of familiar Egyptian themes rears its head. In spite of the common subject, virtually none of these films used historically accurate costumes. As always, the ideal female form, makeup techniques, and hairstyles are more indicative of the decade of film production rather than the period depicted.

THEDA BARA

The 1917 version of Cleopatra with the marvelously eccentric Theda Bara (see my post on Vamps for more on Theda) demonstrates how aesthetics were ripe for incorporating Egyptian motifs. Though it’s the earliest film I’ll discuss, in many ways it’s the most scandelous, with Bara wearing sheer, gauzy skirts and teeny, ornate bras that barely conceal her naughty bits (this was only legal pre- and post-Hays Production Code, 1934 – 1968). Fashion was just starting to move away from the corseted figure and Theda embraced the freedom in her Nile goddess:

This last one reminds me of “The Last Sitting” of Marilyn Monroe, photographed by Bert Stern in 1962 (Marilyn is clearly far more playful than Theda):

The khol-rimmed eyes already popular in the 1910s and 20s were easily adapted to more accurate heavy Egyptian makeup:

In this outfit, the mythology of the Egyptian firebird and immortal Phoenix are translated into a more general symbol of Far East exoticism, the peacock:

The 1922 discovery of King Tut’s intact tomb of lost treasures rocked the world. The angularity of the Egyptian depictions of their garments played right into the visual fractures of the Futurism and Art Deco movements.

Here is one of my favorite Futurist paintings:

Here is an elevator door from the Chrysler Building (built 1929-1930), monument of Art Deco architecture:

CLAUDETTE COLBERT

By the time Cecil B. DeMille’s Cleopatra (1934) starring Claudette Colbert was made, the bold Art Deco lines of the ’20s were starting to give way to the softer drapes of the ’30s. Coincidentally (or not), the ’30s gave way not to Egyptomania, but to similarly ancient Greek/Roman revival. Designers like Fortuny and Madeleine Vionnet embraced the pleats, draped lines and classical simplicity of the ancient Greeks and Romans.

Fortuny’s famous sheath gown was based on the classical Greek chiton was appropriately named the “Delphos” gown:

The crinkly texture is the result of a meticulous, top-secret process Fortuny never revealed — customers would return their gowns directly to the designer for re-pleating when the pleats flattened.

Colbert’s Cleopatra is a bit more smug, a bit cuter, a bit less vampy than others, as seen in her rather benevolent expressions. The first ensemble is one of the only film costumes I found that actually incorporated pleating:

The simple geometry is complimented by the extravagant gold lame skirt here:

Again, with vaguely exotic peacock imagery:

The red lips and drawn on, razor-thin eyebrows were typical of the ’30s:

LIZ TAYLOR

Though the movie was a box office flop — at least compared to its exorbitant, record breaking budget — Elizabeth Taylor as the 1963 version of Cleopatra is perhaps the best remembered today. They used the still-young Technicolor technology to great effect in her eye-popping monochrome outfits. While black and white certainly contributes to the bygone times feeling of the other films, color symbolism was important to the Egyptians, and the ’60s were all about psychedelic colors. Taylor’s wigs are probably the most blatant of the 3 Cleopatras — no effort is made to maintain consistent hair length, texture or style. This is actually accurate; wealthy Egyptians had shorn heads and wore wigs to avoid lice and to be cooler (sans wig) in private.

The liquid-liner experiments of the mod 1960s and the geometric Vidal Sassoon hairdos come through in Liz:

The cinched waists of the of the ’50s are still evident (these were always to be in style for the curvaceous Ms. Taylor):

Madame Gres (1903-1993) continued the trend of classical Grecian style throughout her career, with unauthentic molded bodices and soft jersey that nonetheless mimiced the draped swags of Greek himations:

These films have melded a generic Egyptian look, as recognizable by the general public, with fashions of the periods during which they were created. Critical as I may be in matters regarding historical accuracy, this liberty doesn’t actually bother me. The costume designers needed to convey the allure, sexiness, and unquestionable power Cleopatra commanded with her physical presence to modern audiences, and inaccurate as the garments are, I think all were successfully interpreted through modern lenses to further the plots using visuals viewers would implicitly understand.

We’re about due for another incarnation of Egyptomania, don’t you agree?

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Due to a coveted invitation to my friend’s tea party this weekend, I have that genteel social event on my mind. And since I always have costume on my mind as well, it’s only natural that I should want to dissect a portrait of a young woman enjoying the same activity that I shortly will.

Mary Cassatt’s “The Cup of Tea” is a portrait of Cassatt’s sister, Lydia Simpson, wearing a pink gown, circa 1879 (among other date indicators, Lydia’s flat-lying skirt suggests horsehair crinolines underneath, which made a brief return to fashion between 1876 and 1882 before being replaced by the bulkier bustle). “Tea gowns,” essential garments of the late 19th and early 20th century wardrobes and invented by the tea obsessed English, are frilly, decorative, and also comfortable, often achieved by a looser fit uncommon in other dresses of the 19th century. Though Lydia’s dress appears rather fitted — you can clearly see the outline of her corset at her tiny waist and gently bulging belly — it’s possible that her arm is blocking our view of a looser fitting back, allowing her to recline more comfortably. The profile of a stiffer seated subject was famously used to portray an older, darker, more somber portrait: that of “Whistler’s Mother,” officially entitled the more clinical “Arrangement in Grey and Black: The Artist’s Mother” (1871), and I doubt it’s a coincidence that Whistler’s mum was painted just a few years earlier than Cassatt’s sis.

A small enough amount of lace is present in the Lydia’s cuffs so that it’s conceivable that handmade lace — a precious luxury item — was used. However, the appearance of a Great Exhibition in Paris just a year before this portrait helped popularized machine-made lace, making it more accessible and far more affordable, so it is reasonable to think that Lydia wears some. The rich silk-satin fabric advertises Lydia’s wealth, and though it is possible that Lydia’s dress was sewn with the help of the sewing machine (a major asset to the fashion industry since the 1840s), the upper class still preferred the personally designed, tailored and unique looks generated by the haute couture industry.

Charles Frederick Worth (1827-1893) was an Englishman who pioneered the haute couture experience with his House of Worth located in Paris. Founded 1858, his success corresponded with France’s Second Empire which devoted considerable energy to rebuilding the luxury textile / fashion trades Paris had been known for before the French Revolution (1789 – 99), during which all things seen as bourgeois were attacked, very much including high fashion. Worth not only capitalized upon the climbing demand for sumptuous clothes, he absolutely revolutionized the dress purchasing experience, turning it into a social event for the privileged. Instead of being visited by a doting tailor, as in the past, a 19th century woman in need of a new dress would go to her fashion house (others opened after Worth’s, though his remains the most acclaimed to this day). There she would be received in a decadent parlor filled with other wealthy society ladies, and a fashion show would parade before them, to select the styles they desired. Consultations on fabrics and trimmings would follow (these finishing touches would distinguish the same dress style purchased by different women), measurements taken, the final product being a unique work of wearable art. The elegant simplicity of Lydia’s gown makes it a possible product of the House of Worth itself.

Here is a gown from the House of Worth just a few years after Cassatt’s painting:

During the High Victorian Period (1850-1885), a strict regulation of clothes was maintained. According to these laws of dress, Lydia’s high neckline, three-quarter length sleeves and sumptuous fabric show that the portrait captured a moment of the afternoon (as opposed to plunging décolleté with short sleeves which were for fancier evening activities, or if the same dress were made with less refined material like cotton, it would have indicated casual dress for mornings). As the title suggests, the primary purpose of this painting was not portraiture, but the depiction of a popular social ritual. And though Cassatt was American, she frequently depicted bourgeois Parisian society, which, “between 1870 and 1914 was thrown back on its own devices to satisfy its taste for elegance. The Ancien Regime and the Imperial aristocracy, the bourgeoisie enriched by the economic revival, and the spendthrifts, frivolous demi-monde that succeeded to the follies of the Second Empire, all provided an easy prey for the new lords of elegance, the masters of Couture and Fashion,” as Francois Boucher noted.

In John Singer Sargent’s “Madame Edouard Pailleron,” also painted in 1879, a similar look is achieved. A small departure is that Lydia wears a tea gown while Mme Pailleron wears a fashionable dress suitable for outdoor activity, and this is confirmed by her grassy surroundings. The same idealized long-waisted hourglass figure is achieved with the same long corset. She lifts her skirts enough to reveal the crinolines we assumed Lydia wore. Where Lydia’s tea gown of soft silk satin was conducive for casual indoor comfort, Mme Pailleron’s stiff dress is probably silk taffeta and more appropriate for formal public appearances. In contrast to Lydia’s ultra-feminine and youthful pink, Mme Pailleron wears somber black, obviously a fashion choice and not imposed on her by rules of mourning (see my earlier post), as she also has a large white tulle bow around her neck and flamboyant red flowers on her shoulder — unacceptable for mourning. In spite of its conservative color, Mme Pailleron’s dress is highly decorated with short, layered ruffles along the hemline (it must’ve sounded divine, rustling with her movements!), a band of beadwork around the hips and neckline, lace sleeves and lace strips draped around the skirt (machine-made, judging from the length and quantity), and taffeta bows on the cuffs and skirt. Though both women have white tulle around their necks and cuffs, that tulle is Lydia’s only dress ornamentation. As expected, the two women seem to be following the same fashion trends, the major differences only being those that can be attributed to different activities.

Lydia’s light but voluminous collar is similar to Mme Pailleron’s of the same year, and Lydia has taken it to an extreme so that it becomes reminiscent of the standing ruffs of the 16th century, which was a major social status symbol, made of that precious lace, laboriously starched, and difficult to keep clean in its proximity to the face:

Revival styles (or “flashback fashion” as I like to call them) was extremely popular in the 1870s, and Lydia seemed to embrace this fascination with the past. Her costume suggests an affinity for Neo-Rococo taste: the soft, curvy lines exaggerated by the hourglass corset, the fitted, three-quarter length sleeves ending in a flurry of bell-shaped white lace, not to mention the vaginal billowing pink silk, are all reminiscent of Fragonard’s Rococo painting “The Swing” (1766). This painting, along with the original Rococo movement a century earlier, was obsessed with the idea of femininity and sexuality in the eyes of the voyeur:

Lydia’s style would have been well noted, as she lived a life where to be a successful society woman, one had to keep up appearances. With the completion of Garnier’s Parisian Opera in 1874, the opera became an important place to see and be seen. Opera glasses were just as often used to observe audience members as they were to watch performers on stage, and usually by the traditional voyeurs: men. Not limited to sexual voyeurism, a man would survey his business competitor’s wife to see how well she was dressed, her appearance a direct reflection of how successful her husband was. Baudelaire wrote that woman was “the object of keenest admiration and curiosity that the picture of life can offer to its contemplator.” Mary Cassatt and the Impressionist art movement was fascinated with this phenomenon, often painting these privileged voyeurs at the Opera. Cassatt continues this theme in “The Cup of Tea,” eliminating her sister’s companion from the composition and making the viewer of the painting Lydia’s voyeur — all the more titillating, perhaps, as tea time was a female ritual that men would not see at all — except in paintings.

The floral theme in “The Cup of Tea” warrants examination as well. Throughout art history, flowers have acted as a visual metaphor for a woman’s sex, and the concept of the femme fleur was especially popular in Victorian times. The melding of the flower in Lydia’s hat with the flowers in the flowerbox behind her is echoed by her bell-shaped cuffs and the rosettes making up her collar, which gives a floral illusion when viewed en masse. Furthermore, the blurred lines between hat flower and flowerbox flower create a physical unity with the house, thus suggesting a traditional psychological unity of woman with the home. Though feminist movements had manifested themselves in both fashion (with the invention of the Bloomer costume in 1849) and politics (with the women’s suffrage movement), it is clear that neither Mary nor Lydia Cassatt subscribed to these radical ideas, instead perpetuating traditional stereotypes of feminine roles in painting and costume.

But enough of Lydia, and on to more important, current issues: what will I wear to my own tea party?

Further Reading:

• “The Cult of the Tea Gown”
• “Tea Trot” photo montage, NY Times
• “How Tea-Mania Flooded Britain,” Telegraph.co.uk

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You might have noticed, as I have, a proliferation of articles about “bicycle style” in recent months. Mayor Bloomberg has invested money in designating bike paths and adding bike racks to make New York friendlier to the traffic easing, eco-friendly transportation. Fashion has responded and, being the fashion culturalist I am, I’ve been slowly making links and connections to the history of bike fashions — and sportswear fashion in general — in an attempt to gain greater insight into this resurgence in popularity. Let’s start with the advent of bicycle culture and dress, shall we?

The first bicycles were manufactured in America in 1878. Strolling down boulevards was already a favorite pastime of the leisure class, but this wheeled invention fast became a popular sport. Men had little difficulty straddling these “velocipeds” in their trousers, but the heavy, voluminous, dragging skirts of the time — not to mention the upper-body immobility imposed by structured corsets which inhibited both bending at the waist and breathing — made it nearly impossible for women to participate in the exciting activity. Fashion aside, bicycling was initially deemed dangerous for women, who were not encouraged to exert themselves physically nor to assert their independence (i.e. stray too far from the domestic homefront literally or figuratively).

Invented in the 1850s, the bloomer costume provided an obvious source of activewear for women by covering their legs while allowing them the freedom of a bifurcated garment. However it had only ever been adopted by fringe Victorian dress reformers who were ridiculed by the press as radical feminists with silly, indecent (still!) sartorial selections, and it never achieved widespread acceptance in this form. Somehow by the mid 1890s the social stigma of women on bicycles had all but vanished and as a result, “bicycle costumes” were actually lauded as preserving modesty while preserving health. These outfits bore suspicious (and unacknowledged) resemblance to the disparaged bloomer costume by alleviating some of the major fashion impediments with narrower skirts and fewer under-layers. Here is a description of an acceptable female riding outfit from 1895:

“A combination garment was worn next [to] the skin – all wool in cold weather and cotton in warm. Over this she wore no corset, but a patent waist without bones, to which were buttoned the circular bands of drawers and petticoats. It will be seen that the waist escaped much of the pressure and dragging incident to the old style of dressing, as the only bands were of the least trying shape. Her dress skirts and waists were hooked to each other all around, thus insuring their staying together, while they were loose enough for comfort.”

Above is a pattern for a bicycling costume, sold in that same 1894 magazine. This pattern is for an adaptable costume, allowing the wearer to buckle the skirt around her legs for complete coverage of those scandalous ankles. Then she could unbuckle the skirt for a more lady-like traditional look when not on the bicycle.

I was interested to note that even in 1895, the perceived sexual transgressions of the bicycle ensemble remained an issue. One author pointedly, if humorously, wrote “The great ladies of the land will unblushingly don man’s dress, or something alarmingly like it, and jump astride their apparatus.”

As athletic activities increased in general popularity over the following decades, athletic, lean bodies became the new standard of ideal beauty. The greatest jump was in the early 20th century as the voluptuous feminine form of previous centuries (excepting only the Napoleonic era) went from curvy hourglass to flat and tubular (elastic undergarments often assisted with this allusion, as the corset had in the past). The hemlines also rose in the 1920s, when energetic dance crazes like the Charleston literally shook the Western world (fun fact: the highest hemlines crept was 1” below the knee — never higher until the 1960s). Dresses were often beaded, dripping with fringe, sashes, or asymmetrical hemlines to create pleasing effects while in motion — a far cry from the stiff, heavy, wide, deliberately debilitating female garments of earlier eras. Men’s fashion too, slimmed down to accommodate the encouraged active lifestyle.

Wars always impact fashion and WWII certainly had a tremendous impact on the styles of the 1940s. Material and dye shortages in America necessitated civilian fabric rationing and even a limited palette of allowed colors. Elegant 1930s hemlines rose to mid-calf, the bias-cut draping (a favorite 1930s innovative method of using material cut at a 45 degree angle) was too wasteful to be employed anymore, and puffy sleeves and ruffles popular in the preceding decade were all but eliminated from popular fashion out of patriotic necessity. The silhouette contracted and became boxier, more militaristic and uniform-like. For the first time, women were encouraged to join the work force to replace their boys overseas, and their work in factories further necessitated clothes cut close to the body to avoid being caught in plant machinery. (This style was gleefully abandoned with Dior’s “New Look” of 1947, which had yards of non-utilitarian skirt fabric and which embraced a curvier, feminine form once again.)

Jump ahead another few decades: though not what the era is most remembered for, track suits were introduced in the 1960s. At this time it was worn for specific physical activities like jogging and not as daily dress, but Americans worked physical fitness into their routines more and more. The 1980s saw a resurgence in obsession with athleticism, as Olivia Newton-John’s humorously dated song “Physical” (1981) attests:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQXECBdPgEA]

Though the video is undeniably silly, the song “Physical” brought the sexual connotations of physical activity to the foreground. With exaggerated flushed and dewy makeup complimenting her workout leotard, Newton-John’s double entendre embodied the wanton women 19th century men feared would come of skimpy (i.e. shorter) clothes.

Preoccupation with the latest workout fads manifested itself in fashion quickly. Ensembles resembling aerobic workout outfits — complete with sweat bands, legwarmers, and torn oversized sweatshirts — surfaced in popular fashion and were eagerly perpetuated by pop icons like Pat Benetar and Loverboy’s Mike Reno, and seen in movies like Flashdance (1983).

This was due — at least in part — to advancement in textile technology: the invention of new thin, lightweight, stretchy materials was well suited to sportswear. As in the 1850s when synthetic dye was invented (leading to “mauve madness”!), synthetic material had the property of taking especially vivid dyes extremely well, and is evidenced by all the neon colors now associated with the ‘80s. Likewise, the tracksuit and sneakers were adopted by some early hip hop musicians (all kept in ironic pristine condition). In this raging capitalist, brand-obsessed time of Regan and Thatcher, I suspect wearing clothes previously relegated to leisure activities was a subtle statement that people who could wear athletic gear had enough off-time (and therefore money) to devote to recreational sport, and an amusing side effect was that those very clothes eventually lost their cache due to widespread adoption by the public.

Though not all specifically bicycle related, all the fashion changes I outlined speak to the larger issue of popular fashion responding to the specific physical needs (or fads) of the time: like the current explosion of people using bikes as an alternative mode of transportation and the resulting cycling projects and availability of bike lanes in urban settings. Throughout the history of the bicycle, the challenge seems to have been — and to be — assembling an outfit that accommodates the peculiarities of movement on bicycles in a practical manner, while integrating into mainstream fashion in an inconspicuous way so a cyclist may ride to a destination and enter a social or professional environment without needing to change. For this, America is looking to other countries that have been using bicycles as daily (as opposed to purely recreational) transportation for much longer, like Amsterdam, Copenhagen, and London.

The New York Times reported that “Before [the London-based company] Rapha, there were two ways to be fashionable in cycling,” said Bill Strickland, the editor at large of Bicycling magazine and until recently the author of its Style Man column. “The first was to be supertechnical, and look like a pro. The other way was to be pure vintage. Rapha created a third way, starting with a premise of ‘How would I like to look in town?’ ”

Though there are infinite paths to this end, I would imagine the one unavoidable restriction must be the amount of bulk at the crotch and ankles. They must all have relatively close-cut silhouettes with as little loose material as possible around the gears, while being flexible at the waist — exactly where the dress reformers focused in the 19th century. Adding an additional layer of influence, this description happens to coincide with the male suit of the 1960s, which is also currently experiencing a surge of popularity.

Aesthetic cultural influences are at work here, including but not limited to the popular Mad Men TV series. Set in the 1960s, this show has coincided with the resurgence of skinny jeans and slimmer, shorter trousers. This is evident even in formal wear; I spotted many a slim-fit tux at this year’s Academy Awards. Which came first: the retro look or the latest bicycle movement? Like most other fashion developments, many influences across cultural, ecological, and political spectrums have impacted the collective unconscious and manifested itself in everyday dress. Isn’t it fun to try to figure them all out?

Further reading:

• “The Bicycle and Health” The Ladies’ Standard Magazine, April 1894
• “The Wheelasa Reformer; What One Woman’s Bicycle Has Taught Her About Clothes.” NYTimes, 1895
• “Cyclistas spin into style” The Gazette, May 26, 2009
• Fitness Fashion After 1960
• Copenhagen Cycle Chic blog

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With all the excitement of the Kentucky Derby culminating last weekend, I thought I’d take the opportunity to learn about (and share) the roots of horse racing apparel. To begin with the basics, jockey “silks” are comprised of white breeches and a bib, stock or cravat, and receiving them is a rite of passage for jockeys entering their first race ride. Horsemen wearing “colors” (as they’re also known) has a long, illustrious past that has developed with the various horse sports. In ancient Rome for example, chariot drivers wore unique, brightly colored capes and headbands to identify themselves in the arenas. Roots in heraldry and coats of arms can be seen, the decorated shields and armor of which identified members of families and soldiers on battlefields, as jockeys came to be identified by their silks:

Horse racing meets are recorded as far back as 1114, and individual silk colors are first mentioned in 1515 when Henry VIII occupied the English throne. In those early days of horse racing, few horses would compete and close finishes were rare enough that identification was not terribly problematic, but in the 18^th century, racing gained popularity. As more horses competed in each race, riders wore simple colored silk jackets to combat increasingly confused judges and spectators. This was not an entirely new idea: in medieval times, jousting knights wore bright, distinct colors which facilitated the identification of the competitors for the audience members of large arenas:

In 1762 the English Jockey Club formalized what had been a general practice and requested that owners submit specific colors for riders’ jackets and caps, which were to be used consistently. Later that year they made the Newmarket resolution that owners must submit the racing silks for their horses to compete. From the minutes: “For the greater convenience of distinguishing the horses in running, and also for the prevention of disputes arising from not knowing the colors of each rider, the under-mentioned gentleman have come to the resolution and agreement of having the colors annexed to their names, worn by their respective riders.”

More rules have been implemented since then. The horse owner or trainer selects and registers their jockey’s colors (which includes colors and patterns) in national horse races; typically all horses belonging to a particular owner will be raced in the same colors. The owner must check the appropriate database (Weatherbys for England, The Jockey Club for the United States, Puerto Rico and Canada, etc.) as each racing silk must be unique. Patterns are created with squares, lines, circles and stars of contrasting colors.  Uniforms at national races are very bright but regulations dictate a maximum of 4 colors. Japanese rules mandate that the hat color must match the gate color, but in other countries it must match the uniform.

Jockey silks used to be made of actual silk, though it is unsurprising that synthetics like nylon are often used nowadays, as they are for other athletic ensembles. The cut of jockey silks is close fitting for minimal wind resistance — important when tenths of seconds can make the difference between first and second places — but not tight, as the rider must have freedom of movement. Thin, lightweight materials like silk are ideal for ease of movement, breathability, and not adding bulk to jockeys for whom low weight is a necessity. Long or short sleeves may be chosen but jockeys usually prefer long sleeves that minimize chafing. A 2005 lawsuit granted The Jockey Club the right to add small logos and advertisements to the jockey pants which had previously been pure white. It’s interesting to me that this sport previously resisted the seductive pull of ostentatious corporate sponsor logos that have visually taken over another track sport: car racing.

It behooves (ha!) jockeys to stand out from others not only to distinguish themselves from their competitors, but also as walking (or running) advertisements for the owners, the jockeys’ employers (even without literal sartorial branding). In a time when casual attire is more and more the norm, on the horse tracks pride in performance is still displayed with bright, shiny, colorful and patterned silks, where historically the attendees have been the upper class bourgeois, dressed in their own finery to see and be seen. This leads me into the class struggle that I see on the horse tracks.

I believe the jockey silks serve yet another purpose: to distinguish them — the hired talent — from the owners and spectators. The owner-dictated colors to be worn by jockeys are already a kind of stamp of claim, and professional jockeys — unlike gentlemen who ride or hunt for leisure — are typically culled from the working class who often got their starts as humble stable boys. In his fascinating book “City Games: The Evolution of Americann Urban Society and the Rise of Sports (Sport and Society),” Steven A. Riess notes that “thoroughbred racing and yachting, strongly identified in the public mind as elite sports because of the exorbitant cost of participation and the restricted memberships of jockey and yacht clubs, served as status-defining communities.” After being banned during the American Revolutionary era because of its associations both with the unpopular elite and immoral gambling, Jockey clubs were eventually created and justified “as the only means of developing superior horses for such uses as national defense (the cavalry) and transportation.”

The horse track is one of the few daytime, outdoor activities where formal attire is expected; it’s the plein air version of a night at the opera where the rich and famous (who may or may not actually care about the race outcome) can “see and be seen” while peering through their binoculars as opera-goers peered through their opera glasses. Mint juleps are served to daintily sipping guests while mud and dust spattered horses and jockeys are running for their lives — and sometimes to their deaths. These jockeys, though respected after wins, have been depicted in rather startling ways.

Jockeys are often portrayed as either boyish and/or with hunched posture:

This begs physical comparison with jockeys’ equine partners, as The Triplets of Bellville (2003) portrayed their cyclist athlete as a kind of horse-slave:

Compare to a horse owner. Note the erect posture, with top hat to emphasize his stature physically and socially (men of lower classes wore different hat styles):

The wonderful scene in My Fair Lady (filmed in 1964 but taking place circa 1916) illustrates the class prerequisite of the races. Lower-class Eliza Doolittle has never attended the races before, and her behavior in the exclusively upper crust setting is the final test of Henry Higgins’ skill, who has forced himself upon her as her aristocratic mentor. It also displays Cecil Beaton’s interpretation of the conspicuous fashion that lives on even today, with great humor and only slight exaggeration:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYMSvyqHHwA&fmt=18]

A marvelous irony is that horse racing was one of the first venues for legal gambling (it has been argued that its popularity continued because of this), so for every preening attendee there is a gambler who probably cares less what he looks like or where he sees or hears about the race and more who actually wins, (wearing whatever he damn well feels like).

Though I am undeniably attracted to race horsing as a genteel, civilized activity (I could never say I don’t love excuses to wear big hats, for example), my pragmatic, socially progressive side abhors the class distinctions that the races perpetuate, exemplified still in the attire of athletes, attendees, and remote observers.

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A couple months ago I had the unfortunate task of attending the funeral of my former coworker’s 20 year-old daughter who tragically died — of all  unlikely things in a developed country — during childbirth. In dressing for the funeral, I selected a lovely black taffeta dress with an outer layer of sheer black tulle with long tulle sleeves. In spite of its beauty (it’s a Lilith sample my friend, a former employee of that Parisian label, gave me), I actually don’t wear it very frequently because it’s a lot of black and I think it makes a morbid statement, especially paired with my pale skin; however this quality made it ideal for my sad errand.

As I was putting the finishing touches on my toilette – I accessorized with a dripping black tasseled necklace — my lover asked if I really wanted to be so fancy. “Of course,” I replied, “it’s a funeral. You’re supposed to dress up to show your respect.” Though I had to leave at that moment, we resumed the conversation later.

My Man is accustomed to Jewish traditions including the kriah (or keriah) where mourners tear a rent in their clothes which they display for the 7 days of shiva, the intense mourning period following a death. The specific placement of this tear is determined by the relationship with the deceased: for a parent, the visible rip is on or near the heart; for siblings, children and spouses, the rip is on the right and need not actually be visible. Children of the deceased are not allowed to ever mend the tears they make, even when shiva has ended, whereas all other mourners may patch the holes after shoshim, the 30 days following a death.  Straight away, a hierarchy of relationships is established by the clothes. That of the parent and child is given precedence — even over spouses — in a stylized demonstration of respect and perhaps obligation more than an implied closeness of personal relationship, which I found interesting.

Kriah is traditionally ripped while standing (to show strength in a time of grief) and the following blessing is recited: Barukh atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam dayan ha’emet. Translation: “Blessed are You, Adonai Our God, Ruler of the Universe, the True Judge.”

Nowadays, a torn kriah ribbon is sometimes substituted for an actual tear in mourners’ clothes:

The Biblical roots of the kriah include when Jacob believed his son Joseph was dead and he tore his garments (Genesis 37:34). Likewise, in II Samuel 1:11 King David and all his men rent their clothes upon hearing of the death of Saul and Jonathan. Job, too, in grieving for his children, stood up and rent his clothes (Job 1:20).

The kriah is a visual representation of the tear in the hearts and lives of the bereaved, or alternately, a vent to release their feelings. It also signifies that it is only the outer garment (representing the body) that has been torn; the soul of the deceased and the love that the deceased and the mourners have for each other endures. Furthermore, vanity in times of mourning is viewed as disrespectful — the bereaved should be focused on internal, soulful emotions and not outward public appearance. To this end, bathing, changing clothes, haircuts and nail clipping are also suspended, and to avoid temptation of pride, mirrors are covered.

The final rule of self-presentation during shiva (which also applies for Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement) is that leather shoes may not be worn. I was initially perplexed (as were several Jewish friends I asked, and many many people on the internet) as to the reasoning behind the ban on leather shoes in times of mourning. I understand that going without shoes is a powerful display of the rejection of physical comfort, but why would leather be specified? Sneakers, flip-flops or Crocs would circumvent the no-leather shoes rule but wouldn’t make sense if shunning comfort were the sole object (tee hee). Have no fear, Reader on the edge of your seat — I did find a plausible explanation.

First (and unsurprisingly), foregoing leather shoes to show deference has roots in the Torah: Moses removed his leather shoes (or sandals, as the case probably was) to approach the burning bush (Exodus 3:5), Joshua did as well when he faced the angel at the Promised Land (Joshua 5:15), and Ezekiel was commanded to remove his shoes while in mourning (Ezekiel 24:17). In these cases, the object was to show deference to God, but during shiva I imagine that that reverence is transferred to the departed. These were not demonstrations of deliberate discomfort so much as those of humility. A secondary explanation is that leather used to be far more of a luxury item than it is today (though there are clearly still traces of this high end market remaining). Leather shoes, then, fell into the category of jewelry and general adornment too ostentatious for times of ritualistic despair. The third reason for the leather shoes ban is one of sensitivity. “This is a day that we are not to practice violence and to look for compassion in life,” says Rabbi Jay Rosenbaum of the Herzl-Ner Tamid Conservative Congregation. “But to get the leather that would be used to make shoes would mean killing one of God’s creatures.”

For Jews, distressing their appearance is a physical manifestation their distressed emotional states, which I find perfectly poignant, though it runs contrary to the Christian practices and ideologies I was familiar with before writing this post. I was brought up Episcopalian (the WASP version of Catholic, if you don’t know), and had a very different set of rituals surrounding death and mourning. A particularly complex and rigid set of rules and customs were solidified during the Victorian era, which I’ll concentrate on for no better reason than that period especially interests me.

After the death of Prince Albert in 1861, the devastated Queen Victoria decreed a 40 year mourning period that was to be observed by all in an elaborate and conspicuous manner. The dress codes relating to the royal death trickled down and were adopted by the church, to be followed for all (Christian) deaths. Dark, somber clothes were demanded by all affected by the death. Widows endured the most elaborate dress rules and for the longest period of time. They were to wear black dresses made of crepe (a dull, lusterless material) with black caps which were generally in a toned down version of the current style. Topping the costumes were long “weeping veils” which were sheer crepe or silk. All widows’ accessories were black as well, including parasols, gloves, and stockings; undergarments were exempt only because color-fast dyes had not yet been perfected and black would rub off on wearers’ bodies.

“Full mourning” lasted a year and one day for widows, after which they could graduate — slowly — to lighter, brighter colors, but only by prescribed degrees. Grays and deep purples were acceptable in “half mourning,”  and after 2 years or so a normal, fashionable pallet was once again acceptable. Additionally, widows were not to participate in society — that is, balls, social gatherings, and essentially any public event except church — for 3 months, after which they could go out in public but only in full mourning garb. When a widow appeared in fashionable colors again, it was essentially an announcement to the community that she was available for courting and remarriage, which was usually a financial necessity.

Scarlett O’Hara famously flaunted this tradition in the Gone with the Wind (1939) dancing scene where she flouts propriety, not by her clothes (which she complains loudly about but wears) but by dancing publicly, an act of frivolity distinctly unbecoming of a widow.

At the ball, having accepted the inappropriate dancing invitation of Rhet Butler:

Rhet: “We’ve sort of shocked the Confederacy, Scarlet.”

Scarlett: “It’s a little bit like blockade running, isn’t it?”

Rhet: “It’s worse!”

Here is a not-very-good clip, but even muted (which I suggest), you can practically hear the gasp of the shocked ball attendees when Rhet publicly bids for a dance with supposedly grieving Scarlett — and her Aunt Pitty actually faints! Fast-forward to 1:30:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YL4McnvwZz0&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0]

Here is a properly dressed widow, accessories and all:

Christians, like Jews, downplay personal adornment while mourning, though not as completely. Jewelry may be worn, but it must be dark and possess little or no sheen. Several unusual materials became popular during the 19th century due to their possession of these qualities.

The hair of a beloved or recently deceased was often intricately woven into “chains” and “beads” to be worn by the bereaved:

Queen Victoria’s obsession with the public mourning of Prince Albert resulted in a great demand for fashionable and affordable black jewelry, and jet became a popular material for jewelry and buttons. It is an incredibly dense, dark mineraloid derived from decaying wood, appropriately enough. It has been imbued with a religious significance too, as it is a traditional material for monks’ rosaries. Queen Victoria sported and popularized Whitby jet, which initially created a boom in the industry but hampered its long term usage as people associated the stone with death.  Vulcanite was another material of similar properties commonly used for mourning jewelry.

Compare the left shiny buttons below, suitable for everyday wear, to the matte version on the right, acceptable for mourning:

As in the Jewish custom, levels of Victorian observance were determined by relationship to the deceased, but this was marked more by length of time in mourning dress than by placement of a mourning emblem. Grieving men initially wore simple black suits and black armbands. Servants wore black armbands, as could men who were obliged to wear military uniforms. Children usually wore white with black trim in summer and gray with black trim in winter; they were to observe full mourning for 9 months and half mourning for 3 more (this was the same timeframe parents followed). Siblings observed full and half mourning for 3 months each. Unlike Jews who place the heaviest mourning obligation on surviving children, (Victorian) Christians emphasize the spousal relationship by cloaking the widow in the most elaborate costume and for the longest period of time, that is synced with her ultimate marital / sexual availability.

You can see that though the Victorians had strict rules regarding color (or lack thereof), materials, and textures / sheen, mourning clothes could still be decorative, a major departure from the Jewish tradition. Some of the differences may be related to the belief or disbelief in an afterlife. Christians, though grieving for their own losses, are supposed to rejoice that their loved ones have passed from this mortal world to the next heavenly one. Jews have no such idealistic post-death haven to temper their sorrow, so it follows that the mourning dress should be plainer. Relating to this theory is another Jewish tradition pertaining to the attire of the deceased themselves. After being washed, the body is dressed in tachrichim, hand sewn linen clothes. There are no pockets, as Jews believe we take nothing with us when we die, and everyone buried in identical robes symbolizes that all people are equal (this is reinforced by identical, plain pine caskets).

I love how costume has been utilized as a mourning tool in such different ways. I think there’s something very beautiful and appealing about both sets of rituals: they are both intended to demonstrate respect for the dead, comfort those left behind, and eventually assist the bereaved to return to normal life. Silly or excessive as either may seem, don’t we all crave those things in trying times?

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Since working on this post, my own uncle passed away (this is why it’s been so long since I posted last). Though I’m not religious, I did wear black for a week. This was not intended to be a signal to others (black garb is too commonplace to stand out anymore anyway) but as my own private gesture of deference and sorrow, using the language I express myself with: clothes. I dedicate this entry– as a fully inadequate demonstration of my own love and loss — to Uncle Dick.

Further reading:

• “Shoeless in the Sanctuary,” Dr. Yoel Shiloh
• “Mourning,” with more specific Biblical references, from the Jewish Encyclopedia
• JewishFunerals.org
• “Victorian Mouring Garb,” Morbid Outlook

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New York Magazine brought an annual event to my attention I had no idea existed, but I wish I had in high school: namely, a Duck Tape “Stuck at Prom” contest. Costumes were judged based on workmanship (30%), originality (30%), use of colors (15%, accessories (15%), and quantity of Duck Tape used (10%).

In addition to my well documented love of clothes and the relationship between technology and fashion, it just so happens that I’ve recently become obsessed with duct tape crafty things. My sister recently gave me a duct tape wallet (at my request), and I intend to fashion myself a duct tape DIY dress form in the near future, so I’m all about exploring the wonders of this durable, malleable, industrial material.

The other aspect here is clearly The Prom. As I mentioned in a previous post, proms can seem silly and superficial at best, and an excuse for insecure teens to exclude at worst. However, I believe this much hyped event has the redeeming quality of allowing teenagers about to enter an important new phase of life– adulthood– to explore the implications of this change sartorially.  Somewhat ironically, this contest’s textile restrictions promote more whimsical, thematic, youthful looks rather than grownup ones, but it certainly encourages creativity and stresses fun in dress, and in my estimation, that is equally valuable.

As a side note, I was pleased to see that though contestants must enter as a pair, mixed (i.e. heterosexual) couples were not required for entry. Though I didn’t see any flaming gay couples, I was happy to know they were not explicitly excluded.

Here are some of my favorite contestants:

Hello pimpin’ goth pinstripes! Those must’ve taken forever to apply!

How can you not love the nerdy dapper Duck Tape dandy??

Though I think patriotic clothes are almost always distasteful, I was amused that the center “A” in “Obama” is a tiny White House:

I am so impressed this guy agreed to the bird theme:

Commitment to a weather motif– they were clearly looking to score high on the color segment:

It’s mildly amazing to me that this guy found a girl who was into the sci-fi theme at this tender, unassured age:

On the flip side, I was not such a fan of the beige, brown and turquoise cowboy prom look, for many reasons:

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“There are three things woman politicians get more ink in the press over than males. One is hairdo, two is hemline and the third is their husband, as society tends to be very concerned about these things with women politicians, and we’ve seen it with Sarah Palin,” said Nichola D. Gutgold, associate professor of communication arts and sciences at Penn State Lehigh Valley in Fogelsville.

I just read a silly tidbit in New York Magazine, hoisted from a gossip blurb in the New York Daily News: a former co-contestant of the 1984 Miss Alaska beauty pageant claims that Sarah Palin kept her hair cemented in it’s do with an entire can of Aqua Net hairspray.  “An Alaskan gale wouldn’t have moved a hair on her head,” the informant Pamela Massey stated.  In looking for a picture to attach to this post using the Google search term “Sarah Palin beehive,” I discovered a host of sites that have discussed this seemingly frivolous topic at length, including the New York Times!

But it this discussion actually superficial?  Though I certainly see the silliness in devoting news space to something as seemingly inconsequential as a politician’s hairstyle, a woman’s hair is still one of the most fetishized aspects of her.  Though it often goes unspoken, female politicians have to walk a fine line of presenting themselves as attractive — because we love a leader who’s easy on the eyes — but not sexy — because a woman’s sexuality is still feared, probably because of the implied power she has upon those attracted to her.  And people have strong opinions about Palin’s hair: some think it’s sleek and modern while others see it as outdated and/or frumpy.  But all these adjectives could be — and I believe actually are – about Sarah herself.  After all, she chose the hairdo and as she’s been in both pageants and politics, I’m quite sure she gave considerable thought to her tresses.  Likewise, I believe it was a deliberate decision to have her hair in a more casual ponytail beehive variation that allies her with all those ponytailed soccer moms she’s trying to win over:

And here is Palin pre V.P. nominee (I love this!):

In the Times article her hairdresser (at the aptly named Beehive Salon) reveals that Sarah wanted to look taller on camera, which was a big (haha) issue for shrimpy 5′ 11″ G. W. Bush when running against John Kerry’s 6′ 3″.  (During debates, you could see by the podium that the camera was more zoomed in on Bush so in split screen he filled as much of the frame as Kerry did, because it’s well documented that the masses tend to vote for the taller guy.  It seems the camera trick worked in this instance.)  Curiously, Palin’s beehive has since become a popular wig style for orthodox Jewish women. The religious but apolitical Sheitel.com sells the V.P. hopeful’s namesake hairpiece in addition to the less currently popular Hillary Clinton wig(!).

“For me, the heels are on, the gloves are off,” Palin declared at an October rally in an attempt to rescue McCain’s precarious campaign.  I thought it interesting that she used this sly metaphor to refer to her femininity and political viciousness, especially after she has been criticized (or at least commented upon) for sporting a pair of Naughty Monkey hot red peep-toe pumps the day she was introduced as McCain’s running mate.  The Naughty Monkey brand is generally marketed to “women in their early to mid-20s who go clubbing,” like frequent patron Paris Hilton.  Criticism notwithstanding, sales of Naughty Monkey shoes have increased by 50% on Amazon since Palin wore them.

This all seems reminiscent of the buzz around Hillary’s brightly colored campaign suits, which became such a joke that Hillary eventually poked fun at herself over it.  But what was she trying to convey with these vivid pant suits?  First, it should be noted that women were not allowed to wear pants on the Senate floor until the early 1990s, and Hillary clearly has been embracing that recent sexist sartorial victory ever since.  Second, a well tailored suit is a symbol of — dare I specify “masculine” — power, strength, and control, but the bright colors made Hillary’s distinctively feminine.  They wouldn’t have been everyone’s hues of choice, but it was a bold stylistic decision and having a consistent, identifiable style is a subtle cue that the person under the clothes is consistent him/herself.  Whether this cue is accurate or not is debatable, but the point remains that the wardrobe is a visual extension of what a politician’s speeches should be verbalizing.  Lastly, being as easily visible as an emergency flare cannot hurt when you’re attempting to attract attention in a crowd (or convention, as the case may be).

There was also that mini scandal when Hillary showed a little cleavage:

The Clinton campaign rightly responded “Frankly, focusing on women’s bodies instead of their ideas is insulting.”  I personally find it pretty hilarious that that amount of chest was even called “cleavage,” but Clinton is known for being hyper-conservative (when it comes to revealing flesh), so I suppose within that context, her exposed chest plate was mildly shocking.  Mildly.  It strikes me as telling that where Palin seems to be vamping her sex appeal — if ever-so-slightly — with her pencil skirts and red heels, Clinton seems to use her clothes to detract attention from her feminine form, obscuring her curves under her male-inspired pantsuits.

This kind of fashion scrutiny falls upon politicians’ spouses too.  It was noted in New York Magazine that Michelle Obama has been seen wearing the highly “democratic” (i.e. “affordable”) H&M off-the-rack merchandise, which was clearly not a coincidence since Michelle has reportedly “shied away from appearing in luxury fashion magazines because she doesn’t want to be photographed in outlandishly priced outfits. She also insisted on wearing her own clothes for her October More cover…. Her sartorial choice was likely made in keeping with the current economic spirit as many might not find it prudent for our potential First Ladies to run around in designer outfits that cost $313,000.”

This not-so-random price tag was an editorial jab at Cindy McCain and Laura Bush’s expensive ensembles during a public appearance at the RNC, a story which was originally published in Vanity Fair’s Politics & Power blog.  And the L.A. Times quoted trend forecaster Tom Julian, “And she [Palin] should definitely not take her fashion cues from Cindy McCain who is a totally couture, 7th Avenue fashion plate.  Perhaps a line like American designer Ralph Lauren would answer all Gov. Palin’s needs.”

Palin, Hillary and Michelle are not the first politicians to be at the center of fashion buzz. A century ago, rimless, round pince-nez frames with the neck cord became iconic when President Theodore Roosevelt wore them. And that was without the help of Google to identify the brand and a place to purchase them.

From President Eisenhower’s waist-length military jackets to first lady Jacqueline Kennedy’s pillbox hats, people in politics have long influenced consumer behavior. A mere day after Michelle Obama appeared on The Tonight Show and revealed to Jay Leno that her outfit was from J. Crew (amid the $150,000 Palin wardrobe controversy no less!), J. Crew’s stores had been swept bare of the various garments, purchased by hungry consumers.  The only items of Sarah Palin’s wardrobe the middle class can afford are her glasses, and perhaps shoes. Even if you are completely uninterested in fashion for the aesthetics, the question still must be raised: what kind of a message is being sent by a politician who dresses in six-digit designer clothes that his/her desired constituents — the middle class — can never afford?

Further reading:

• “The Politics of Fashion,” Harper’s Bazaar 2/08
• “Politics 1st Ladies of Fashion…” Freep.com 10/9/08
• Photo time lines of recent political looks of
  • bespectacled Sarah Palin,
  • coutured Cindy McCain,
  • patterned Michelle Obama, and
  • pantsuited Hillary Clinton.
• “Political Ties” Newsweek 10/14/08
• “Sarah Palin Has a Secret Team of Stylists” New York Magazine 9/17/08
• “Fashion in Politics Remains a Tricky Business” STLToday 10/25/08
• “Outfitting a Candidate” slideshow of Palin’s looks, New York Times Magazine 10/23/08
• “Classic Campaign Chic” slideshow of the clothes of hopefuls and their families, New York Daily News 10/7/08
• “Judging a candidate by his wife’s fashion” Financial Times, 11/1/08

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One of the few advantages of working in midtown is that I am just a couple minutes jaunt away from the MoMA, and every once in awhile, I actually take my full hour lunch break to soak up some visual culture. Yesterday I fought my way through the rainy day museum-attending mob (I believe it’s also free admission day) and attended a walking tour delivered by the stunningly beautiful and articulate Galia Fischer on one of my favorite artists, Ernst Ludwig Kirchner and his series of 11 Berlin street scene paintings, created 1913 – 1915 (a period I particularly love in fashion history, especially as it relates to pre-war times). Kirchner is known for his harsh, sweeping vertical lines, violent brushstrokes and dismal color schemes (I say “dismal” adoringly), not to mention his frequent subject of prostitutes (which in the scheme of art history is far from uncommon, but I’ll just throw it out there). To begin at the beginning:

“Five Women in the Street” (1913) was the first in Kirchner’s street series, and depicts the ladies of the night as birds of paradise (or perhaps a more domestic parrot), posing in their green habitat with green-tinged millinery plumage and greenish skin. The bird comparison is further emphasized by the bulky fur lapels that puff the chest area up, and the hobble skirts — both of which were popular fashions in the 19-teens — that coincidentally create bird-like, tapered legs and emphasize pointy feet.

The women peer into what can be assumed to be a storefront on our right (the dark hash marks presumably the glass reflection) window shopping, while it may be inferred that the car sidling close on the left contains a man cruising through his own glass at the bodily merchandise they are displaying and hocking.

I really love the complex relationship between Voyeur and The Observed that windows and glass bring up. There are several great essays that deal with this topic in Sexuality & Space, published by the Princeton Press, specifically Beatriz Colomina’s “The Split Wall: Domestic Voyeurism” that discusses how architecture and constructed spaces can create nooks, for example, that feel cozy and safe but are actually framed like a stage, displaying rather than concealing.  Additionally, there is the layer of interior/domestic spaces being considered inherently feminine.  Though I’m delighted that “Five Women,” with its plein air ladies and automobile-hidden man, contradicts that convention in one sense, the way Kirchner has framed them hints at a more complex relationship.  The women are sandwiched tightly between the car and the window, and they touch the very edges of each side of his painting, suggesting that they’re boxed in (within their profession, within their greater role as women, etc.), even within their literal outdoor setting.

“Berlin Street Scene” (1913) has a wider array of colors than many other of Kirchner’s street scenes.  There are actually visible men in this one, but they are all made rather anonymous by their unvarying blue-black coats and high bowlers. By contrast, the two women become the focus by color alone; though they are half hidden by the two men, the woman in scarlet and her companion in bright blue pop out.  The woman-as-bird theme continues with the feathered hats, but this is a male perspective, I think.  What’s more telling about the closeness of the women’s relationship is that their hats match their companion’s coats and not their own.  This unifies them chromatically and implies their connection within the sea of dusky men, though they look away from each other.  As I went through the show, I realized that this was a favorite visual trick of Kirchner’s.

Galia pointed out that the face of the man we can actually see appears to be almost as grotesquely made up as the women’s: he has those smudgy kohl eyes and lips that match the woman in blue’s.  I like to imagine a little narrative: that those are two johns approaching the prostitutes but as they near, the one on the right turns away in disgust, twisting his body in a most awkward way so you almost can’t tell which way his body is facing.  But is he repulsed by the hookers (you must admit the one on the left, with mascara actually dribbling down her face, is not looking so appetizing), or himself?  Remember this is pre-WWI era, when gender roles — specifically in Berlin — were slowly being muddled as men went off to war and women took over their jobs, and by extension their social roles.  Though Berlin had (and has) a notoriously gender-experimental population, there seems always to be an underlying fear of feminization (and by extension, castration) fear held by men when ancient gender roles are blurred.  This particular man seems to be holding onto the last shreds of his masculinity with the sickly yellow, phallic cigarette dangling from his displeased mouth.

“Potsdamer Platz” (Square) (1914) has a color scheme I love: the chili pepper-red train station dominates the upper register while avacado/lime green streets slice through the lower half of the painting, somehow making even the round island the prostitutes stand on appear pointed.  The green seems to be literally reflected in the faces of the women as they stand on their perch (anther bird illusion?), with a healthy smattering of murky beige to soften the total effect of the scene… slightly.

The woman on the left is ensconced in severe black, with a flat black hat that was not a popular style (fashion historians, correct me if I’m wrong) at the time; in fact, it more closely resembles hats of the 1940s, another war period.  The broad hat becomes a platform from which to drape the oddly straight veil, whose evenly spaced vertical folds create quite a birdcage (that old theme again!) around her head, an effect punctuated by the white plumage atop it all.  This ensemble approximates mourning clothes — the white of the hat feathers and  the collar would have been inappropriate for true mourning-wear, but I liked Galia’s hypothesis that the prostitute was possibly attempting to elicit sympathy (and clients?!) from this odd costume choice.  This, after all, was the first year of WWI and there were increasing numbers of pitiable widows on the streets as husbands, brothers and fathers were killed.

The two elongated streetwalkers appear (ironically) stationary as they are surrounded by briskly striding men in black.  As with other Kirchner street scenes, the women fill the the frame from top to bottom, this time literally dwarfing the insignificant men portrayed in distorted perspective, 1/3 their size.  Interesting that the monumental women seem to be stagnating in a world of men with places to go, trains to catch, etc.  Social commentary, hmmm?

“Street, Berlin” (1913) has a very different color scheme from the others.  The purple dress, flamingo pink street and turquoise background are oddly fresh, if still slightly unnatural, shades.  The women’s smirking bubblegum pink faces are turned in conspiratorially toward each other’s again.  A man is in the foreground with and the same size as the hookers for once, and though he leans away with his whole body, looking down and away, his sneaky cane projects from his general crotch area and practically touches the woman on the right.  The fleshy path they all stand on parts in a cleft between the two figures and is emphasized with an outline of deeper red.  The prostitute in purple’s plunging plum coat with the fur lining, not to mention her hand which simultaneously conceals and draws attention to her own groin further drives the sexual context of this painting home.

“Women in the Street” (1915) has startling chartreuse background with dark forest green dress and deep blue dress worn by the familiar prostitutes, framed centrally again.  A rather effeminate man stands to the right, almost blending with the women, but his trousers peeking from beneath his coat and his bowler hat reveals his true sex.  He looks demurely down in the direction of the woman in green’s feet while she and her companion stare boldly at us, upsetting traditional viewing gender rules, while calling attention to the viewer’s own participation in the voyeuristic game.

“Two Women in the Street” (1914) distinguishes itself from the rest of the series in several ways. First, it’s a close up, showing only the torsos of the women (who again, dominate the frame). Second, their faces are abstracted and flattened with unnatural striations resembling wood grain in an (uncredited — apparently Kirchner rejected any suggestion that his work was influenced by anything!) homage to the African art that was flooding Europe at that time; Picasso was similarly inspired in the early stages of his career.  Even with this truncated view, the women are unified by their identical postures.  And again, the woman in the tangerine coat wears a hat the color of her companion’s peacock turquoise coat; their matching lemon yellow collars unify them with pose and color.

“Street Scene” (1914) was the final painting in the exhibition.  It too contains the now familiar motif of two women wearing hats matching each others’ outfits (a little hard to make out in this picture, I think): in this instance, the dusty turquoise with royal blue hat paired with her companion’s royal blue coat with turquoise cap.  And again, they stand so close, belly to belly, with one elegant leg apiece stretched out in front, one tucked behind, so that they might even be mistaken for one person.  I don’t have a clear reading on their smirks: do they imply power, or act as protective element?

The men behind them line up so neatly that they resemble a female chorus line, especially with the expertly pointed toes.  This is also an obvious reference to chronophotography, the Victorian precursor to moving film recording as we know it, where photographs were taken in quick succession in an effort to capture a subject’s movements.  These early photos inspired the Futurist art movement and one of my favorite Duchamp paintings, “Nude Descending a Staircase, No. 2,” and I can see similarity with Busby Berkley’s large scale musical numbers from the 1930s involving identically (scantily clad) dancers moving in near synchronization so as to give the illusion they are all connected.  Though he is more famous for his dancing girl numbers, there were also large male chorus lines.  As with Kirchner’s street series, Berkley’s dance numbers were highly sexually charged, with scantily clad women opening and closing their arms and legs suggestively; the irony is that Kirchner has once again feminized the men by posturing them thus.

Continuing the sexual theme here are the phallic, creamy pink car wheels in the lower right hand corner that touch the actual bottom– complete with red slit– of an identically colored pink dog.

Lastly, there is a mostly hidden, murky man who I like to imagine is the pimp of these women.  He wears a gray suit as opposed to the chorus mens’ black attire, and his dusty turquoise hat ties him to the women with color, as they are tied to each other.

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