Thread for Thought

I just read a fun list on Flavorwire of their 10 favorite fashionable literary characters. Allow me to summarize:

1. Lily Bart in Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth
2. Dorian Gray in Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray
3. Holly Golightly in Truman Capote’s Breakfast at Tiffany’s
4. Orlando in Virginia Woolf’s Orlando
5. Scarlett O’Hara in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind
6. Jay Gatsby in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby
7. Dorian Gray in Gustave Flaubert’s The Picture of Dorian Gray
8. Rupert Psmith in the novels of P.G. Wodehouse
9. Lady Brett Ashley in Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises
10. Darling Daintyfoot in Jean Genet’s Our Lady of the Flowers

A wonderful property of literature and other art forms is that textiles — fragile under the best of circumstances — may be preserved in alternate mediums. Greek, Roman, and Ancient Egyptian statues may be studied for information on what people wore in eras almost impossible to find fragmented remains of clothes, much less full ensembles, as can paintings and literature. Though literature removes the visual aspect of fashion, it can supplement readers with information not gleaned from sculptures and pictures: how fabric moved; how heavy and cumbersome (or light and airy) it was; what necessary undergarments created the ultimate silhouettes. Most valuable, perhaps, is that literature is able to synthesize the mise en scène of a particular country, era, class, time of day, and personal circumstance, explicitly emphasizing the relationship of fashion with these other variables. Though not impossible, conveying this complex set of relationships is more challenging in fine arts, where the visual language may be forced to reduce information to simplified symbols, to be absorbed and interpreted by a viewer in a moment.

Within a written narrative, an author has space to develop characters and settings: personality, gender roles (how constrictive / seductive women’s gowns were communicates volumes), class (fabrics vary according to a person’s wealth), aspirations (class deception is commonly exploited with the use of clothes), sexual preference (homosexuals are often marked as such by a flamboyance of appearance that’s slightly out of step with current fashion)…. Though fashion historians often concentrate on the nitty-gritty details of garment descriptions — which is absolutely valuable — this information should contribute to the overall character development and plot structure of a novel as well. In the hands of a competent writer, dress details will not distract a non-fashion reader, but only add depth to what is already taking place.

The course of events in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind, for example — war, displacement, poverty, the helpless role of women — lead directly and naturally to the memorable scene where Scarlett converts her destroyed mansion’s drapes into a fashionable dress and hat with which to impress and seduce Rhett Butler (thereby securing new wealth). (The dress from the original film, by the way, is in dire need of restoring.)

Scarlett O'Hara in drape dress, Gone with the Wind

This dress has become so iconic that costume designer Bob Mackie specifically spoofed it, within Carol Burnett’s 1976 general farce “Went with the Wind” (which I strongly encourage you to watch in its entirety):

Carol Burnett Show, Went with the Wind

As I hope you can see, Mackie left the curtain rod in, used drape ties with tassels for a belt, and left the contrasting fringe exactly where it would’ve been on the curtain, drawing attention to Scarlett’s desperation and deception sooner rather than later — taking Margaret Mitchell’s initial use of fashion one step further.

Presenters will be dissecting the relationship between fashion and literature in an upcoming Drexel University conference (at which I will be presenting): Fashion in Fiction: The Dark Side of Fashion. If you will be in Philadelphia October 8-10, please drop me a line (see my Profile for email address)!

Feel free to add your own best-dressed characters in fiction in the Comments….

Further Reading:

• Fashion in Fiction: Text and Clothing in Literature, Film and Television, edited by Peter McNeil, Vicki Karaminas, and Catherine Cole
• Fashion and Fiction: Dress in Art and Literature in Stuart England by Aileen Ribeiro

As a young woman who has atypically looked forward to turning shocking silver (I’ve even promised myself to grow my pixie haircut at that time to accentuate it), I’ve read with some curiosity but ultimate skepticism, the rash of articles and blog posts about the supposed trend of women embracing grey hair. The most recent that I read, in UK Telegraph, was one of the more thoughtful ones; it concentrated on 46-year-old ’90s supermodel Kristin McMenamy’s latest photo shoot for Dazed and Confused magazine. Having always been a rather startling-looking woman with Tilda Swinton-like pallor and a broad sneer of a mouth, the shock of flowing, natural grey tresses doesn’t seem so out of place on McMenamy. “You can get older and still be rock’n'roll,” she told the magazine. “I thought all that grey hair would make a beautiful picture.” Below are two photos (neither from the D&C shoot) that exemplify how grey can be romantic…

in Vogue, August 2010

sleek…

in Calvin Klein RTW F2010

or totally fucking fierce:

on the Givenchy runway, S2008

This is not the first time grey hair has been in style; compared to the 18th century, this current fad is a drop in the pan. Men and women alike oiled and powdered their hair shades of grey and white starting in the mid-1700s. Oil was necessary to make the powder stick, and yes, oil and powder was unavoidably shed with movement; you can see Charles-Alexandre de Calonne, below, is leaking powder on his shoulder, like dandruff, where his ponytail rubs:

detail of Charles-Alexandre de Calonne by Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, 1784

Below Madame Grand (later Madame Talleyrand-Périgord, Princesse de Bénévent) models the bouffant du jour in the late 18th century:

Madame Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, later Princesse de Bénévent, by Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, 1783

Mature as her dusty locks make her to our 21st century eyes, this is only a 22 year-old woman; you can see her cheeks are still youthfully plump and rosy (though blush undoubtedly assisted). Here is the same woman — approximately 25 years later:

detail of Madame Charles-Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, later Princesse de Bénévent by François Gérard, c. 1808

In addition to the change of hair color and style, it is obvious by this comparison that there was a radical change of silhouette in the costume of the mid-late-18th century and that of the early 19th century. As with the turn of the 20th century, a great deal of bulk and fussiness was discarded in favor of a sleeker and ultimately more youthful, modern look in hair and costume. I don’t think it’s the powdered grey hair alone that ages our subject, but rather the compilation of big, fussy, surreal hair with busy bows and lace and volume in the dress and accessories. In my humble opinion, the neo-Classical look of the early 19th century just feels more modern. But I digress.

Marie Antoinette (1755 – 1793) was both early champion and ultimate victim of powdered coiffures. The Flour War of 1775, caused by the de-regulation of wheat prices by the government, lead to hoarding, gouging, and the inability of lower classes to afford simple bread, and was the ominous precursor to the crescendo of the French Revolution. Wig powder, a product of finely ground starch (a.k.a. flour), was used liberally by the naive queen in her legendary towering bouffants, casting her and her fashion statements in a distinctly unflattering, frivolous light.  French historian Caroline Weber observed,

“…although historians have established that Marie Antoinette never uttered the legendary remark “Let them eat cake,” it is not implausible that the lasting association between her callousness and baked edibles in fact originated with her habit of parading her powdered, wedding-cake hairstyles before a bread-starved nation.”

Here is Marie Antoinette in the very year of the Flour War, seemingly flaunting her willful ignorance of the economic struggles of her country, and all to achieve that trendy grey hair:

Marie Antoinette by Jacques-Fabien Gautier D'Agoty, 1775

With no small irony, according to legend, Marie Antoinette’s hair turned grey with stress and fear the night before her execution; grey hair as fashion statement had clearly run its course as it became associated with the demonized, decapitated monarch. Two years later the English government levied a tax on hair powder, the last coffin nail of that grey-haired trend… until today?

Granite hair was on the 2010 runways shows of playful Giles Deacon and goth Gareth Pugh, and the Telegraph article quoted high end hairdressers claiming to have more young clients who want grey, like Peaches Geldof, Kelly Osbourne, Kate Moss and Victoria Beckham. This kind of minimal evidence has prompted sites like trendhunter.com to prematurely declare “For decades men and women have been trying to mask signs of aging, but a new wave fashionable gray hair is reflecting a shifting attitude regarding the physical effects of getting older.” A more tempered NYTimes article quoted colorist Sharon Dorram, “who said that among her downtown New York patrons, it is mostly younger women, renegade types, who request gray. Not lost on Ms. Dorram is the irony that their older, more conventional counterparts spent $1.3 billion to cover their grays last year, according to Nielsen.”

I don’t think gunmetal tresses were a sign of the fetishization, or even simple respect, of mature women in the 18th century, and I don’t think that’s the case in 2010 either. It’s an unusual, edgy color precisely because so many women with natural grey hair darken it, so it really pops when a woman such as Kristin McMenamy rocks it. I think that even if more grey hair dye is being sold, it is unfortunately not a sign that older women — specifically, naturally mature women — are all of a sudden welcomed back into the fold for the general, fashionable, youth-obsessed public. Pixie Geldof, for example, I don’t think could be said to be furthering the cause of women aging gracefully, though her hair is certainly grey:

Pixie Geldof

Along a similar line, premature articles claiming the emergence of older models on runways and magazine spreads as being indicative of older women being accepted as beautiful and sexual are, I think, overlooking that those older models might be over-the-hill 30+, but they are recognizable and have proven themselves exceptionally good at selling products — hence their previous successes. In economically strapped times I think we all return to the familiar, tried-and-true methods of existence, and I believe designers are returning to supermodels of yesteryear because they have the most experience and accomplishments, and fame/notoriety that can only come with age — also, they are still smokin’ hot. Kate Moss is still landing covers at age 36 (which is, by the way, close to the height of a woman’s biological peak of personal sexuality), and 37 year-old Heidi Klum is even modeling in Victoria Secret lingerie shows (after having popped out 4 children). This is evidence that magazines and designers don’t want to take as many risks these days, when merchandise is harder to move off shelves. They know Moss and Klum, they know their scopes, their talent, and the sales they still consistently generate. After all, you don’t hear about a surge of random, unknown older women taking up the runways — that would demonstrate real progress in my eyes.

A TIME article from a few years ago astutely pointed out the frustrating correlation between the success of the feminism movement and women’s increased use of hair dye. The very same Baby Boomers who fought to enter the workplace are the same who feel compelled to color their hair, to appear more youthful, energetic, or conservative (grey-haired women can appear alternative or hippy-like, often to their detriment in the workplace). The TIME article quotes some shocking statistics about female politicians, for whom it could be argued the physical manifestation of age and experience should be an asset:

“…of the 16 female U.S. Senators — the highest number ever — who range in age from 46 to 74, not a single one has visible gray hair. Of the 70 female members of the House, only seven have gray hair. Political professionals say that the double standard is a great unspoken inequity but that candidates and officeholders don’t dare publicly discuss it for fear of seeming trivial. In an interview before her death last year, Ann Richards, the famously white-haired former Governor of Texas, told me, ‘You can’t appear to be too flashy because it will send the wrong message, but at the same time, you need to appear energetic. The issue is much more significant for women because the hurdle is higher in our society. We’re not sure what we want our [female] elected officials to be — mother, mistress or caretaker.’”

female US senators, 2007 -- not a grey hair in the joint

As evidenced by the world’s obsession with Michelle Obama’s style, politicians’ wives face intense scrutiny too, and most of them color their hair. I wonder if Nancy Reagan would have received the same childish sniggering that Barbara Bush endured for supposedly looking so much older than her hubby, if she had not concealed her own grey hair with that frosted brown. It might come as a surprise to learn Barbara and Nancy were the same age — 64 — when their respective husbands became the President, and though I admit that from a distance Babs looks older, I frankly like the luminescent white she has going on, and I don’t think it diminishes her stature or poise:

Ronald and Nancy Reagan, inauguration, 1985

George and Barbara Bush, inauguration, 1989

Lord knows I’m not against experimentation with appearance. But I sincerely hope women start challenging the gender bias we perpetuate against ourselves and fellow women by playing into the same limiting roles we’ve fought so hard to break out of. Going grey naturally may seem like a small step for Feminism (and the closely linked Ageism), but having grown up in Cambridge, MA, where there are many vibrant, intelligent, artistic women who let their grey show, it becomes suspicious and puzzling that other cities that are diverse in many ways, including appearance, are not like that. Let this so-called trend of grey hair chic be inspiration for actual grey-haired women to embrace their ages, their accomplishments, their strengths, and know they can do so stylishly.

May I suggest some role models?

Susan Songtag, writer

Jamie Lee Curtis, actress

Gloria Steinem, activist writer

Helen Mirren, actress

Annie Leibovitz, photographer

Diane Keaton, actress

Emmylou Harris, singer

Judi Dench

Further Reading:

• Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution, by Caroline Weber

A recent NYTimes article on the latest Levi jeans ad campaign featuring not dead-eyed models in awkward sexualized positions, but real-life residents of Braddock, PA caught my eye. A continuation of last year’s “Go Forth” ad campaign, this one uses actual inhabitants of Braddock to show real workers in their natural habitat: a town that has been particularly hard-hit by the recession. Here’s the accompanying commercial:

Though not all the ads are quite so literal in their depiction of rural workers as the one that heads this post (namely men with heavy tools with expanses of sky and/or land), the campaign appears to be trying to tap into the history of Levi’s as the jeans of 1870s Western frontiersmen and merge it with the tough lives of contemporary men and women who are struggling with their own era’s economic hardships. “People don’t think there are frontiers anymore,” says the young narrator wistfully, “they can’t see how frontiers are all around us.”

While it is true that Levi’s jeans have been a staple of the blue collar working man for more than a century, the idea of capitalizing on the somewhat romanticized images of poverty still strikes me as manipulative in a distinctly American way. Americans in particular, I think, are obsessed with making the casual and ordinary glamorous. Ever since the American Revolution, Americans have reveled in our self-perceived scrappiness, adventurousness, tough sportiness and casualness. Though Hollywood has always proved we can glam it up when we want to, much of the history of American fashion has been just a little more simple, a little more pared down, a little more casual. Consider quintessential American Ben Franklin (1706-1790) who eschewed the powdered wigs far earlier than popular fashion, allowing his own thinning, greyish locks to hang limply:

Benjamin Franklin by Joseph Siffred Duplessis, 1778

Compare to a French contemporary of Ben’s, whose jacket fabric has a sheen suggesting it’s silk, in addition to the meticulously coiffed and powdered wig (he was only 42 at the time of this portrait):

Abbe Charles Bossut by Pierre Pasquier, 1772

John Singleton Copley (1738 – 1815) turned the art world on its head when he painted a formal portrait of Paul Revere, not in a heroic equestrian pose indicative of his famous midnight ride which was just a year earlier, but in the distinctly informal attire of his trade as a silversmith (no jacket!), and complete with his tools and a project. You can see how this is even more dressed-down than Franklin:

Paul Revere by John Singleton Copley, 1776

This very much reminds me of Irving Penn’s series “Small Trades” from the 1950s, where he photographed blue collar men and women dress in their work clothes and usually with a prop to indicate their particular trades. He executed these photos just as he did with so many fashion models and celebrities, in front of his standard mottled backdrop that was particularly striking in that it removed the people from their natural working environments. Suffice it to say, I adore this series. Penn portrays each subject so respectfully, with such dignity — in some cases, downright majestically, as a monarch’s portrait might be taken, and thus elevating their perceived importance. Here are a couple in denim overallls, staple of the laborer:

Lineman by Irving Penn, 1951

Bricklayer by Irving Penn, 1950

Contrast those photos now, to the recent collections of Ralph Lauren and Jean Paul Gaultier. It was obvious that fashion designers were incorporating the “worst recession since the Great Depression” that peppered the news into their Spring 2010 collections. Though I didn’t love the clothes themselves, I thought the ideas presented were interesting. Ralph Lauren regularly taps into Americana tropes and exploits America’s fascination with juxtaposing markers of the working class with upper-end, designer fashion motifs. Below is an ensemble of silk satin that mimics denim in its cut and color; next to it is an interesting metallic satin gown that, from the waist up, resembles overalls, and from the waist down, standard 1930s drapey eveningwear, mashing up the highly functional Great Depression farmers’ “uniform” with the distinctly impractical gowns from the silver screen:

I’ll admit there was some legitimate discomfort at the collection — Robin Givhan wrote “The sight of a freshly scrubbed model sashaying in distressed overalls and glittering evening sandals was akin to watching some indulged young party girl go slumming for the day. It was the kind of ensemble Naomi Campbell might have worn when she was forced to mop floors in jail after an altercation with her housekeeper.”  But there was, of course, the blatant disconnect in Hollywood’s representations of Americans during the original Depression, and while I certainly wouldn’t buy designer jeans and cotton shirts meant to look like they’d been sun-bleached and worn threadbare, I appreciated the commentary on the economic/social gap that still exists in America in supposedly straightened circumstances.  The 1930s were known for their escapist screwball comedies, often featuring impeccably dressed society folks who seemed blissfully untouched by any economical discomfort. Satins and metallics were used liberally in women’s gowns, conveying wealth and glittering brilliantly on the black and white celluloid; stars like Ginger Rogers and Jean Harlow were almost exclusively seen in highly wrinkleable, impractical fabrics and impossibly slinky styles like these below, though almost no one outside Hollywood could afford such luxuries:

Jean Harlow and Clark Gable in Saratoga, 1937

And below you can see how the light reflects off satin in movement — divine! Ginger Rogers’ dress even has a bit of an overall-esque racer back, hinting at a sportiness/athleticism as the Ralph Lauren dress hinted at manual labor:

All this to say, working class attire has been fetishized for centuries. Sometimes for philosophical beliefs, sometimes for political reasons, and sometimes for pure aesthetics. I don’t think Levi’s latest ad campaign is nearly as risky as they thought, but however profitable it turns out to be for them, I hope some money from the ads is circulating in and around Braddock.

Further Reading:

• “Small Trades,” Irving Penn
  

Coney Island by Weegee, 1938

In weather like this (namely, 90+ degrees, little-to-no wind, and me without air conditioning), beachy escapes are on everyone’s mind. Following is a rough timeline of how women have historically bared their flesh — or not — to enjoy the sand and sun.

Classical Times

In Classical antiquity swimming and bathing was most often done nude; only sometimes were there were coverings. Murals at Pompeii and ancient mosaics show women wearing two-piece wrap-around garments that resemble bikinis; these were worn for athletic pursuits as on the woman below, who wears the crown and cradles the frond of athletic victory.

woman in athletic bikini, 4th century CE Roman mosaic

19th century

But alas, western society did not long embrace the celebrated nude of the Greco-Roman era, and for many centuries afterwards, beachwear mimicked streetwear, and submerging oneself in water was generally limited to private experiences. It wasn’t until the middle of the 19th century when water sports, sun bathing, and swimming gained momentum again. Starting around 1830, a series of changes eventually led to the participation of women in sports and in specialized clothing being developed for those sports. The Industrial Revolution hearkened an age of train travel, the invention of the sewing machine and mass-produced fabrics enabled clothing in lower price ranges, and household machines and the development of labor unions gave the working classes more leisure time to indulge in travel, sports, and sun worship in exotic locales. The Dress Reform Movement (see my earlier post on Women, Pants, & Politics) advocated shorter dresses worn over loose harem trousers (the Bloomer Costume) that allowed women greater freedom of movement, as was needed for sports and swimwear. Exercise was increasingly prescribed by doctors and advocated by writers to maintain healthfulness; exercise programs even became an integral part of women’s college curriculums.

The typical 19th century “bather” wore black, knee-length, puffed-sleeve wool dresses, often featuring sailor collars for extra-special nautical costume effect (I say this somewhat facetiously, but it was probably used as a deliberate visual device to distinguish proper day wear from risqué sportswear), and worn over bloomers (derived from the Bloomer Costume) or drawers trimmed with ribbons and bows. Accouterments included long black stockings, lace-up bathing slippers that resembled ballerina slippers, and caps. As the 19th century progressed, bloomers and dress hemlines slowly but surely crept higher. Foundation garments being the basic (however questionable) mark of sartorial respectability, it wasn’t until the 20th century that women stopped wearing corsets underneath their bathing suits. Men had swim suits so closely resembling their undergarments that they made the distinction by wearing either black wool or black-with-stripes. You can see where how term bathing suit applied — the bathing costumes were made up of many layers that were worn as a cohesive ensemble.

Bathing dress, 1858

Beaches typically segregated the sexes, either with portions of the beach or different hours of operation. “Bathing machines” were used for additional modesty: they were dressing rooms on wheels in which women could change into their swimmies, were then wheeled out into the water by horses or people, and then were lifted out into the water to bathe. Below is an amusing cartoon from an 1870 edition of Punch:

Modest Old Gentleman (who has swum out to sea and whose bathing-machine has, in the meanwhile, been walked off by mistake). “Ahem! Pray Excuse me, Madam My Bathing-Machine I think.”

And another cartoon from a postcard, closer to the end of the 19th century, showing the hilarious efforts men might exert to catch of glimpse of the women exiting the bathing machine:

1900s

By the turn of the century, bathing suits underwent a revolutionary change in styles as they ceased to be patterned after street wear and began to show a little more of the human form.

bathing costumes c. 1900

bathers by Georges Marchand, published by A. Bettembos, Dieppe, France, 1904

More athletic (and risqué) women pared down the bathing costume to be as form fitting as possible while still covering their bodies. In 1907 the Australian swimmer Annette Kellerman (1887-1975) visited the United States as an “underwater ballerina,” a version of synchronized swimming involving diving into glass tanks. She was arrested in Boston (my hometown is always Puritanical!) for indecent exposure because her swimsuit showed arms, legs and the neck. Kellerman changed the suit to have long arms and legs and a collar, still keeping the close fit that revealed the shapes underneath:

Annette Kellerman in "one piece all-over Black Diving Suit", 1906

Laughable as this costume might be to our unshockable eyes, compare this to the body stockings worn by the prostitutes photographed by E.J. Bellocqu (1873 – 1949) in Storyville, New Orleans’ Red Light district circa 1912. It’s hard to see, but this woman is wearing a full white unitard of the variety worn by burlesque performers (it’s important to note that only dark colors were used in early bathing costumes exactly because they were to be visible, and not to even give the illusion of nudity as this one does):

E J Bellocqs Storyville prostitute in body stocking, c 1912

1920s

The swimwear industry took off in the ’20s. As athleticism and slimmer figures gained increasing fashionableness (see my post on Bicycle Chic and Athletic Aesthetic), knitwear companies expanded their market from sweaters and underwear to include swimwear. With its beautiful beaches and warm waters, it’s unsurprising that the West Coast emerged at this time as a hotbed of swimsuit manufacturers with Catlina, Cole of California, and Jantzen all setting up shop there. The West Coast was not coincidentally the home of burgeoning Hollywood, and this proximity led to the early adoption and wide dissemination of new bathing suit styles in popular films and publicity photographs. Mack Sennett (1880-1960) was a slapstick comedy director whose films frequently featured his titillating “Bathing Beauties,” pictured below:

Mack Sennett's Bathing Beauties eating apples, 1922

The boyish figure favored in the 1920s affected the style of the bathings suits, which were shorter and very much mimicked men’s bathing trunks. (Note also how these bathing suits resembled the mod miniskirts of the ’60s, yet to come.) As ever, when hemlines are raised and garments tightened, modesty becomes a priority for moralists. Below is a 1922 photo of Washington policeman Bill Norton measuring the distance between knee and suit at the Tidal Basin bathing beach after Col. Sherrell, Superintendent of Public Buildings and Grounds, issued an order that suits not be over six inches above the knee (it looks like someone might be in trouble!):

1930s

Knit wool swimsuits, though infinitely more practical than the bathing costume of the 19th century, were still imperfect. They became waterlogged, droopy, and heavy when wet, weighing an average of 20 pounds (owning a vintage wool bathing suit, I can attest that the sagginess is both uncomely and uncomfortable). Technology development stepped in, and the elastic rubber fiber Lastex was invented in 1934. This new material, with natural fibers surrounding a rubber core thread, was used in undergarment corsetry and swimsuits.

The close proximity between the swimsuit manufacturers and Hollywood continued to influence each other. As Lizzie writes in her excellent piece on swimsuits, “Stars and Hollywood designers were used to advertise and promote the latest in swimwear.” Below is Carole Lombard, brash comedienne and lucky wife of Clark Gable. You can see the swimsuits are tighter, shorter, and introduce glamor to what had been previously been somewhat clunky sportswear:

Carole Lombard

Though Jean Harlowe’s white number is even skimpier (and plays with the suggestion of nudity with its white fabric on white skin), note that it is only the necklines and silhouettes that are played with — the leg hemlines remain solidly and straightly at crotch level, no higher.

Jean Harlow

1940s:

Esther Williams (1921-), who had made a somewhat oxy-moronic career for herself as a soloist synchronized swimmer in film musicals, signed a modeling contract with Cole of California in 1947 which also included an annual swimsuit design named for her. Here is a nice montage (feel free to turn the sound off) where she actually pretends to be the aforementioned Australian swimmer Annette Kellerman, among others, in The Million Dollar Mermaid (1952).

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: war affects fashion. U.S. factories are often commandeered by the military during wars, using their existing facilities to produce supplies for the war effort; this was true of the swimwear industry during World War II, as well. Fabric rationing led to sleeker, more closely tailored silhouettes in day wear, and sanctioned increasingly skimpy swimwear: as Lizzie points out, “The US government actually mandated that bathing suits were to be made with at least 10% less fabric, and so the midsection was eliminated” (keeping that scandalous orifice, the navel covered!). French engineer-turned-swimsuit-designer Louis Reard created the “bikini” in 1946, macabrely named after the concurrent nuclear bomb test site on the Bikini Atoll, though some say it was an allusion to the explosive effect the midriff-baring bikiniwould have on viewers. A year after it was released in France, Reard’s bikini was released in America, though its sales were not so great, and was even outlawed in some states as a result of its scantiness.

Louis Reard's bikini, 1945

More popular in the colonies were slightly more modest bikini tops with shorts, which actually crossed the line into non-swimming casual wear.

1950s

Post WWII, there was a so-called return to femininity with Dior’s “New Look,” emphasizing curves with yards of skirt fabric, torpedo bras and stiff bodice corsetry. Swimsuits conformed to this ideal too, often with stiff strapless bodices, cinched waists, and apron-like skirts that fell over an invisible skimpier under-layer. More colors than ever were incorporated into swimwear, too, with the return of all America’s factory and supply resources.

apron style swimsuits of 1950s

On the flip side, pin up girls were regularly drawn and photographed in swimsuits, as cousin of the negligee. Below, Bettie Page models some racier swimwear, always designed by herself:

Bettie Page in animal print bikini

1960s

The 1960s heralded the dawn of the Sexual Revolution, the generation that rejected their parents’ prudish impact in the ’50s (Bettie Page very much excepted). This was the first time the female bathing suit moved its hemline above the crotch to encircle the legs rather than square them off. Bond Girl Ursula Andress became an iconic figure (literally and figuratively) in this bikini from Dr. No (1962):

Ursula Andress in white bikini in Dr No, 1962

Below is the publicity shot for Rudy Gernreich’s infamous topless “monokini:”

Peggy Moffitt in monokini by Rudi Gernreich, 1964

Even as it created a fashion sensation, it’s unclear how many women actually bought and wore this number, scandalous even today. Compare the artsy studio photo above to a photo of a model in public (with a billboard man leering at her no less!):

woman wearing Rudi Gernreich's monokini on beach, by Paul Schutzer for Time magazine, 1964

1970s, ’80s, & ’90s

The 1970s embraced less structured clothes and swimsuits, exchanging the stiff elastic ruching and bullet-bra cones for simpler, softer patterns that conformed to the wearer’s body rather than the other way around. The waistline was lowered to hover at the widest point of the hips, rather than at the thinnest point of the waist. The fabric was often unlined, exposing the outlines of nipples (see this hilarious ad for nipple enhancing bras from that period!), as can be seen in the iconic poster of Farrah Fawcett:

Farrah Fawcett photo by Bruce McBroom, 1976 LIFE photo shoot

The ’80s embraced exaggeration in all fashion: huge shoulders, tiny waists, big hair, monochromatic, etc. Bathing suits took on a distinctly geometric feel, often with strategic cutouts for some interesting looks that must’ve created creative tan lines.

Baywatch reigned the small screen in the 1990s. Everyone remembers the Baywatch babes running in slow motion in their bright red, high-cut, low-cut lifeguard swimsuits:

Pam Anderson and Yasmine Bleeth in Baywatch

1990s to now

Since the 1990s, bathing suits have more or less leveled out. Leg holes have generally lowered to a less crotch-pulling height, but we’re in the throws of a nouveau ’80s, so I’ve seen a resurgence of those cutout bathers.

Bathing suit technology has been in the headlines in the past decade due in great part to the press everything Olympics-related generates. Though it’s too expensive to be used for leisure beach activity, Speedo’s LZR swimsuit, invented in 2008, has caused much ruckus among competitive swimmers in recent years. Its corset-like sleek design (it’s said to necessitate 3 people to help a swimmer get into it!) and lasered seams eliminated so much water drag and shaved precious milliseconds off speeders’ times that it was ultimately banned as a kind of performance enhancer that competitors who had non-Speedo sponsors could not wear.

And on that note, I’m off to my local pool to escape this cursed heat, in my Esther Williams vintage-style swimsuit.

Further Reading:

• The Shifting Tides of Seaside Posdtcards – bathing suits as seen in vintage postcards (you need to scroll halfway down the long page to find the right post)
• The California Swimsuit

A long standing fan of director / writer John Waters, I am delighted that the Pope of Trash is appearing with greater frequency in periodicals these days due to his new book Role Models. I’m going to brush aside the content of the book (though it looks awesome!) to concentrate on the style of Mr. Waters and his aesthetic philosophy. In his Flavorwire list of advice for “functional freaks” he dispensed some wonderful fashion advice:

“You don’t need fashion designers when you are young. Have faith in your own bad taste. Buy the cheapest thing in your local thrift shop — the clothes that are freshly out of style with even the hippest people a few years older than you. Get on the fashion nerves of your peers, not your parents — that is the key to fashion leadership. Ill-fitting is always stylish. But be more creative — wear your clothes inside out, backward, upside down. Throw bleach in a load of colored laundry. Follow the exact opposite of the dry cleaning instructions inside the clothes that cost the most in your thrift shop. Don’t wear jewelry — stick Band-Aids on your wrists or make a necklace out of them. Wear Scotch tape on the side of your face like a bad face-life attempt. Mismatch your shoes. Best yet, do as Mink Stole used to do: go to the thrift store the day after Halloween, when the children’s trick-or-treat costumes are on sale, buy one, and wear it as your uniform of defiance.”

I love this whole thing. Every sentence. Every suggestion. (Well, I might question “ill-fitting is always stylish.” Though a great fan of belting things too big for me, I strongly believe that tailoring to fit your body makes everything look good. We’ll let that one pass, John.) The suggestion of wearing band-aids as jewelry reminded me of rather trashy D-actress Bai Ling, a regular fashion victim/goddess of Go Fug Yourself. In addition to favoring dresses that reveal her nipples, Bai also regularly sports what the Go Fug Yourself ladies refer to as her “Band-Aids of Truth” that have various nonsensical phrases scrawled on them with permanent marker:

"The Hit Song" on the left, "China Girl" on the right. What? Exactly.

They’re delightful in their ridiculous whimsy, non? I think John would approve of her nipple and band-aid antics.

I myself have been experimenting with turning clothes inside-out, upside-down, and backwards. I love to reveal the normally hidden construction of garments — stitches are so cool looking, why would you hide them?! I also like the connection to the fashion sustainability movement. By the simple act of pinning or rotating a skirt, one can create a fresh “new” skirt without spending a dime and without discarding a perfectly functional garment. For her recently completed Uniform Project sustainable fashion experiment, Sheena Matheiken wore her one dress (same style, 7 copies for laundering) in infinite permutations by alternating creative and colorful accessories. She collaborated with her designer friend to create the staple dress “so it can be worn both ways, front and back, and also as an open tunic.” I don’t believe it can be worn upside-down, but it’s a pretty good start:

I very much enjoy John’s suggestion to raid thrift stores for costumes. While I don’t generally seek out Halloween costumes like Mink Stole, I absolutely raid the prom / bridesmaids section of Goodwills. Like costumes they have generally been worn only once, and I firmly believe one can never be too fancy (and therefore one can never have too many fancy frocks). I literally wear some of these prom dresses as nightgowns and I recommend it. Um, I also realize that I totally have a homemade blue gingham dress that I am positive was made for a high school production of either Oklahoma! or The Wizard of Oz. Jealous much?

<Ahem.>

Back to John. On his own style icons: “Rufus Wainwright always has a look. Joan Kennedy always looks startling. Kate Moss has never looked bad in her life. And the Jackass boys. If ever there was a gang of boys I could hang out and get fashion lessons from, it’s them. And, oh! Kitty Carlisle Hart.”

Rufus Wainwright & Johnny Knoxville of Jackass, fashion icons?

When asked about his preference for the Three Stooges over Charlie Chaplin in a recent Salon interview, Waters said,

“They’re more fun, and they have a better fashion sense. I hate people who wear top hats, they look like assholes, but Moe with his bangs? He inspired the shoe-bomber fashion. The shoe bomber looked exactly like him. Imagine if you got on the plane, and he sat down next to you with Moe Howard’s haircut and shoes with big fuses sticking out of them and dynamite. Trying to light the match and it wouldn’t go off.”

I respectfully disagree with this one. While I do think people in top hats can look like bourgeois assholes, Chaplin wore a bowler — which was a democratizing sartorial symbol that actually blurred class lines, and which looked and looks phenomenal, in my opinion. And while I can get behind a lot of questionable fashion, I’m not really feeling the Moe / shoe bomber haircut, hilarious as it may be. Call me fickle.

Moe Howard and shoe bomber Richard Reid, questionable fashion inspiration and typical John Waters non-sequitur comparison.

Waters is an avid contemporary art lover. “Good contemporary art makes people angry,” he has said, and “the art I like is always what at first makes me angry” (he sites the messy Cy Twombly and Mike Kelley as favorites). I think he’d agree an element of outrage is true of good cutting edge fashion, too. In his NY Magazine interview from November 19, 2006 he said, “My whole look is ‘disaster at the dry cleaner.’ Usually it’s Japanese.” For his plein air interview for NYPL in Bryant Park last night he wore slim, short Comme des Garçons tuxedo slacks, a black Junya Watanabe jacket with a bold blue black and grey geometric pattern, pointy orange Paul Smith shoes and socks, and GAP boxers — which was pretty much what he said he was wearing for the NY Mag interview 4 years ago. Even if you don’t care for his style, the man has consistency, and though I’m originally a vintage purist, I’ve grown to appreciate — nay, love — fashion that infuriates and confounds. I’d add Netherlandish Viktor & Rolf to his Japanese designers who consistently deconstruct and shock. Waters loves that he can wear a costly designer shirt to Baltimore a bar and have people pity him that he can’t afford a shirt without oil stains and tears, and he always has difficulty explaining to his dry cleaners to leave untouched his uneven hems and holes. Though he can afford to pay retail, he recommends you stain and rip your own clothes for the same look. This dovetails with Waters’ distinctly anti-snob , anti “high” culture philosophy, I think.

Junya Watanabe S2007, Viktor & Rolf S2010RTW, Comme des Garcons F2007

As genuinely enthusiastic as I am about John’s fashion advice, I suspect most find it more humorous than words to actually live by. This is confirmed by the well documented numbers of actors who have literally cried when they’ve been introduced to their wardrobes for Waters’ movies.

So I’ll leave you with John Waters’ most deliciously smarmy trademark, his Little Richard-stolen mustache (which, he claimed, is the reason he doesn’t want to have an open casket funeral — he doesn’t trust anyone else to draw it on just right):

Enjoy.

More John Waters publications:

• Shock Value: A Tasteful Book About Bad Taste
• Crackpot: the Obsessions of John Waters
• Art: A Sex Book

Recommend this post:

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As I alluded in previous posts, adopting aspects of menswear had a direct relationship with the Women’s Movement, socially and politically. For hundreds of years wealthy and impoverished women alike had worn heavy floor length dresses, even as unsanitary street filth dragged in the long skirts, even as the simple negotiation of stairs became arduous (and potentially dangerous), and even as a woman’s ability to move freely and comfortably was hampered. Despite widespread discussion of the physical harm caused by corseting, women of society and women of the streets tightly laced their bodies into undergarments that constricted their waists to produce the exaggerated silhouette au currant. Women were even killed and disfigured by voluminous skirts catching aflame without their notice. Dress reformers in the 19th century tackled this issue of female oppression by fashion by promoting social improvement in practicality over trends, for health and comfort over convention, and rationality over conformity.

18th century society was highly influenced by the popular writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712 – 1778) who used the “State of Nature” as a normative guide in dress, child rearing, and more. Though female dress reform was not specifically addressed at this time (children’s dress was), this Age of Enlightenment planted the seeds for the women’s suffrage movement of the 19th century. The work of Elizabeth Cady Stanton (1815 – 1902) and Lucretia Mott (1793 – 1880) who produced the Seneca Falls Declaration of Sentiments in 1848 which demanded equal citizenship and equal political rights for women. A few short years afterwards in 1851, abolitionist and social reformer Amelia Bloomer (1818 – 1894) appeared in oriental trousers with a short skirt. This radical bloomer costume provided an obvious source of activewear for women by covering their legs while allowing them the freedom of a bifurcated garment:

Bloomer costume, 1851

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 — a woman would commit social suicide by marring her reputation in such suggestive garments. The bloomer costume was ridiculed for looking silly, even as men enjoyed the daring short skirts with distinguishable legs, discouraging even politically minded women from adopting dress reform. The associations of pants with Calamity Jane (1852 – 1903) did not help: though she was a strong, fierce, accomplished woman, her behavior was distinctly manly and she prostituted herself to boot: embodying all the fears of dress reform detractors (except perhaps lesbianism).

Calamity Jane, by H. R. Locke in 1895

Interestingly, the bicycle fad of the 1890s broke the social stigma of women wearing bifurcated garments and “bicycle costumes” were actually lauded as preserving modesty while preserving health (see this post for more on athleticism’s influence on fashion). These outfits bore suspicious (and unacknowledged) resemblance to the disparaged bloomer costume by alleviating some of the major fashion impediments with narrower skirts, fewer under-layers, and (minimally) raised hemlines. 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.”

woman cycling costume, 1895

By the early 20th century, the female bicycling outfit had become more risqué, with visible legs. (Note that corsets are worn):

detail of "The Cycle Hut in the Bois de Boulogne" by Jean Beraud, c. 1901-10

In preparation for the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893, a federation of several women’s societies organized the National Council of Women who wanted to improve the political and social climate of the country and to overthrow the “ignorance and injustice” of women’s clothing; that is, to tackle dress form once again. They attempted to outfit prominent women reformers (Clara Barton, Harriet Beecher Stowe, etc.) and ordinary businesswomen and college girls in the reformed outfits, but the clothes could not gain traction when explicitly paired with a women’s movement.

Fabulously influential designer Paul Poiret (1879 – 1944) discarded corsets and successfully disseminated an exotic Middle Eastern look including Turkish harem pants (that again, resembled the Bloomer costume silhouette) in 1911. This was purely an aesthetic choice and not a political statement on his part (he was also the inventor of the distinctly impractical hobble skirt), but it was threatening to social and religious conservatives nonetheless and that same year the Vatican campaigned against the “harem trousers” as morally objectionable, even while women’s legs were still completely obscured. While popular in wealthy fashionable society, Poiret’s exotic styles were not worn by lower or middle class women or dress reformers — but I believe the Parisian interpretation of oriental styles hastened the ultimate acceptance of trousers for women, since it removed the politically radical (and implied lesbian) stigma.

Paul Poiret harem pants, 1911

I cannot overemphasize how wars affect fashion and this was especially true of bending gender codes in clothes, as men allow women to take on “male” work and also functional dress out of pure necessity. Aptly named “slack girls” of WWI operated machinery for war plants in full knickers, a variation on the bloomers, to avoid factory accidents:

Women working in a factory producing airplane engine parts for the WWI effort, 1918

However, this kind of outfit was purely occupation-driven and women would absolutely not wear it outside the work environment.

The Women’s Suffrage movement gained its greatest victory in 1920 when the 19th Amendment prohibited gender discrimination in the voting polls. This political gain opened a decade of many radical changes in the perception and presentation of women. While this progressive step was taken, the repressive prohibition of alcohol entered legislation in the 18th Amendment. Ironically (or not?) these Amendments hearkened a particularly hedonistic decade, and the new American jazz music invited a radically new, athletic dance style to accompany the illegal but widespread speakeasies. Many modern young women bobbed their hair in variations of gender-bending pageboy styles, the corset-less look that Poiret popularized and increasing female recreational athletic activity hastened a fad for flat chested, hipless, boyish female figures, and the garçonne became synonymous with the stylish flappers. Many of the ’20s fashions were made with the explicit intention of allowing easy movement and looking good in motion to cater to exuberant dance crazes like the Charleston, with ropes of fringe, tassels, asymmetrical and much shorter hemlines that made visible the actual leg in transparent stockings.

The clip below is from the awesomely hilarious (that is, kind of bad) Julie Andrews / Mary Tyler Moore musical Thoroughly Modern Millie (1967). In the opening credits you see Millie (Andrews) transforming herself from a nineteen-teens woman to the radically modern 1920s flapper:

Even while women had short androgynous haircuts and manipulated their figures to be flat and boyish as well (though the corset was abandoned, stretchy tubular shapers were adopted to minimize feminine curves — used as a sight gag in the video above), increased use of makeup counteracted the masculine look. This was the first time since the flamboyant 18th century when makeup was applied so un-subtly so as to leave no doubt a woman wore it. Black kohl eyeshadow, spidery mascara and bright red lipstick would have been reserved for women of the theater or women of the streets in previous eras. This change was documented in magazines like Photoplay:

Photoplay cover flapper applying lipstick, 1920s

But to return to women in pants.

After WWI women returned to their kitchens, children, and dresses, but there were a few notable dissenters. While flying, the boyish pilot extraordinaire Amelia Earhart (1897 – 1937) “favored old, high-laced shoes, well-worn trousers, an ancient leather coat with deep pockets, a soft leather helmet and goggles. On land, she wore pretty much the same thing, without the headgear.” After her 1931 solo flight across the Atlantic, Earhart started her own fashion line (to subsidize her next flight) which favored similarly masculine, practical styles, but they were never adopted by the general public in her own time.

Amelia Earhart c. 1930

Similarly freckled and slender Katharine Hepburn (1907 – 2003) flouted feminine styles in favor of pants, but hers was more leisure-based than professional. Known for her athleticism, Hepburn was an avid tennis player, swimmer, and golfer, and she chose to adopt menswear (that is, pants) to enjoy these activities. She carried this casual, cross-dressing style to the RKO studio lot where her pants were once stolen… until she threatened to walk around in her underwear if the slacks were not returned.

Open bisexual Marlene Dietrich wore pants and full men’s style suits (in direct defiance of Paramount executives). As an eccentric European, she was perhaps given a smidge more leeway than Amelia and Katharine, but the fact that her  manly ensembles were in no way related to a specific athletic activity made them that much more radical and liberating. She balanced the masculine tailoring with highly stylized, feminine makeup, appealing to men and women alike.

Marlene Dietrich

Another war was necessary to push pants from movie star aberration to clothes of the common woman. WWII saw record numbers of women in factories and men’s denim overalls became typical work wear for them. Again, it’s important to remember this was only appropriate during work hours; women would change into more feminine clothes to perform their feminine duties. Margaret Bourke-White did a photography series of Women in the Defense Industry that’s available in their online archives.

female welders in overalls in Gary, IN. 1942. Photo by Margaret Bourke-White

However, even feminine styles started showing (masculine) military influence with sharply squared shoulders and slim, suit-like tailored (skirt) suits, as can be seen in this still from Casablanca (1942). If you squint, Ingrid Bergman is hardly distinguishable from the men in her jaunty brimmed hat and tailored jacket with large, practical cargo pockets:

In England during WWII, many women actually wore their husbands’ civilian clothes to work in and to save money. As the clothes wore out, pants made to fit women became increasingly popular so that by 1944 it was reported that five times more women’s trousers were sold than in 1943.

Unfortunately, the return of the “boys” after the war heralded the ’50s as the age of Dior’s “New Look:” hyperfeminine with its wasp waist, “bullet bras” (a sneaky connection to war) and voluminous skirts. Stars like Mary Tyler Moore in the Dick Van Dyke Show and Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy sneaked pants into their wardrobes even while they performed traditional familial obligations in the home (they would always change into dresses and skirts to go out). Incidentally, it was extremely difficult to find an image of Lucy wearing pants, I assume because the studio did not want to use them in publicity shots.

Jacqueline Onasis Kennedy (1929 – 1994), as a woman of accepted impeccable style and also in the political eye, did wonders for popularizing casual clothes. Though she was occasionally criticized for dressing down in pants, the Kennedy’s chic outdoorsy lifestyle, their political clout, and Jackie’s undeniable femininity ultimately contributed to the dissemination and adoption of just that style:

The Sexual Revolution of the 1970s embraced the deliberate confusion of gender codes and sexual mores, and it had become so acceptable for women to wear pants by this time that Diane Keaton’s mannish style — complete with tie!! — in Annie Hall (1977) was actually lauded and imitated (to this day, if I have anything to do with it):

The 1980s saw the advent of the “power suit” by designers like Donna Karan who tapped into the female Baby Boomers who stormed the corporate work force. Coincidentally (or not), Diane Keaton was featured in a film — Baby Boom (1987) — that addressed the aspirations and difficulties of women who want to work and have families. She sports the hugely padded suit shoulders to achieve a masculine broadness that was popular in the middle aged female workforce:

Women’s Movement progress has gradually plateaued in recent decades, with only a few battles fought and won, such as women in the U.S. Senate being allowed to wear pants in the 1990s (can you believe it?). This example highlights once again that women (and especially those in politics) must still ride the impossible line of being feminine (i.e. non-threatening) without being too sexy (i.e. distracting); this was brought to the forefront when Hillary Clinton was lambasted for showing too much cleavage on the Senate floor in 2007, even as she had many detractors for her unflattering pantsuits as well:

Clinton's supposed cleavage

My last picture is on the silly side: Saturday Night Live’s androgynous Pat character befuddles and uneases those s/he come into contact with as they try to figure out his/her sex. I think these sketches are so funny because they speak to a true and pervasive anxiety around indeterminate sex and sexuality. We seem to need to compartmentalize gender, so gender roles may be assigned and expectations set.

SNL's non-determinate sexed Pat

In every major instance of feminist upheaval, women’s clothing has been examined as both a symbolic and literal reflection of women’s inequality in society. An over-arching irony is that fashion is a human construct. The things that we recognize as “feminine” and “masculine” are not inherently so, but have simply been designated as such by early human society, and reinforced in subsequently evolving fashions. The good news is that as attitudes about gender have changed, and as women and homosexuals have won political and social freedoms we should’ve had all along, the rigid distinctions between clothing styles for men and women have blurred. Clothing can make personal statements regarding gender and sexual politics… but it doesn’t have to. However, though women may wear pants and full suits in the Western world now, there are still gender-based expectations in most of the business (specifically corporate) world that demands women wear makeup, skirts, and heels. I think we’ve hit the glass ceiling, but there’s more progress to be made.

Further Reading:

• “Women in Pants: Manly Maidens, Cowgirls, and Other Renegades” by Catherine Smith & Cynthia Greig
• “Flights of Fashion: How Amelia Earhart Became America’s First Celebrity Designer” by Gioia Diliberto, Huffington Post
• “The Power of Glamour: the Women who Defined the Magic of Stardom” by Annette Tapert

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Picking up from where I left off last week, I’m going to address mannequins’ evolution in the second half of the 20th century.

The revolutionary ’60s came as a shock to the world, the American youth rebelling against the traditions of their conservative parents who desired normalcy and stability after the chaos of WWII. The FDA’s approval of birth control pills in 1960 beckoned the sexual revolution; free love challenged the marriage-monogamy favored in the ’50s, women took charge of their bodies and their careers outside the home. After the post-war homemaking scenes enacted in ’50s storefronts, the next generation of mannequins aimed to capture real women rather than idealized versions of them… to a greater extent, anyway. Adel Rootstein’s company produced mannequins based on living, iconic people such as Twiggy (seen below), Patty Boyd, and Sandy Shaw, creating a secondary kind of functional pop art:

These mannequins were designed with increasingly kinetic stances, reflecting the growing obsession with youthfulness and freedom of movement (this could include freedom of professional sphere as well as freedom from more restrictive garments).

The 1970s saw more ethnic diversity in mannequins; Decter of Los Angeles presented it’s Reflections VII collection with Asian and Black mannequins “walking” arm in arm. There was greater attention to anatomical accuracy too, specifically nipples. As short and mod ’60s fashions evolved to the long, flowing, backless or see-through styles of the ’70s, structured bras were worn less by live women and mannequin nipples more realistically displayed these braless styles. Capitalizing on the “natural” look, VIVA Lingerie even had a nipple bra that had padded nipples with the “support you want” (hilarious!):

In the same vein of growing skin exposure, as the fashionable waist was lowered from the natural waistline to the hipline, the torso joint of mannequins’ upper and lower halves was likewise lowered, to display bikinis without the distracting visible split line.

The recession of the early 1990s led to minimalistic, abstract fashions, and also mannequins that still looked good in simple (cheaper) settings. Headless mannequins had the bonus of being politically correct (no ethnicity = every ethnicity) and era unspecific, with the bonus of eliminating time intensive makeup and hair styling.

Plus-size, juniors and maternity fashion were finally recognized as a significant part of the fashion industry and so mannequins were built with a wider variety of shapes and sizes to cater to these growing markets. Below are mannequins with larger-than-usual butts for those with a Jennifer Lopez shape, commonly seen in my former ‘hood, Spanish Harlem:

Several designers have experimented with mannequins in addition to straightforward fashion design. Alexander McQueen inspired mannequin designers when he utilized clear mannequins lit inside with fiber optics in Givenchy’s Fall 1998 haute couture runway show. The Pucci Mannequin company made a name for themselves by collaborating with different artists to produce unique, unusual mannequins. These guest designers included Kenny Sharf, Ruben Toledo, Maira Kalman,

Pucci mannequin by Maira Kalman, "Tango" series

and Anna Sui.

Pucci mannequin by Anna Sui

And mannequins have inspired fashion designers themselves in an interesting reversal of influence. Aminaka Wilmont created a trompe l’oeil dress that mimics a mannequin on a dress (that I desperately want to own, by the way):

And on that note, I’ll leave you with yet another cliff-hanger (it’s a stretch, I know): next week I’ll look into the relationship between mannequins and fine art, which is my personal favorite part of this story!

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I happened to run across an old issue of Hue, FIT’s alumni magazine, and read a surprisingly interesting article on “The Life and Times of Mannequins” by Alex Joseph. Though I have not previously studied dress forms in depth, I have been mistaken for a mannequin (I spaced out in a flu-induced frozen position while waiting for a friend when another customer hilariously reached out to inspect my garment), and I’m also drawn to the creepiness I think is inherent in mannequins… and so I’ll pretend my recent reading list and newfound interest qualifies me to inform you about the history of stationary models.

The Dutch word manneken literally means “little man,” though most mannequins were and are technically female forms. As the history of dress dates to ancient times, so does the history of dress forms; a wooden torso was found near a clothing chest in King Tut’s tomb, dating to approximately 1350B.C.:

Thousands of years later, European monarchs produced “fashion dolls” as examples of national style — Charles IV of France sent one to Richard II of England in 1396 as part of a peace negotiations. And Henry IV of France (1553 – 1610) dispatched miniature, elegantly attired dolls to his fiancée, Marie de’ Medici of Florence. Caroline Weber goes into amazing detail about the deliberate Frenchification of Austria-born Marie Antoinette in her book, similarly to update her on French trends and therefore facilitate her connection to her stylish adopted land and people. Monarch aside, these miniature models were used to spread the latest trends across countries throughout the 1700s. But it would take technological advancements to move the dress form from private doll to public display item.

English fashion doll, 1755-1760

The mid-19th century inventions of electricity-fueled incandescent light bulbs and plate glass enabled merchants to create window displays to advertise their goods. Add the ease and speed of manufacturing ready-to-wear clothes afforded by the invention of the sewing machine, and it becomes obvious why the mannequin became a standard display prop at this time, surpassing its initial dressmaker’s functionality. The department store established itself in the American way of life by 1910, and these larger businesses had more money to invest in expensive mannequins which would ideally help them move the quantities of merchandise they needed to. Facial expression and body language became increasingly important (ancient and pre-Victorian forms were often headless) as window dressers like L. Frank Baum (known for his masterpiece The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, 1900) used them to create arresting vignettes on their mini stages. “Window gazing” became a popular pastime for potential customers, eventually morphing into the familiar “window shopping.” Dressmaker suppliers like Gems Wax Models (est. 1885) and Siegel and Stockman of Paris experimented with articulated legs, arms and wooden hands with bendable digits in an effort to more closely mimic human activities, if stiffly. The latter company even began to produce sitting figures, bicyclists and representations of celebrated athletes at the end of the 19th century (see my post on Bicycles and Athletic Fashion). Sometimes with glass eyes, realistic teeth and human hair, attempts to make early mannequins more lifelike ultimately resulted in creepiness. Iron feet stabilized their teetering skeletons but contributed to unwieldy heft — they could weigh up to 300 pounds.

iron-footed mannequin

Skin-mimicking wax had the downside of melting under hot electric lights and cracking in cold winters. Subsequent mannequins constructed of plastic and papier mâché were more durable, lightweight, and flexible, making them easier to imbue with lifelike gestures.

Compare this 1909 storefront…

Auerbach's department store window display with mannequins, 1909

to one from 10 years later. Note the increased interaction between mannequins, the more sophisticated, narrative scene:

1918 window display

The 1929 stock market crash garnered invention in many ways. In the teens and early 1920s mannequin facial expressions became more animated, perhaps a reaction to silent films. Khol-rimmed eyes, bee-stung lips and razor-thin eyebrows that gained acceptance and popularity on the silver screen were transcribed onto new mannequins. Made with papier-mâché, the new material shed off about 100 pounds, coincidentally embracing the more slender female form, often with Mannerist-like elongated necks:

Art Deco mannequin head

In 1925, Siegel & Stockman, Paris startled the display industry with abstract mannequins in 1925 that mimicked the clean lines of Art Deco. Siegel himself said “The old mannequin, too realistic to respond to the abstract form assumed the architecture and decoration, could no longer fit into the window display with its effective and sober luxury as it is now conceived. This basic conviction prompted me to make an appeal to a new form of expression in order to bring about a timely rejuvenation and modernization.”

Siegel-Stockman streamlined mannequin (modern)

Author Nicole Parrot observed the “elegant and snooty” look of the 1920s were replaced with the “pert and gamine” look in mannequins during the Depression of the 1930s. An Austrian dollmaker-turned-mannequin manufacturer, Kathe Kruse, devised a metal skeleton that was covered with a skin-like material, enabling a variety of positions. “Cynthia” was a 100-pound model created by Lester Gaba in 1932 who had realistic imperfections like freckles, pigeon toes, and even different sized feet. Gaba posed with Cynthia around New York City for a Life Magazine shoot that humorously demonstrates how lifelike the mannequins had become:

Lester Gaba and Cynthia mannequin, Broadhurst Theater in NY at Madame Bovary, 1939

at the Stork Club, NY 1937

riding transit in NYC, 1937

Gaba repairs shoulder on Cynthia, NY, 1937. He almost looks like a doctor attending to a patient.

Tragically, Cynthia  met her demise when she slipped from a chair in a beauty salon.

The more severe mannequin expressions reflected the unease and hardships of WWII. As a fashion historian I already knew that the dress silhouette in the 1940s became slimmer and less embellished to waste less fabric, due to raw material shortages and wartime rationing. I only recently learned, however, that mannequins themselves were made to be shorter than the 1930s models, with the same goal of conserving precious resources for the war effort. At the war’s conclusion, Mayorga Mannequins introduced “Welcome Home Mannequins” where a man and woman held their hands outstretched towards each other, while a small girl looked expectantly at her father. This narrative was tempered by glamorized Hollywood poses that were also available, but traditional family values (including consumerism) continued to be recreated in storefront vignettes:

1940s Christmas display

This article will be continued shortly in Part II…

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Over the summer I watched about half an hour of Silk Stockings (1957), a cheesy musical remake of the Greta Garbo classic Ninotchka (1939) where the cool, efficient, and distinctly anti-fashion Soviet agent Cyd Charisse falls in love with (capitalist) Fred Astaire’s flamboyant American producer character while on a government mission in couture capital Paris. Even with my passion for cheesy musicals I could not wade through the entire film, so bad was the dialogue and music, but the on-screen mingling of economic systems and fashion appealed to me greatly. Before turning it off, I did have the pleasure of seeing the namesake silk stocking dance solo performed by Ms. Charisse, a signal of her having fallen in love with Astaire and — not coincidentally — (capitalist) high fashion:

You can see she’s hidden various luxurious items — most of which are silky intimates — around her room, so ashamed is she of having been seduced by luxury goods. It’s a wistful number reminiscent of other more famous musical movies scenes like frumpy Audrey Hepburn singing “How Long Has This Been Going On?” while dreamily dancing around in an ostentatious hat left over by the fashion photo shoot in which she’d been forced to participate in Funny Face (from 1957 as well):

Or Anne Margaret’s “How Lovely to be a Woman” in Bye Bye Birdie (1963):

Or Natalie Wood in West Side Story (1961) singing “I Feel Pretty” and dancing in the dress shop where she works:

You’ll notice that all these were filmed in the late 1950s — the decade of hyper femininity in silhouettes — and early 1960s — the decade when sexuality and gender roles were being questioned more openly. What differentiates Silk Stockings from the other scenes I’ve grouped here (perhaps excepting Funny Face) is the heavy political overtones emphasized over a simple coming-of-age-as-a-woman, though all involve dress-up as experimentation. Though a love story, it’s also about a Commie Russian woman resisting  capitalistic inclinations who is ultimately seduced by the capitalist-produced clothes (the relationship with Fred Astaire is curiously tepid, further shifting the emphasis away from the human relationship). What the clip unfortunately omitted was Cyd Charisse seated next to a framed Lenin photo which she puts down to slowly discard her drab green dress (it’s supposed to be drab, though I think it’s quite lovely in its simplicity), black tights and sensible shoes for silk stockings, lace negligee and white sparkly mules.

I too struggle with my collector’s urges to accumulate (not the least of my obsessions is clothes), and my political / social ideology, which is opposed the stockpiling and hoarding tendencies Americans are told is our right — and more than that, a measure of success in obtaining the capitalist dream. Following this train of thought leads to even larger questions concerning labor rights and ethical practices within the fashion industry which has, as Silk Stockings exemplifies, been a symbol of tremendous creative and technological achievements as well as a hideous exploitative industry ever since the Industrial Revolution and the concurrent birth of Marxism.

I have an article examining the relationship of Communism, capitalism, fashion and film in far more depth in an upcoming edition of Worn Fashion Journal.

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Last week I watched the movie Coraline (2009), directed by the stop-motion animator master Henry Selick who achieved recognition for his collaboration with Tim Burton in The Nightmare Before Christmas (1993). I was kind of blown away by his latest effort; it succeeded on many levels, but for the sake of this blog I’ll limit my enthusiasm to the crafty parts.

The loving attention to hand crafts — and needlework in particular — starts immediately with the opening credits which are done in a font that mimics embroidery, complete with visible stitches and deliberate loose threads dangling off the names:

The next 1 ½ minutes of credits include careful closeups  of a doll being undone, unraveled, un-stuffed, taken apart stitch by stitch, and then reassembled (note the creator’s hands are composed of needles themselves):

There’s a lovely shot of a button drawer being pulled out and poured over,

a needle poking through rough cloth (you can see every fibre in 3-D!) and sewing the selected button on,

reusing the limp burlap chassis to meticulously create another doll with variations that make it resemble Coraline, down to her raincoat:

REPETITION. REPETITION.

Just as puppet masters created Coraline puppets in multiples with slight clothing, expression, hair and rumpled variations to make the movie, duplication and cloning are visual motifs within the movie. Coraline’s mother picks out a mass-produced gray school uniform among a rack of identical uniforms,

all the neighbors have collections of identical animals: the burlesque sisters with their Scottie dogs (3 living, many more stuffed on shelves),

and the Amazing Bobinski with his circus mice:

And when Coraline’s parents go missing, she touchingly tucks herself into bed with crudely handmade dolls of them, formed out of pillows with dad’s glasses and mom’s neck brace (a doll making dolls of other dolls):

Looking at the plot, we see this theme of multiplicity is a satisfyingly consistent one: the neighbor kid Wybee’s grandma has a(n evil) twin sister; the entire concept of the Other Mother and Other World with nearly identical houses, and gardens and neighbors echo and compliment each other within the framework of the story. These devices create an eerie mirrored alternate world like those in a Borges story, but also relate to the duplicate film sets (which were actually constructed by set builders, not created digitally), dolls, clothes, etc., behind-the-scenes. The evil twin / menacing other world is not exactly original subject matter for suspense-horror films which often tap into fears of duplicitousness and two-facedness, but I particularly love how the duplication appears in front of the camera and behind it in Coraline.

CRAFTINESS

Crafty, homemade objects are featured prominently. Coraline’s Other Mother cooks homemade meals, creates hand-sewn outfits for her, etc. Coraline (and the viewer, by extension) recognizes these as signs of affection. Interpreted as labors of feminine love at first, they are revealed to be sinister, employed as a trap. When the Other Mother reveals her true physical form as a terrifying spider with needle hands (the same needle hands that seemed to lovingly craft the doll in the film’s opening sequence), it calls to mind the sculptures of Louise Bourgeois. In her “Cell” series, Bourgeois created mini houses out of found objects like discarded doors and grating and filled them with objects related to feminine domestic stereotypes like sewing supplies, clothes, etc.:

Louise Bourgeois, interior of "Cell VII" (1998). Note the eerie hanging undergarments and miniature house.

Another Bourgeois recurring visual motif is spiders, representing her own mother and universal stereotypes of mothers (one is actually entitle “Maman“) and exploring their creepiness and yet comfortable familiarity and harmlessness:

Louise Bourseois, "Spider" (1997). Note the cage / house enveloped by the enormous arachnid, and scraps of fabric clinging to the sides contribute to the mother / domicile theme.

Compare Bourgeois’ large but protective Spider to Coraline’s Other Mother as a distinctly evil spider who deploys a web not to catch pesky insects but to entrap Coraline herself:

In the final scene of Coraline, domestic bliss is achieved by unifying her family and the previously indifferent neighbors in the act of planting tulips, a pared-down version of domesticity, handiness, and community. They’re not perfect — Coraline’s mother complains about the dirt, Bobinski pulls out tulips bulbs to replace them with beets, and the end result is not the stunning spectacle of the Other World’s garden — but it is a more realistic picture of imperfect homeyness.

Now allow me to lay some incredible fun facts on you about the meticulous crafty creation of this film:

• To construct 1 puppet, 10 individuals had to work 3-4 months.
• About 45 of Coraline’s pajamas were screen painted with printed patterns where every dot had to line up along the seams of every frock in precisely the same place for consistency.
• For the character of Coraline, there were 28 different puppets of varying sizes; the main Coraline puppet stands 9.5 inches high.
• All fabric was hand woven or hand knit to achieve the correct scale.
• The only leather the production could find that was thin enough to make the doll shoes and Mr. Bobinsky’s boots came from antique Victorian gloves.
• Buttons and zippers were also handmade for the film to suit the scale.
• Costumers used pins, surgical tools and tweezers to construct the garments.
• Each of Coraline’s star sweaters took 6 weeks to 6 months to design and knit on knitting needles like toothpicks. (On the website in Coraline’s room there is a film short on miniature knits. It will blow your mind a little.)

HISTORY OF SEWING IN THE HOME

Coraline tapped into the familiarity we have with women performing acts like cooking, cleaning, and sewing: the audience presumably watches the film with knowing amusement as Coraline’s father makes a dinner which resembles the gelatinous, sludgy meals from Better Off Dead (1985). We learn that Coraline’s mother is a good cook but has prioritized professional work and has relegated the dinner chore to the inept (though good-intentioned) father. The Other Mother then lures Coraline with elaborate, beautifully presented meals and a homemade sweater ensemble.

There is a rich history binding women to sewing. “A woman who does not know how to sew is as deficient in her education as a man who cannot write,” Eliza Farrar wrote in The Young Lady’s Friend (1838). Creating, altering and mending the family’s clothing and household textiles were domestic duties that kept most 18th and 19th-century women tethered to their sewing baskets; until the late 19th century nearly all clothing was made in the home. According to Godey’s Lady’s Book, it took about 14 hours to make a man’s dress shirt and at least 10 for a simple dress. A middle-class housewife spent several days a month making and mending her family’s clothes even with the help of a hired seamstress.

Sewing wasn’t all drudgery, though. Needlework served utilitarian purposes in the home, but also allowed women to communicate and assert their individual identities, beliefs, and aspirations with creativity and skill. The anticipation of weddings and births fueled creative energy and inspired impressive handiwork which was often functional — but not always — as in samplers which showcased a woman’s cross-stitching dexterity by forming alphabets in varying typefaces, geometric borders, and picture scenes. Linens, blankets and other handmade textiles made up the bulk of a girl’s hope chest (a.k.a. “marriage chest”), preparing her for her household duties as a wife and serving as advance proof of her sewing skill and worth as a woman and future matriarch.

Early 19th century sewing sampler stitched by Elizabeth Lyle when a young girl. The text in the center reads,"Elizabeth Lyle worked this in the eleventh year of my age. In the morning think what you have to do. And at night ask yourself what you have done."

Sewing circles were commonly formed by women, comprised of neighbors and relatives who would gather at a house and work on their sewing chores together. Women would sometimes swap portions of their own work with their friends who were particularly adept at a specific tasks. This happily merged what could be lonely drudgery with pleasurable socializing and political discussion (though the latter is rarely acknowledged).

"Sewing Circle" by Louis Henry Charles Moeller (1855 - 1930)

Sadly, sewing was often taken for granted as a skill — seamstresses were perceived as unimaginative lackeys who just followed instructions that any person might perform, and not as visionaries who could conceptualize how to take two-dimensional materials and connect them to form three-dimensional structures that envelope a body and yet can be gotten into easily, who possessed the skill to adapt techniques to various textures and weights, to say nothing of the artistic choices of color, style, and fit. Appreciation aside, there was a drastic interruption of this centuries-old tradition in the mid 19th century.

It wasn’t until the House of Worth (founded in 1858) when a man took the reigns of dressmaking, removed it from the home and created a pampered, decadent purchasing experience, that sewing took on any cachet or respect as a profession (see my earlier post on The Tea Gown in Fashion and Art for more on the House of Worth). The Industrial Revolution heralded the invention of the sewing machine (patented by Elias Howe in 1845), cheap labor and the growing factory system, standardization of sizes, and outcropping of distribution methods like apparel and department stores, all of which contributed to an increase in demand of ready-to-wear  garments. This was the beginning of consumers’ expectations for hyper-accelerated turnaround of new styles, necessitating ever-briefer time between designers’ visions, prototype creations, and mass market availability. It could be argued that the sewing machine eased women of much of the time consuming burden of clothing their families, but a contrary view is that the sewing machine snatched a labor of love, pride, and skill from women, not to mention the social community bonding. And though it’s distasteful to many modern women to think of being trapped in their houses all day, it was a small leap from the workrooms of House of Worth to the factories and notoriously dangerous conditions of garment factories (like the infamous Triangle Factory), exploiting the poor. Though sweatshops certainly exist in America today, many more are in developing countries with desperate-and-therefore-cheap labor forces, doubly exploited by consumer-hungry countries abroad and their own government systems which do not protect them with worker’s rights addressing age minimums, hour maximums, safety standards, etc.

Jacob Riis, Necktie workshop in Division Street tenement (1889)

In terms of household implications, the sewing machine was only the first of many labor-saving devices for the home (partially by altering sewing from a home activity to a factory one); washing machines, dryers, dishwashers and vacuum cleaners all made housekeeping easier and cut down the work time required. An important consequence of all this labor saving has been the diminished woman’s role as household manager. This gradual loss of status helped undermine the satisfaction many women formerly found in the homemaking role and encouraged them to seek more demanding employment in other places, as we see Coraline’s mother has chosen her profession over domestic work. In most industrialized countries these days, sewing, needlework, knitting, crocheting, quilting, etc. have been relegated to niche markets (still mostly women) who have self-consciously resurrected the skills for hobby, not generally necessity. This is why we all understand how Coraline is taken in by her Other Mother’s handmade overtures.

I loved Coraline not only because it was a good, creepy story, but because its meticulous production methods showcased the hand-made theme present in the narrative, a far cry from the digitally created worlds of almost all current animation (which can absolutely be well done too). I like, too, how the simple black button icon of Coraline is a symbol of sewing and domestic familiarity twisted beautifully into a tool of sinister manipulation.

Further Reading:

• “The Culture of Sewing: Gender, Consumption and Home Dressmaking” by Barbara Burman
• “History of Sewing” online study guide
• “Women’s Work: The First 20,000 Years Women, Cloth, and Society in Early Times” by Elizabeth Wayland Barber
• “The Making of Coraline” in Extra Features on Coraline DVD
• “How the Other Half Lives” Jacob Riis photographs of exploited poor Lower East Siders, NY

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