The Pony Still Prances

I loathe mending clothes with every fibre of my being. If I can fob it off onto a) a tailor or b) my seamstress sister Blossom, I do. When I am forced to by serious wardrobe malfunctions (ie, clothes falling off one such as happened to me at a recent wedding when a button tore on a fragile 60s dress, forcing me to keep my coat on in the church even though I was about to expire from heat exhaustion) I will sew on a button, or mend a torn seam.

Likewise, ironing is something I leave for months at a time. Preferably when an entire season’s worth of clothing has accumulated in the ironing basket or I have run out of clothes – whichever comes first. Luckily I own a lot of clothes. It is not as torturous a chore as mending, and I can just about muster the energy if I can watch a DVD at the same time. (As long as I have seen the film or episode before, and it’s not in a foreign language – otherwise it’s far too interesting.)

But laundering. I am fanatical about proper laundering. I even have a laundry section on this website (see tag cloud, right).

Let’s first digress and look at some romantic pictures of laundering:

Women Washing Clothes by a Stream, Daniel Ridgway KnightThis woman takes her washing very seriously – as she should, c. 1900–1930It is important to look cute while handwashing, c. 1940s

Clothes will last much longer if they are treated kindly. I remember once a friend told me she just chucked everything into the machine. I was aghast. I had to be picked up from the floor and resuscitated. She was, in fact, one of my inspirations to start this blog. I thought, if there is one young woman who doesn’t know how to properly launder cashmere, there might be hundreds out there. It was my duty to impart my wisdom.

… if there is one young woman who doesn’t know how to properly launder cashmere, there might be hundreds out there.

Today I am going to discuss sequins. There are two sorts of sequins: new ones, and vintage ones.

Take the vintage ones to the dry cleaner. That is all.

If you need convincing, read this cautionary tale: I once owned a delightful short-sleeved, soft black cashmere vintage cardigan that was trimmed in pearl beads. I handwashed it gently in cool water … and watched in horror as the pearl coating floated off the beads, leaving dull plastic behind. The cardigan subsequently went back to the charity shop. It was a lesson to me. Learn from it.

For new shiny garments that you particularly like, obviously check the washing instructions on your garment. Even if it says dry clean only, it may be handwashed gently (at your own risk, but I take such risks all the time and I have not come to grief thus far) and laid flat to dry on a towel or clothes airer. For more detailed instructions click here (although I would not use warm water if the garment is silk). Very delicate evening wear I would take to a dry cleaner.

For new shiny garments that are minimally sequinned and you bought from a charity shop for $4 and don’t particularly care if they live or die, stick them in a lingerie bag and wash with your normal clothes on a gentle cycle. They should be fine; mine was. The pony still prances.

Now if only I could find it in the depths of the ironing basket so I could wear it again …

And my most favourite image of all … Hang onto your clothes like grim death in case they try to escape the washboard. Don’t try this at home! Ph George Marks, c. 1930s

Underpinnings

Petticoats

Historically, petticoats were a woman’s undercoat worn to be displayed beneath an open gown; or a tight, usually padded undercoat worn by men over a shirt and under a doublet (jacket). The origin of the word is the late Middle English period: ‘petty coat’, literally meaning small coat. Later, worn under outer garments, the function of the petticoat was to give warmth, or to create a fashionable shape by adding volume beneath a skirt or dress – rather than from notions of modesty.

The petticoat has gone in and out of mainstream fashion since the sixteenth century to Christian Dior’s New Look in the mid 1940s and 50s, and to the present day with subcultures such as gothic, steampunk and Lolita.

Arguably today the most popular notion of a petticoat must be the full, ruffled shape associated with Victorian times, or the tulle crinolines of 1950s prom queens. More often than not, these were white. In previous centuries though, petticoats were worn to be seen, either deliberately revealed by openings or draping of the overskirts, or by accident with the force of a high wind lifting a hooped or crinoline skirt. Petticoats were therefore highly decorative, made from beautiful fabrics in glorious colours and trimmed with ribbons and lace. They were gorgeous enough to be worn as skirts in themselves.

Petticoat, probably French, 1870s; click image for more information and alternate viewsCotton and linen petticoat, American, 1883; click image for more information and alternate viewsSilk embroidered French petticoat, 1895-98; click image for more informationSissi, Empress Elisabeth of Bavaria, wears a gown fully supported by petticoats in 1859Fashion that bustles, from The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, November 1869Susan Lawrence (from Ipswich) wearing a dark coloured dress, with many folds of fabric pulled up over a large bustle at the rear, c 1887

Bustles

By contrast, the bustle was a rather unattractive foundation garment with little or no grace, in fashion predominantly in the mid-to-late nineteenth century. Worn at the back, just under the waist, the primary function of the bustle was to preserve the shape of full, draped skirts and keep them from dragging. The heavy skirts of the day tended to flatten from sheer weight during everyday wear, even merely sitting or moving about.

Different styles of bustles came and went over the decades, initially evolving from a crinoline in the mid 1860s when the shape was worn quite low and often fanning out to form a train. It was then lifted to form a pronounced hump shape immediately below the waist, with the skirts falling sharply to the floor, very much changing the silhouette. It grew to monstrous proportions in the mid 1880s but was out of fashion by the end of the decade.

British bustle made from cotton and metal, c 1871; click image for more information Linen and metal bustle, American, c 1885; click image for more information

The attractive ‘S-shape’ figure of the day that accentuated a tiny waist meant that a curve at the back of the skirt balanced the curve of the bust (exaggerated by corsets in their turn), and gentler versions of the bustle were worn into the early twentieth century.

Today bustles are rarely seen except in the realm of sensationalist haute couture, bridal fashion and the aforementioned subcultures – petticoats, with their more uniform silhouette are easier on the eye and more forgiving to wear.

Fashion Notes

My vintage petticoat was borrowed from the Melbourne Theatre Company’s costume department to give fullness to my own 1920s skirt, which made part of my Queen of Hearts costume for the theatre’s Christmas party last year. The full skirt is gathered at the waist, with rope sewn into the hem to create shape and give weight. There is also what I have dubbed a ‘mini bustle’ at the back.

When I first donned it, the petticoat felt quite heavy, but I became accustomed to it surprisingly quickly and managed to spend quite a bit of time on the dance floor without feeling the weight at all – it created a pleasing swing in fact. The camisole, possibly 80s or 90s, is my own, and was bought in a charity store years ago. 

Gallery

(Left) wire and cotton American bustle, c1880; (right) cotton and metal bustle, probably American, early 20th centurySilk petticoat, British mid-eighteenth century; click image for more information and alternate views(Left) American silk petticoat from the early 1900s; (right) cotton and silk petticoat, American, 1900-1948

* All images in the above gallery are from The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

Tally-ho, To Hounds! … Or To Herrings?

Helloooo autumn, tally-ho! Let’s really welcome in the time of the falling leaves with some seasonal suiting.

Tweed is the generic term for woven wool fabric that has either a plain or twill weave. The original name for the fabric was ‘tweel’, Scots for twill, and it seems the name changed by chance. A London merchant misreading the word, marketed the cloth as tweed, assuming it took its name from the river Tweed that wended its way through the textile manufacturing region of Scotland.

It is easy seemingly, for the uninitiated, to confuse some of these patterns: a recent search on Etsy showed some sellers were mixing up houndstooth with Glen plaid (also sometimes called Prince of Wales check, owing to the Duke of Windsor’s predilection for it).

The original name for the fabric was ‘tweel’, Scots for twill …

Houndstooth, or dogstoothHoundstooth, or dogstooth, is a broken check pattern made from tessellated abstract four-pointed shapes. Amusingly a smaller scale version can be referred to as a puppytooth. The classic version is woven in black and white.




 

Glen plaid, or Prince of Wales checkGlen plaid is, as the name suggests, a tartan woven with stripes made up of small and large checks – somewhat similar to the houndstooth albeit on a tiny scale, but the stripe/check pattern is the dominating feature. Glen plaid is usually woven in muted colours of dark and light stripes.



 

HerringboneThere is no mistaking the zigzag or chevron pattern of herringbone however. This very descriptive name is taken from the skeleton of a herring fish. Such a wonderful, classic pattern – no wonder it is one of the most popular cloths used for suits and outerwear.



 

It’s quite fun to mix one’s weaves: my jacket is made up from a tan and cream herringbone wool, while my green and cream hat features a jumbo-size houndstooth. So cosy for autumn.

The Bohemian History of the Polka Dot

Where do polka dots come from, and why do they have such a quirky name? As strange as it seems, the pattern is named for the dance of the same name.

In the mid nineteenth century, with the advent of machinery in textile factories, the spotted repeat pattern had come into fashion. Prior to this – in medieval times for example – dotted fabrics had not been worn, for without machinery it is difficult to create a spotted pattern with evenly spaced dots, and random spots were associated with disease.

Polka dotted smock top over black skirt by Balenciaga, ph Gordon Parks, LIFE magazine March 1951In the 1840s–60s, dancing the energetic polka was a craze that swept Europe. The dance is of Bohemian origin, associated with Poland and Czechoslovakia.  Manufacturers – being as sly then as they are today – wishing to cash in on this craze, named a plethora of unrelated products after the polka. There was even a polka pudding, a boozy confection of orange-water flavoured cream, drizzled with sherry polka sauce!

Two fashions collided, and thus the polka dot fabric was christened.

Godey’s Lady’s Book dubbed the dotty pattern the ‘polka dot’. The pattern was popular with both men and women. Soon there were polka curtains, gauze, jackets, hats, neckties, shoes and vests.

Mary-Jane Russell wearing Christian Dior, ph Louise Dahl-WolfeWhile the craze for naming everything under the sun after the polka eventually wore off, the name as it applied to the pattern did not. The polka dot pattern has gone in and out of fashion, and it can now be considered a classic, especially when rendered in black and white. A while back when I was researching artists’ smocks, I came across a 1951 photograph of a Balenciaga outfit featuring a polka-dotted smock top. It struck me as extremely similar to a vintage top I own, so here is my little homage both to Balenciaga and the polka dot.

Read more detailed histories of the polka dot pattern here and here, or view a slideshow featuring fashions from 1865–2010.

Marilyn Monroe in a polka dot swimsuit, 1951

The Incredible Shrinking Knit

Laundry labels are sewn into garments for a reason. Usually it is best to pay attention to them. Except when it says ‘dry clean only’. I try to get away with handwashing whenever I can, although once it backfired on me. I thoughtlessly threw in a lovely dove grey fine gauge 100% wool knit by Calvin Klein thinking it was certainly washable, only to find it shrunk to doll size. I was rather cross with Calvin.

But there was one occasion when an accidental hot machine wash worked for me rather than against me.

Years ago whilst enjoying a little shopping spree in Hong Kong, I purchased a knit from Max & Co in a size too large for me. I do not know what possessed me to do so. It was too big in every respect, but in particular, the sleeves hung loosely past my fingertips by many centimetres. I loved this Guinevere style knit with its juliet sleeves however, even if it made me look like I was dragging my knuckles on the ground, and I continued to wear it.

I loved this Guinevere style knit … even if it made me look like I was dragging my knuckles on the ground …

One day I chucked in a dark wash – all underthings and spencers and stockings and such. Or so I thought. When I pulled everything out at the end of the cycle I was horrified to find I had inadvertently thrown in this enormous knit! But when it dried, I found that the machine had magically shrunk the jumper a whole size down and it fit me perfectly.*

So you see, sometimes it really does all come right in the wash.

* DISCLAIMER: Attempt at this at home entirely at your own risk. SNAP cannot be held responsible for any knits that have been shrunk too much, felted or otherwise mangled.

Laundromat image from The Magical Miss.