1560s Venetian Gown in Two Days - Or How to Bring Renaissance Venice to your Sitting Room

Written by Amos Jevons

Figure 1: The Lonely Courtesan

 In the grey pallor of February, when the damp winter air was just lifting, I felt the floating city of Venice appear in my head as an endless source of inspiration. In particular, the sixteenth century and its gilded stiffness that complements the whimsical city. The culture of courtesans thrived in Renaissance Venice and allowed women more agency than before, including education and income they could call their own. Of course, there is much more nuance to that subject which will not be addressed here (if you are interested, I suggest reading into the life of Veronica Franco) and instead we shall take a look at what they may have worn. The gown I made is an interesting paradox of using both period and anachronistic methods. For 1560s/1570s Venice I knew that jewel colours and metallic fabrics would be required but the time constraint for this project were even smaller than last time.

When searching for the fabric, I found a website that sells deadstock materials for good prices, including a silk lamé in a shimmering coppery gold. With deadstock fabric, it may be the last and only supply of that fabric, so it is incredibly important to get the right amount. Moreover, it reduces the volume of fabric in landfill, so it seemed like a good choice. I had an idea of how the gown would be worn, so I utilised a deep teal taffeta petticoat (that actually featured in my last article) for the underskirt that would represent the brilliant turquoise waters of Venice’s canals.

Figure 2: The Gilded Gown Captivates

  As the fabric took some time to arrive, I made up the bodice and sleeve linings in a vintage cream linen from my own collection. The construction for this gown was perhaps the simplest I have made, using Janet Arnold’s Patterns of Fashion 3. The gown the pattern was created from was the funeral gown of Eleanora of Toledo, wife of Cosimo I de ’Medici, a gown that I had the privilege to pay pilgrimage to in Florence last year. It was made from white satin, embroidered with gold and silver, and featured two parts of a bodice laced at the sides. For my version, I joined up the bodice and laced it down the back, a practice with historical precedent. Unfortunately, the style is distinctly Florentine and not Venetian, which featured front ladder lacing, but I simply did not have time to work out the patterning for that. However, I did find examples of Venetian gowns in paintings without the front lacing so that was good enough evidence. Moreover, I was using lamé fabric, so I wasn’t too worried about accuracy. With the linen pieces cut out I had to find a way to stiffen them; boning was not an option as I did not have any to hand, and there is little evidence that it was used in this period. The other option was to stiffen the bodice with starch, which would be more period appropriate. The linen was brushed with a mix of cornflour and water, then ironed down to integrate the starch within the fibres of the textile. This is left to dry, and over time it becomes as stiff as boning but with half the amount of work. In reality, bodices of this period would be layered with starched linen and buckram, along with strengthening pad-stitching. When the fabric finally arrived, I opened it to discover it was pink? This ended up being perfect as gold lamé would have been overpowering, and the pink fabric had a wonderful coppery glimmer in certain lights. The silk lamé was laid over the linen right sides together and sewn down, then flipped inside out to create a seamless bodice piece. However, the sleeves proved slightly more difficult as I decided to emulate the slashed sleeves of the period. This required sewing gold organza to the lining and slashing the silk lamé, twisting it then sewing them at the corners to allow the organza to peak through. The back bodice panel was sewn with embroidered eyelets in silver thread to create the closure. To complete the skirt, I sewed up panels of the remaining fabric and simply knife pleated them to the bodice, in a process of draping and just eyeballing where each pleat should be rather than spend hours patterning them. With that, the gown was complete in just under two days. The finished gown was captivating; the shimmering lamé and silhouette made it into a dream of a princess dress, with puffed sleeves and a large skirt that trails into a long train. One way to describe the gown would be a pearlescent copper colour with the rustle of taffeta, so stiff from metal that it stands devoid of a body like some crystalised ghost.

Figure 3: A Venetian Lady

This photoshoot differed from those you may be familiar with in my articles, but it was a concept that I had previously visited and actually started my interest in photography. Instead of using the garden, I wanted to bring sixteenth-century Venice to my sitting room. Therefore, the window became the high altar of a Renaissance church, draped in cloth of gold with gilt silver candles and flowers dedicated to Christ and the Virgin. Unfortunately, I did not have a large golden crucifix, so I had to make the silhouette of one with a ruler strapped to a candlestick. I would have liked to add a monstrance, however I did not have one to hand, so a silver cup and plate would have to do for the eucharistic practices needed upon an altar. Additionally, for my story to work I also needed to create a bedroom for the Venetian lady. This involved haphazardly arranging drapery across a bookshelf and using an old bible box as a clothes chest, all within the space of the sitting room like some interconnected film set.

Figure 4: At Church

Another feature of this photoshoot was my shameless recycling of garments; for the first portion my sister wears a red damask gown that I made a few years ago, which appears quite shabby compared to the new lamé gown. I wanted the photographs to show the lamé gown as something to be admired, to present its incredible stiffness so well that our Venetian lady longingly gazes at it in admiration. Is it a gift from a suitor? Or perhaps she is a maid borrowing her mistress’s gown? Either way, she ends up wearing it to the church, completing the ensemble with pearls and a turquoise silk veil to match her petticoat. The church section of the shoot is filled with Catholic guilt and gilt, as our Venetian lady has her finest gown to pray before the altar. The gown perfectly crumpled to the floor, the chiaroscuro lighting catching the golden tones excellently, as if divinely lit. As I took photos, I quickly tried to come up with more of a storyline for the model to emulate, until my sister calmly announced, ‘she has come to church to pray for her son she left in a convent.’ Yes, that was it. Suddenly the story became all the more tragic and beautiful. I think it is so important for stories to be told in garments; they make them feel enchanted or as if sixteenth-century bodies could have made or worn them.

Figure 5: Catholic Gilt

This may be my last article for the time being, so I hope you have enjoyed reading a little about my process and what I do. If you want to be kept up to date on my sewing projects, then you could always give my Instagram a follow. Over the long student summer, I shall definitely be sewing a gown or two.

 Instagram: @amosjevons