5 days ago

An 1860s Ensemble: Battling with an Extortionate Amount of Apple-Green Taffeta.

Written by Amos Jevons

In the depths of the bleak midwinter, I should like to take a moment to focus on one of the (many) summer projects I set myself this year. This large project, that left me swimming in apple-green taffeta and lilac net, is an interpretation of 1860s day and evening wear. Extant garments have proven that a skirt with both day and evening bodices was a popular and economic choice in this period. Why waste money on a whole new dress when you can mix and match your skirts and bodices? As you can imagine, a project such as this requires an extortionate amount of fabric; in total I used ten metres, which pales in comparison to the nineteenth-century method of using almost twenty metres for a dress of this kind. Unfortunately, due to limited funds, I had to use faux silk taffeta. This was a far less daunting endeavour that proved rewarding; the sheen and crispness of the fabric was almost as good as the real thing. Whilst the two bodices took only a fraction of taffeta, the enormous skirt took around eight metres in total. The sheer amount of fabric in one skirt creates a satisfying rustle as it brushes the floor, and the many folded pleats open to reveal more fabric with every movement.

Back of the Dress

In consulting patterns, I found that the School of Historical Dress’ Patterns of Fashion series work extremely well; I took the patterns for both bodices from book two of the series. Both the day and evening bodice can be dated to around 1861-64, placing them firmly in the frothy romanticism of early 1860s fashion. My vision of the day bodice features wide ‘pagoda’ sleeves lined in pink, a ruffled hem that finishes into a tail at the back, and a centre front closure with antique buttons. The silhouette of this era includes drooping shoulders, interpreted by contemporary dressmakers as a low armscye and extended shoulder.

Evening bodices of this period were often lightly boned and low cut, with short sleeves and a decorative bertha that filled the decolletage with lace, ribbons, and flowers, depending on preferences. When deciding how the bodice should be decorated, a difficult decision arose. Does one choose historically adequate decoration such as lace and self-trim? Or is the allure of lilac sequined net too tempting? Anachronistic decoration can create devastating aesthetic affects, but when used sparingly, lilac sequined net can add a delightfully whimsical touch. I trimmed the bodice with gathered sleeves and a bertha of lilac net, layering this net with self-trim and lace. The use of antique lace brings us back to the period and forms an interesting dialogue between sparkling net and aged lace. To prevent the taffeta sleeves getting lost in the confusion of lace and net, I decided to add a slim lace trim to both accentuate the sleeves and maintain the colour scheme of white lace.

During the 1860s both apple-green and lilac appeared to be popular colour choices. With gaslights and candles – which emit a yellow-tones light – illuminating balls and soirees, colour was an important decision for evening gowns. If the colour was too cool toned it would look dull; a lush apple green would be perfect as the light would bring out the golden hues of the fabric. Increased industrialisation of the textile industry meant that during this period a dress of this size would have been more accessible than ever before. Furthermore, the factory-produced and relatively inexpensive cage crinoline made this style of dress available and affordable to a much wider demographic of women.

To complete the dress, I added clusters of tiny flowers made from a pale lilac fabric to the neckline and finally hemmed the skirt by hand. Hemming by hand is a surprisingly speedy process which, I find, allows for much more control than a sewing machine that often produces wonky hemlines. Additionally, hand-hemming, and all visible stitching alike, contributes to a more historically authentic look, which is a priority of mine. If the top of a neckline, edge of a sleeve, or even seam placements are visible, it not only looks more period-accurate but acts as a reminder that the garment is made by hand. In my opinion, seeing wonky hand stitching on a garment is far more charming than the abrupt line of machine sewing.

The Evening Gown

As the dress stood finished on my dress form, rightfully taking up space and asserting itself with much gravitas, it was time to photograph it. The majority of my projects are modelled by my sister, now a veteran of increasingly ridiculous photoshoots. It is a mutually rewarding system; I get to photograph my projects on a live model, and she gets to wear fun dresses. Perhaps the most important aspect of historical clothing is the silhouette; without the correct supportive undergarments the piece can look sloppy and cheap. For the 1860s, a corset is necessary, along with the infamous crinoline cage with a particular focus on the back of the skirt to create an elliptical silhouette. Neither the corset nor hoop skirt I used are accurate to the 1860s, however they do create the required silhouette.

In all the garments I create, there is always a character behind them; this may come into being during the sketching process or may emerge from the fabrics I use. For most of my projects I gather references and inspirations from widespread sources, and this particular project represents an amalgamation of ideas. The photos I took of the day bodice were inspired by the works of Franz Xaver Winterhalter, especially his portraits of nobility within lush garden settings, dressed in huge silk dresses, lace shawls, and straw hats. I wanted to emulate the messy softness of those garments, as if carelessly worn by these women as they lounge in palace gardens. I am grateful that my sister has always had the ability to resemble a bored aristocrat, a skill often required for shooting historical dresses.

There is also always a story behind my pictures, usually conveyed as instructions to my models to evoke the right expression from them. I believe that this lady is waiting for a companion for tea or at least waiting for her maid to finally bring the tea! Or perhaps during her afternoon stroll in the garden she sat down momentarily to enjoy the serenity of nature, before heading back inside to her undoubtedly gilded yet stuffy mansion. In these portraits she seems lost in a moment of contemplation, whilst she almost blends into her verdant garden due to the large expanse of green taffeta.

Virgina Oldoini, Countess of Castiglione Self-Portrait 1858-62

All is different in the evening; she has changed into her other bodice, which droops slightly like a wilting flower around her neckline, but smartens into a tight pointed waist. This version of the ensemble surely required a different character, a much darker and more theatrical one. Throughout the process of creating this dress I would listen to Giuseppe Verdi’s La Traviata, and there is certainly an atmosphere of the tragic Violetta here. At certain points in the photoshoot, I instructed my sister to ‘die of consumption as if you were a courtesan in mid-nineteenth century Paris’, to prompt a dramatic collapse that would capture the folds of fabric beautifully. A further inspiration for this dress was the infamous Countess of Castiglione and her self-portrait photography. Contrasting the typically static photography of the era, the Countess appears fluid and dancerly in her vast dresses. She was famous for her vanity, alongside her beauty, as she dressed in sumptuous and often ostentatious garments. I hope to have evoked this notion in my vision of the evening gown. The gown has accumulated its own character; it may have belonged to a rebellious yet tragic courtesan who carved her own life and spent lavish amounts on clothes. Alternatively, others may interpret this dress differently and I would be curious to know their thoughts. I am sure that the dress, now resting in a box beneath my bed, would also be pleased to know that people are still thinking of her.