How the Baroque Bewilders: Creating Gowns from the 1670s.
Written by Amos Jevons
In the months leading up to Christmas, I had two seventeenth-century gowns swirling around my head that I knew I could make as soon as I went home for the holidays. I had bought a few metres of gold and silver lace—which had the aged look of old metallic lace despite being entirely plastic—that had been sitting in my room like a box of glinting treasure. In the seventeenth century this would have been treasure indeed; lace made from silver and gold wrapped threads was a precious commodity and an overt display of wealth. The first gown that I was occupied with would be made of a shimmering coral satin that I had saved for years, rescued from a rubbish tip, just waiting for the right project. The bodice would be decorated with silver lace, deep teal-green taffeta rosettes down the centre, and billowing sleeves, as seen in the portraiture of the time. The bright coral would be worn over a peacock blue-green taffeta petticoat which would certainly be at home in the ostentatious styles of the 1670s. The second gown would be drastically different; a grand wedding gown in the creamiest duchess satin over a pale gold petticoat trimmed with glinting gold lace and dripping in pearls salvaged from a broken necklace I found in a charity shop.
For this pattern, instead of using Janet Arnold as my main source, I referred to a book published by the V&A on seventeenth-century patterns, which featured a satin boned bodice adorned with intricate lace and passementerie-like trim. So, I began the process of pattern making, which involves a good deal of calculating as well as a confident intuition to determine whether something looks ‘right.’ Unfortunately, something went horribly wrong, and I ended up with a huge paper pattern with the centre front of the bodice ending at the knees. Although bodices were long in the 1670s, they were never this long, so I had a choice to make. I could either start over, as it was definitely a case of counting the gridded squares as one inch instead of centimetres, which caused the scale issues, or I could cut the pattern to a scale that looked right. This would require careful pinning and folding of paper and snipping away until it fit the mannequin. I chose the latter.
When making heavily boned and structured garments in a historical manner, the form should begin to take shape before the boning is added. This means the pattern shapes must be designed to work in harmony with the structure, ensuring they don’t create any tension or gaping. In other words, the structure is not left entirely to the boning. Historically, these garments would have been boned with baleen, which is commonly referred to as whalebone—although it comes from the teeth bristles of the whale’s mouth. Baleen has the incredible property of warming to the body, meaning that every bodice or supportive garment were bespoke to each individual as the material changes with the body and becomes more comfortable over time. However, for the purposes of a 1670s costume which will not be worn for long periods of time, cable ties also serve as an excellent budget-friendly boning material. Interestingly, during this period, the heavily boned bodices would have been worn without stays and are sometimes referred to as a covered ‘pair of bodies’.
After the bodice is made up from the lining and fully boned, the garment is then covered with the expensive fabric; in our case either the coral or cream satin (both bodices were constructed in the same way). The satin is pulled taut across the surface and sewed down to create the impression of a smooth shimmering bodice. As mentioned in my last article, I hand sew any visible details to give a handmade and historical look to the garment. The sleeves follow an unusual pattern of being longer in the back and shorter in the front; to give a billowing silhouette, these were cartridge pleated and whipstitched to the armscye. The process of cartridge pleating is unseen in most contemporary garments as it must be done by hand and cannot be replicated by machine; it resembles gathering, but with a heavier material and a full structured appearance. Similarly, whipstitching is a preferred method of attaching in historical sewing which can only be done by hand; this appears like a spiral of thread running through the fabric. The various decorations were added by tacking them on, which only loosely attaches them. This method has historical precedence, as decorations were expensive; being able to remove and transfer them or add new ones allowed for a practical process of recycling and reusing. With the leftover satin I made overskirts to extend the colour over the contrasting petticoats. Somehow, in just one week, both gowns were complete. Although the overskirt for the wedding gown had a train, it was not dramatic enough for me, so I added huge gold silk taffeta curtains for a theatrical flair, along with antique lace at the sleeves. Though I call them gowns, in reality they are simply a bodice, petticoat, and overskirt. A key illusion of seventeenth-century fashion was making these separate pieces appear as a single dress, sometimes even incorporating separate detachable sleeves.
The photoshoot for these gowns was rather urgent; one of my sisters was only around for a few days, so the photoshoot took place on the misty morning of Boxing Day. The lighting was perfect—soft and sunless, which always gives a dreamy and haunting effect to the photographs. With two gowns and two models, I had, as always, a story and character in mind for these garments. The wedding gown belongs to a reluctant bride, who, on the morning of her wedding, runs to the edge of the estate to meet her runaway sister. The masked sister tries to convince her to flee, offering her some jewellery to sell to make her way. However, it is too late; the bride has become a shell of her former self and will go through with the marriage, choosing security in wealth over happiness. The reason I chose such a tragic and dramatic story is that I believe it enhances the gowns, especially considering the baroque drama of the seventeenth century. Additionally, I had not anticipated how much the warm cream satin would wash the model out, making her appear almost ghostly—whether she glowed ethereally or hauntingly, I cannot tell. The 1670s marks an interesting shift in dress history; it is perhaps the last decade to utilise this heavily boned bodice and large sleeves before the complex drapery of the mantua emerges in the 1680s, arguably setting the tone for dress construction for the next century.
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