The Fashion Historian

Fan, eighteenth century. Painted paper leaf with mother of pearl sticks inlaid with gold. Gift of Mrs. Robert D. Graff. 1967.46. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin

Painted silk fan, late eighteenth century. XA-1221. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

Detail of painted silk fan, late eighteenth century. XA-1221. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

Detail of painted silk fan, late eighteenth century. XA-1221. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

Detail of the back of the fan, showing the outlines of the unfinished design. The white tape is from a previous conservation treatment from an unknown date. Painted silk fan, late eighteenth century. XA-1221. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

Printed fan, c. 1790s. Gift of the estate of Anna P. Williams. 2380-50H. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

This printed fan is from the opposite end of the spectrum from the luxurious fan featured above. Due to the time it took to produce fans and the expense of the materials, fans in previous centuries had only been available to the upper classes and were highly valued luxury items. However, in the eighteenth century, fans became available to a much wider market and became an important accessory for all classes. In the 1720s fan makers began printing fan leaves and mounting them on sticks of plain wood. These printed fans could be quickly produced en masse and sold cheaply. Due to the ease and speed of the printing process, printed fans could be made to commemorate important events and serve as souvenirs for travelers.

Detail of printed fan, showing the off-center placing of the central image. Pinted fan, c. 1790s. Gift of the estate of Anna P. Williams. 2380-50H. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

Back detail of the fan, showing the stitches holding the spangles in place. Printed fan, c. 1790s. Gift of the estate of Anna P. Williams. 2380-50H. Chicago History Museum. Photo by Katy Werlin.

It's Textile Month here on The Fashion Historian! Each week this month we'll be bringing you a textile themed post. This week, learn about printed textiles in eighteenth-century America!

Printed cotton celebrating American Independence, ca. 1785. Designed by Henry Gardiner and made in Southeast England. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 46.106.1

Dr. Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell recently published her first book, Fashion Victims: Dress at the Court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. After looking through this lavish text, I wanted to know a bit more about how this book came together. What is the story behind the story? Find out in my exclusive interview below!

Myth: Fashionable eighteenth-century ladies shaved off their eyebrows and used false eyebrows made of mouse fur.

Grace Dalrymple Elliot by Thomas Gainsborough, c. 1778. Private Collection. Are those eyebrows made of mice?

Any visitor to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City should stop by Gallery 599 on their tour of the museum. It's a small gallery, to get there you simply descend a small flight of stairs tucked away in the back corner of one of the large medieval galleries. Gallery 599 is located by the door to the Ratti Textile Center, which houses all of the textiles in The Met's collections. A rotating exhibition showcasing small samplings of The Met's textiles is featured in the display cases surrounding the door to the Ratti Textile Center. It's a quick pitstop on your tour of the museum and always well worth a visit as you get to see some rarely viewed textile treasures.

Embroidery sample for a man's suit, 1800–1815. French. Silk embroidery on silk velvet; L. 13 1/4 x W. 11 1/8 in. (33.7 x 28.3 cm). The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, Gift of The United Piece Dye Works, 1936 (36.90.15)

One of the most famous and persistent images of the eighteenth century is a woman with an enormous tall wig decorated with ribbons, feathers, and all manner of figurines. Known as the pouf, this tall hairstyle is often cited as a visual representation of the excess of the 18th century. But these tall hairstyles were not just an example of extreme elite fashion. Often times these hairstyles were an expression of patriotism, politics, and the latest trends in culture. Today we may express our personalities and taste by wearing a T-shirt bearing the image of our favorite band, sports team, or the flag of our country. In the late 18th century, aristocratic women did the same thing using their hair.

Anonymous, Coëffure à l’Indépendance ou le Triomphe de la liberté, c. 1778. In the collection of the Musée franco-américain du château de Blérancourt.

What better way to return from a long hiatus than with a flurry of sparkles? Today's post is all about sequins, spangles, and oes!

French court suit jacket, 1750-75. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

For centuries, the fashionable have decorated their clothing and accessories with small, reflective metal discs. Today we know these as sequins, but in previous centuries they were known as spangles. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the first recorded use of sequin as a name for these sparkly discs was in 1882. A few centuries earlier, a sequin was the name of an Italian gold coin. Perhaps this reference to a small disc of precious metal inspired the later use of the word.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, sequins were known as spangles or spangs. Spangles were made of precious and semi-precious metals such as gold, silver, and copper, and came in a variety of shapes and sizes. The most common was the flat, circular disc we are familiar with today. But by the end of the 18th century, spangles could be cut into multiple shapes like clovers and hearts, and could be tinted colors like pink and blue. In many descriptions, such as the poem at the beginning of this post, spangles are paired with oes. Oes were another form of decorative metal detail, very similar to spangles. According to scholar M. Channing Linthicum, "oes were metal eyelets tacked or clinched to the material in such designs as 'squares,' 'Esses,' 'wheate eares,' etc., or powdered over the whole surface."

Lady Dorothy Cary by William Larkin, c. 1614. English Heritage. The little spots on her embroidered jacket are spangles.

According to records of English parliamentary proceedings, in 1575 "a Patent was first granted to Robert Sharp to make Spangles and Oes of Gold." This suggests that Robert Sharp was perhaps one of the first English manufacturers of spangles and oes, or perhaps an innovator in their production. There were two methods for creating spangles. In the first method, a thin coil of wire was wrapped around a narrow dowel. The resulting spring was then cut and the coils hammered flat to create round discs with a small hole in the middle. The second method was used to create spangles with more elaborate shapes. In this method, a thin sheet of metal was laid out and the spangles were punched out using shaped tools, like when you make cookies with cookie cutters.

Spangles and oes were used to decorate the clothes and accessories of men and women. In the candle light, they would shimmer and lend a magical quality to the wearer. In an essay by Francis Bacon, titled Of Masques and Triumphs, the glittering effect of spangles and oes is described. He writes, "The colors that show best by candle-light are white... and oes, or spangs, as they are of no great cost, so they are of the most glory."

Women's Jacket made in Great Britain, 1600-1625. The Victoria and Albert Museum.

Over the years, spangles and oes have decorated a variety of garments and accessories. One of the most notable uses was in the first decades of the 17th century when they covered women's embroidered jackets, as in the above image. From 2007 to 2009, workers at Plimoth Plantation meticulously reproduced one of these embroidered jackets. To read more about this incredible undertaking, including their manufacturing of spangles, I highly recommend their blog.

Detail of a French court suit embroidered with blue tinted spangles, 1750-75. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

In the 18th and early 19th centuries, spangles could often be found on decorative embroidery. The above image is a detail of the court suit pictured earlier in this post. Here you can see a variety of spangles, from plain gold circles to blue tinted circles and pointed ovals. As for the tightly coiled wires which surround many of the spangles, could they be oes?

This afternoon I was interviewed for a segment on AirTalk about the increasing informality of dress in today's society. This is an enormous topic with many contributing factors, but one thing the host mentioned is that in America, informality in dress could be connected to the (supposed) lack of a class system. I agreed, and believe that the mythological identity of America as a place where everyone is equal has been influential on our dress. I referenced an eighteenth-century portrait where one of America's founding fathers is dressed informally. The painting I was thinking of was this portrait of Paul Revere by John Singleton Copley.

Portrait of Paul Revere by John Singleton Copley, 1768. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

To have your portrait painted was a very expensive affair, and in the days before photography a portrait was how you would be remembered for all eternity. Thus traditionally most people wore their very best clothes, wanting to show themselves in the best possible light. European portraiture of the same period often shows clothing at the height of fashion and luxurious settings. Compare Revere's portrait with this image, painted just one year earlier.

Portrait of Two Gentlemen Before the Arch of Constantine in Rome by Anton von Maron, 1767. Private collection.

In the Copley portrait, Revere is very informally dressed. He doesn't wear a coat, his waistcoat loosely hangs from his shoulders and his shirt is open at the neckline. His hair is unstyled, and pulled casually back. A silversmith by trade, Revere references his status as a tradesman by holding an unfinished silver pot while engraving tools are scattered on the table. Revere is relaxed, thoughtfully looking out to the viewer, and the background is simple and black and the table plain and unremarkable. He is saying to the world, "Yes, I am rich/important enough to have my portrait done, but really I'm just a simple silversmith, I work hard and am just like anybody else."

In the von Maron portrait, on the other hand, the two gentlemen are formally attired in fashionable clothes. Their suits are sleek in cut and fit tightly to the body, and are decorated with gold embroidery. Both gentleman are most likely wearing wigs, and their hair is in a fashionable style. The man in the blue coat has his hair powdered as well, another fashionable and expensive touch. Both casually hold long walking sticks, another fashionable accessory for the 18th century gentleman. Finally, the gentlemen are posed by an Ancient Roman arch, demonstrating that they are worldly, well-traveled, and knowledgeable about classical societies. Combined, all of these elements demonstrate wealth, refinement, and formality. The message of this portrait is quite different from that of the Paul Revere portrait.

Portrait of Johann Joachim Winkelmann by Anton von Maron, 1768. Kunstsammlungen Weimar.

Even when dressed in informal attire, European portraits still convey a different message. In the above image the subject, Johann Joachim Winkelmann, is not yet dressed for the day, wearing a robe and covering his undressed head with a turban. Yet the clothing still conveys wealth and luxury. The voluminous robe is made of a lustrous red fabric and lined with fur. Although Winkelmann does not wear a wig, his turban is an equally fashionable headdress, a product of the highly fashionable orientalist influence which swept Europe in the 18th century. Furthermore, his surroundings include a luxuriously draped swag of fabric, a marble bust of a classical figure, and a fashionable writing table. Like the other portrait by von Maron, the sitter in this portrait is broadcasting his wealth and status.

Did all wealthy Americans choose to portray themselves as Revere did? Absolutely not. But I think there is an interesting comparison to be made. Revere is a famous figure of the American Revolution, and his portrait is emblematic of the mythological American identity which still holds influence today. It is this same mythological identity that many American politicians and public figures still try to convey. During the 2008 American presidential election, Republican Vice Presidential candidate Sarah Palin built her entire image on the idea that she was (supposedly) just like the rest of us. So to return to the original topic, the increasing informality in our society is due to a number of causes and could easily be a dissertation topic. But for Americans, I think that one cause is the identity, demonstrated by Revere, which is so fundamental to the mythos and history of this country.

Myth: It is ancient tradition that each of the clans of Scotland has it's own unique tartan.

The lords of three Scottish clans from Disney/Pixar's movie Brave (2012).

Sadly, this is a myth. I've always thought it was rather fun to find the family tartan. But this 'tradition' is actually the result of a 19th century marketing scheme to capitalize on the popularity of the romanticized Highlander myth.

The colorful tartan pattern seems to have originated in Flanders and came to the Highlands through the Lowlands. Sixteenth century writers note that the plaids of chiefs were colored and those of their followers were brown, indicating that any differentiation in color was a mark of social status rather than being connected with a particular clan. The clan system itself had been destroyed after the Scottish rebellion of 1745, when acts of Parliament removed chiefs from their jurisdictions and banned any Highland costume. This last act wasn't lifted until 1782, at which point the general population of the Highlands, having become used to trousers, didn't see any reason to return to the traditional belted plaid or tartan, or the new convenient kilts (invented in 1727, a topic for another post!) The upper classes, on the other hand, enthusiastically picked up the traditional garb reclaiming their lost 'heritage'.

The romantic movement had swept in, bringing with it the cult of the noble savage. The endangered traditional Highlander fit perfectly into this romantic notion. Romanticized Scottish history was given a further boost when King George IV made a momentous visit to Edinburgh in 1822. The King wished to see Highlanders in their traditional garb, and thus created a huge demand for tartans. The biggest manufacturing firm was William Wilson and Son of Bannockburn. Messrs., which released a "Key Pattern Book" in 1819 when the royal visit was first announced, showing samples of their various tartans and which clan they belonged to. When the King finally arrived in Scotland, he himself was dressed in a kilt and gave a toast to "the chieftains and clans of Scotland."

But the most important figures in the creation of clan tartans were the brothers Allen, an eccentric pair who often appeared at fashionable events dressed "in all the extravagance of which the Highland costume is capable-- every kind of tag and rag, false orders and tinsel ornaments." In 1829 they presented their aristocratic patron, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, with a manuscript entitled "Vestiarium Scoticum", or The Garde-robe of Scotland. According to the brothers, this manuscript had belonged to John Leslie, Bishop of Rosss, the confidant of Mary Queen of Scots. Supposedly it had been written much earlier by a knight named Sir Richard Urquhart, and featured descriptions of the different clan tartans. But it wasn't until 1842, and under the new patronage of Lord Lovat, that the Vestiarium was published in a lavish limited edition with colored illustrations. Then in 1844, the Allen brothers published an even more lavish folio, titled "The Costume of the Clans", which cited ancient sources and claimed that Highland dress was actually a relic of the universal dress of the Middle Ages.

Unfortunately for the Allen brothers, their works received little notice. They themselves were discredited in 1847. After making numerous claims of royal blood, the brothers, who had at this point changed their name to Sobieski Stuart, were exposed as phonies in an editorial in the Quarterly Review. The brothers never recovered, and their works never gained a great amount of publicity. However, the idea of clan tartans was growing ever more popular, and the rest of the century saw the publication of numerous books of clan tartans, all derived from the Vestiarium.


There is so much more fascinating detail to this story than what I have put here, so if you'd like to learn more I highly recommend the article The Highlander Myth by Hugh Trevor Roper.

Photo Credit

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And here is the conclusion to this study, which I hope you have enjoyed! I had a wonderful time doing this research.



Self Portrait with a Harp, by Rose Adélaïde Ducreux, c. 1791. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

A consideration of the political situation of September 1791 is also important in analyzing Self Portrait with a Harp. Ducreux’s portrait was displayed at a crucial point in the French Revolution. On June 21-25, the royal family attempted to escape from France, but were caught in the small town of Varennes and brought back to Paris in disgrace. This marks a turning point in the attitudes of the Revolution. While at first the people had been willing to work with the monarchy, functioning under the belief of a good king ill advised, and hoping to create a constitutional monarchy, the royal flight disillusioned them. The thought of the King abandoning his country, combined with a letter left by Louis XVI denouncing the Revolution, caused the public to turn against the monarchy.

The flight of the royal family and their subsequent capture ushered in a brief period of paranoia and a previously unseen radicalism. While the National Assembly was working towards a new constitutional monarchy, the French people demanded Louis XVI abdicate the throne completely. On July 17th, a large group gathered at the Champs de Mars to sign a petition demanding the abdication. The situation grew out of control, and the National Guard arrived, attempting to keep the peace. Shots were fired and several people were killed. The Champs de Mars massacre polarized the nation, with some believing it was an act of peace keeping against dangerous radicals, while others believed it was the monarchy attempting to crush the will of the people.

By September 1791, the same month as the Salon of 1791, a new constitution had been completed, creating a constitutional monarchy. Completed on September 3rd and signed by Louis XVI on September 13th, it represented the hope that the monarchy could work together with the people to restore the glory of France. However, by 1792 the Revolution was falling to pieces and the Reign of Terror would begin the most violent and terrifying period of the Revolution. But in the fall of 1791, this threat had not yet materialized. It was a period of wariness, disappointment with the king, but hope that the political turmoil could finally be resolved.

This was the political context in which Ducreux exhibited her painting. France stood on a precipice, engulfed in feelings of wariness and betrayal, yet hope for a more egalitarian future. Ducreux’s painting embodies the dual ideologies present in this period. The luxury of her garments nods to the tradition of the monarchical system, a system the Revolutionaries currently wanted to preserve with modifications, not completely abolish. The neoclassical style points to the new aesthetics and ideas that were emerging, ideas of democracy and equality. Her inclusion of her harp points to an embracing of traditional gender roles, as espoused by late eighteenth-century thinkers. Thus her painting creates a perfect symbol of the times.

Selected Bibliography

Baker, Keith Michael, editor. Readings in Western Civilization: The Old Regime and the French Revolution. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987.

Duncan, Carol. “Happy Mothers and Other New Ideas in French Art.” The Art Bulletin, Vol. 55, No. 4, (1973): 570-583.

Irwin, David G. Neoclassicism. London: Phaidon, 1997.

Koda, Harold, and Andrew Bolton. Dangerous Liaisons: Fashion and Furniture in the Eighteenth Century. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2006.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, “Self Portrait with a Harp.” http://www.metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/110000662.

Oppenheimer, Margaret A. “Women Artists in Paris, 1791-1814.” PhD diss., Institute of Fine Arts, New York University, 1996.

Ribeiro, Aileen. The Art of Dress: Fashion in England and France 1750-1820. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995.

Ribeiro, Aileen. Dress in Eighteenth Century Europe 1715-1789. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002.

Ribeiro, Aileen. Fashion in the French Revolution. New York: Holmes and Meier, 1988.

Rose Adélaïde Ducreux, Self Portrait with a Harp, Salon of 1791. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

Sheriff, Mary D. The Exceptional Woman: Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun and the Cultural Politics of Art. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997.

Shovlin, John. The Political Economy of Virtue: Luxury, Patriotism, and the Origins of the French Revolution. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006.

Tackett, Timothy. When the King Took Flight. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003.

Weber, Caroline. Queen of Fashion: What Marie Antoinette Wore to the Revolution. New York: Henry Holt and Company, 2006.

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Self Portrait with a Harp, by Rose Adélaïde Ducreux, c. 1791. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Between the soft curves abounding in her portrait and the display of musical talent on the harp, Ducreux sends a strong message of her femininity, an important point to note in both the context of the art world and France at large. Painting had traditionally been a male profession, with women artists taking up an extremely small percentage. In 1770, the Royal Académie, which had never welcomed more than a handful of female artists into its membership, placed a quota for four female members. However, women increasingly made an effort to put their works on display, and at the Salon of 1791, twenty two women exhibited their works. While women artists were making great strides towards recognition, they remained the minority. Pierre-Jean-Baptiste Chaussard was alarmed at the 1806 Paris Salon to note that out of 350 artists, fifty were women.

In a broader context, these negative reactions towards women artists reflect the strong reinforcement of gender roles which took place at the end of the eighteenth century. The cult of motherhood became a particular concern, with writers and artists urging women not to pass their children off to a nurse but to rear them personally. Motherhood was espoused as the natural state for women, and, as one writer said, “The sensations experienced by a woman when she becomes a mother are of a kind superior to anything she feels in other circumstances.” This attempt to relegate women to the roles of mothers and nothing else is indicative of this larger trend of strongly defined gender roles. With society being completely restructured in the Age of Revolution, perhaps these strict definitions were a way of clinging to a sense of natural order.

As a female artist, Ducreux inhabited a traditionally male occupation. Although the fine arts were seen as a relatively natural outlet for women, due to their delicate sensibilities, a participation in the fine arts was none the less a step outside the home. Ducreux counters concern about women straying into a male world by emphasizing her femininity in her painting. The soft curves and the demonstrated accomplishment on the harp all signify Ducreux as an accomplished woman, showing off her feminine attributes. Her less radical clothing choice further symbolizes her devotion to traditional femininity. The soft and supple textiles and traditional style of dress portray Ducreux as a woman being a woman, not a woman attempting to enter the male world of personal autonomy and power as Marie Antoinette did.

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Self Portrait with a Harp, by Rose Adélaïde Ducreux, c. 1791. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Ducreux’s portrait is in the neoclassical style, an important aesthetic to the Revolution. As opposed to the opulent rococo aesthetic, which had previously dominated the fine arts, neoclassicism valued simplicity and sought to emulate the plain elegance of the art of Ancient Greek and Roman societies. Neoclassicism was important to the ideals of the French Revolution in two respects. Firstly, its simplicity rejected the over-the-top luxury of the rococo aesthetic. It was a style everyone could embrace, not just those rich enough to afford it. It removed the luxury and decoration and left something plain, elegant, and basic. Secondly, it represented both classical and contemporary political equality. The inspiration for neoclassicism was taken from the ruins of Ancient Greece, famously the first democratic society. It was also an aesthetic that started in England, a constitutional monarchy where the people held power over the monarch. Neoclassicism represented an end to consumption by the few at the cost of the many, and the end to an absolute monarchy system, where the people held no power.

Ducreux’s painting features a plain background with an applied column forming the only wall decoration, and on the table next to her sits a Greek-esque vase, all signifiers of neoclassicism. Gone is the circular composition, the unnecessary frills, and rosey color palette of the rococo. Instead, Ducreux’s painting has a strong linear composition, and a mossy, more natural color palette. Neoclassicism was seen as a return to the natural, a theme reflected in the soft yellows, grays, and greens of Ducreux’s painting. She embodies a world not of colorful superfluity, but of sober simplicity. However, there is no harshness in this soberness. The stripes of Ducreux’s dress seem to mirror the column, elongating it into a soft, feminine curve. This, combined with the soft curves of the harp and the vase, detract from the harsh, straight, masculine lines and give the painting a softer, more feminine feel.

Traditional ideas of femininity are also reinforced in the use of the harp as a prop. Although the harp was a popular prop in eighteenth-century portraiture, Ducreux truly was a talented musician as well as painter. Musical talent was an important part of female accomplishment. In 1722 John Essex wrote that music “is certainly a very great Accomplishment to the LADIES; it refines the Taste, polishes the Mind; and is an Entertainment, without other Views, that preserves them from the Rust of Idleness, that most pernicious Enemy to Virtue.” The harp was considered a ‘womans instrument’, as it allowed not only the display of musical virtuosity but display of the female body. The light dancing of fingers across the strings showed off a woman’s hands and the nimbleness of her fingers, and the pedal harp allowed a woman to show off her delicate feet and ankles. Furthermore, the softer sounds produced by the instrument are in line with feminine ideals. It could also be argued that the harp was considered easier to play, as key signatures can be easily set and a consideration of sharps and flats are unnecessary, therefore it was an instrument well suited to the simplicity of the female mind.

Part 1
The Chemise a la Reine

Today's post considers other garments Ducreux might have worn in her portrait. For background on the chemise a la reine, please click the link at the top to read my post about it.



Self Portrait with a Harp, by Rose Adélaïde Ducreux, c. 1791. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

By the early 1790s, fashion periodicals were urging women to dress in a more simplistic manner. Combinations of jackets and skirts were popular democratic wear, the Journal de la Mode et du Gout declaring in 1790 that “This undress is called The Democrat.” Also popular were French versions of English styles such as riding habits and the redingote. On September 11, 1789, the Magasin des Modes Nouvelles wrote “We have all become soldiers”, emphasizing that women had a role to play in the Revolution as well. While men fought in the ‘battlefield’, women could do their part by wearing appropriate fashions. Women were urged to wear fabrics made in France, and of simpler fibers such as woolen stuffs and printed cottons. Overall, high luxury in dress was beginning to disappear. The Journal de la Mode et du Gout wrote in June 1790: “Luxury is dead, cried out the shopkeepers. Already gold and silver are no longer used in finery.” And indeed, a more democratizing choice for Ducreux would have been to paint herself in a jacket and skirt combination or a redingote, made of less costly fabrics.

Another fashion option for Ducreux was the chemise a la reine, introduced by Marie Antoinette in the early 1780s. However, to wear the chemise a la reine would have associated her with Marie Antoinette. Although, when looked at outside its political context, the chemise a la reine seems to indicate the egalitarian principles of the Revolution with its light, inexpensive fabrics and simple construction, it’s association with Marie Antoinette forever tainted the garment.

The robe a l’anglaise worn by Ducreux, while initially seeming to symbolize luxury, is in actuality in line with Revolutionary ideals. The robe a l’anglaise, literally meaning ‘English dress’, was also a new style of garment in the 1780s. Previously, women had worn the elaborate robe a la francaise, a garment which took an enormous amount of fabric to construct and decorate. The robe a l’anglaise had developed in England as an expression of the simple English aesthetic, and indeed was extremely simple in cut and décor when compared with the robe a la francaise. Furthermore, in France, to wear English styles was to align oneself with the constitutional monarchy of England, which the early years of the Revolution strove for. For Ducreux to wear a robe a l’anglaise, she not only embraced traditional gender roles but aligned herself with a more egalitarian society.



Madame de Pastoret and her Son by Jacques Louis David, c. 1791. In the collection of The Art Institute of Chicago.


Mme Charles-Louis Trudaine by Jacques Louis David, c. 1791. In the collection of The Louvre.

Ducreux’s fashion is on the more luxurious end of the spectrum when considered against other portraits from the period. Jacques Louis David painted Mme Charles-Louis Trudaine in 1791-92, and Madame de Pastoret and her Son in 1791-92. Both portraits feature a plain background and women in very simple garments, of one basic color (white in the case of Madame de Pastoret and a dark gray in the case of Mme Trudaine) and a non-lustrous fabric, most likely signifying a cotton or wool. However, fashion historian Aileen Ribeiro explains that “this paradox can partly be explained by a deliberate desire on the part of the artist to subdue intrusive details of fashion which might detract from the character of the sitter, or a tactful decision, in a time of great social and political stress, on the part of the sitter to be portrayed in a simple, informal costume.”



Mademoiselle Duplant by Francois-Andre Vincent, 1793. In the collection of the Musée Calouste Gulbenkian, Lisbonne.

Other painters portrayed a simpler fashion aesthetic as well. Francois-Andre Vincent’s painting of Mademoiselle Duplant from 1793 shows the sitter in a striped dress of non-lustrous material, most likely made of a non-silk fiber, wrapped in a plain white muslin fichu and lightly embroidered yellow shawl. In 1792, Henri-Pierre Danloux painted Mademoiselle Rosalie Duthe in a similar dishabille. The sitter wears a simple white dress, most likely made of a fine muslin, with a sleeveless white bodice over top, tied with lavender ribbons.



Maria Theresa of Bourbon by Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun, 1790. In the collection of the Musée Condé, Chantilly.

Portraits by Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun lean towards a more luxurious aesthetic. In her portrait of Maria Theresa of Bourbon from 1790, the sitter wears a robe of grey-brown velvet, with an underdress of lustrous blue silk, tied around the waist with an embroidered golden sash. Another Vigée-Lebrun portrait, of Countess Maria Theresia Bucquoi from 1793, shows the sitter in a puce silk taffeta gown, the coloring significant in that Marie Antoinette popularized the shade in 1775, with an orange sash and embroidered red shawl. While these paintings show fashion more in line with the aesthetic presented by Ducreux, it is worth noting that Vigee-Lebrun fled France in 1789, and was considered an emigrés. Thus her paintings are not an accurate representation of trends in portraiture during this period.



Countess Maria Theresia Bucquoi by Elisabeth Vigee-Lebrun, 1793. In the collection of the Minneapolis Institute of Arts.

How, then, does Ducreux’s painting fit in with its contemporaries? It is more reminiscent of previous styles of portraiture than contemporary styles, which in general show a movement towards simplicity. One view is that Ducreux’s luxurious satin fabrics are a celebration of the French textile industry, which had suffered from the popularity of imported muslins. However, less expensive fabrics of French origin were encouraged in the fashion press, and perhaps a more politically savvy move for Ducreux would have been to paint herself in a less luxurious garment. But despite its luxury, Self Portrait with a Harp was admired by critics, its more Revolution-friendly aspects perhaps outweighing the display of luxury in the textiles.

Today's post is on the chemise a la reine, which I talked about in the BBC article about shocking trends in fashion history here. I wanted to put this up now, because it's important background information for the next part of my post on Self Portrait with a Harp.



La reine en gaulle, by Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun, 1783. At the National Gallery in Washington DC.

The gaulle, or chemise a la reine, was made infamous by Marie Antoinette in the early 1780s. In contrast to the highly structured garments worn by the French court and society at large, the gaulle was incredibly light and simple. The gaulle consists of layers of thin muslin, loosely draped around the body and belted around the waist with a sash. It was the perfect garment for lounging in the country in the spring, and the fashionable ladies of France and England quickly took up the trend. However, when Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun painted Marie Antoinette in her new clothes, the portrait launched a scandal and helped to solidify the peoples’ hatred for their queen.

By the time Marie Antoinette introduced the gaulle, she had already begun a string of rebellions against the ritual and structure of French court life. Actions such as abolishing the morning toilette, allowing commoner Rose Bertin into her inner circle, and escaping to the Petit Trianon had all caused anger and suspicion with the aristocracy. Marie Antoinette’s highly public persona and extravagant habits were also cause for concern. Traditionally, French queen’s led quiet lives, bearing sons to carry on the family line and retreating into the background for a private and relatively simple life. Marie Antoinette’s behavior, on the other hand, was more that of a King’s mistress, and thus highly criticized. Even when Marie Antoinette entered into a more private lifestyle at the Petit Trianon, the exclusivity of her retreat continued to raise criticism, as the traditional right of the aristocracy to constant access to their monarch was cut off.



Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier and His Wife, by Jacques-Louis David, 1788. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

In these rebellions, Marie Antoinette attempted to gain a personal autonomy. With a marriage that remained unconsummated for seven years and a lack of political influence with her husband, Marie Antoinette wanted to gain a power she lacked in other aspects of her life. Through her fashion and decadent lifestyle, she attempted to convey a powerful persona. This desire for a sense of personal autonomy and individuality is represented in the gaulle, famously presented to the world in a highly controversial portrait by Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun. Unlike traditional portraits of French queens, Vigée-Lebrun’s portrait removed all references to the king, portraying Marie Antoinette as her own person, individual from her role as wife to the reigning monarch. Marie Antoinette’s hatred for the structure and ritual of court life at Versailles is symbolized in the unstructured and simple nature of her gaulle.

It seems as though this simpler style, representing a more democratizing spirit and costing much less than the queen’s previous elaborate court wear, would have been celebrated by the public. Yet when Vigée-Lebrun painted Marie Antoinette in her new garment, there was an enormous public outrage. The simple garment looked like a chemise, the basic undergarment worn by all women. The public thought their queen had been painted in her underwear, a highly shocking notion. Subsequently, the garment gained the moniker chemise a la reine.



Lady Elizabeth Foster by Angelica Kauffman, 1785. Elizabeth Foster was British, and a close friend of Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, showing the international appeal of the chemise a la reine.

There were more symbolic issues with the garment as well. It represented an economic threat, as it was made from fine muslin imported from England. When the chemise a la reine caught on, the French silk industry reported enormous financial losses. More importantly, in the eyes of the public, the chemise a la reine symbolized the queen’s rebellion against traditional political and gender roles. Marie Antoinette asserted her identity as an independent woman, removing the traditional signifiers of royalty and taking on a new role. To a country entrenched in an absolutist system, where the glory of the monarch was constantly reinforced, this individuality was an insult to the glory and power of the monarchy, and in taking power for herself, Marie Antoinette represented a political threat.



Madame Seriziat by Jacques-Louis David, 1795. In the collection of The Louvre.

None the less, the chemise a la reine became a popular garment both in France and abroad. Famous British fashionista Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire wrote that she received a chemise a la reine from Marie Antoinette, and many notable English women of the period are painted in the garment. In the broader spectrum of fashion, despite its controversial beginnings, the simplicity of style and material became the norm. In the above picture, Madame Seriziat wears a slightly more structured version of the chemise a la reine, showing its adaptation by the broader population. Thus this controversial garment was a lynchpin in fashion history, signalling a transition to the light and natural garments favored in the early 19th century.

Today's post is about my favorite painting, Self Portrait with a Harp by Rose Adélaïde Ducreux. Last semester we had an assignment to pick a painting and write about it, so naturally I jumped on the opportunity to find out more about this beautiful work. Over the next few days I'll be posting my research. Here's part 1!



Self Portrait with a Harp, by Rose Adélaïde Ducreux, c. 1791. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Self Portrait with a Harp, from circa 1791, is an elegant example of late eighteenth-century portraiture, praised when first displayed for its beauty and realism. At first glance it seems odd that a painting depicting such a luxurious garment would be praised during the French Revolution, a time when the population of France rose up against luxury and absolutism. Yet a closer look reveals ideas closer to the ideology of the French Revolution. Ducreux’s painting represents the transitional time of 1791. With the luxury of the fabrics contrasting with the simplicity of the neoclassical background, and its reinforcements of femininity, Self Portrait with a Harp seems to embody the dichotomy of the politics of 1791.

Rose Adélaïde Ducreux is a relatively unknown artist. She was born on August 19, 1761 to Joseph Ducreux and Philippine-Rose Cosse. Her father Joseph was a painter himself, and had been a portraitist to Marie Antoinette, travelling to Vienne to paint her in 1769. Rose was taught to paint and draw by her father, who gave all of his surviving children an artistic education. Rose Ducreux exhibited her first work at the Salon de Correspondance in 1785, but as she was not a member of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture she was not allowed to exhibit her works in the official Paris Salons until their doors were opened to the general public in 1791. Self Portrait with a Harp was exhibited at the Salon in September 1791, receiving a favorable response from critics. Ducreux continued to exhibit at Salons between 1793 and 1799. She left Paris in 1802, travelling to Saint Domingue with her fiancée, Francois Lequoy de Montigiraud, a prefect of the island, and her father. She died of yellow fever in 1802, her father dying of the same disease two days later.

The Salon of 1791 was held just two weeks after the National Assembly decreed that all artist could participate, saying “All artists, French or foreigners, members or not of the Académie Royale de Peinture et de Sculpture are equally admitted to present their work in the department destined in the Louvre for this purpose.” Representing the more egalitarian principles being espoused by the public, the National Assembly’s decree was a sign of the changes being brought on by the French Revolution. The reviews for Self Portait with a Harp were highly favorable. The Abbé de Fontenay wrote “A new muse presents herself with grace, under the colors of Terpsichore… It is Mademoiselle Ducreux playing the harp. Her choice of pose, the beauty of the fabrics, the graceful use of the brush and the good effect distinguish this charming piece.” Another writer described it as “A graceful body, and fabrics most real.”

At first glance, it seems odd that during the democratizing French Revolution, a painting exhibiting such luxurious fashion would be praised. In her portrait, Ducreux wears a turquoise and white robe a l’anglaise with a zone front, the luster of the fabric suggesting a silk satin. The outer robe is made of a turquoise and white striped fabric, while the zone front and petticoat are a pure white. A translucent silk fichu with satin stripes is wound about her torso, and her sleeves are overlaid with a delicate lace. Fringe decorates the bottom of the petticoat. Luxury is suggested in ever detail. The textile of the outer robe shows highly skilled workmanship, with three smaller, subtle, lustrous stripes residing within each white stripe. The fichu is similarly decorated with satin woven stripes and polka dots.

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Left: Valentino Fall couture 2010.
Right: Late 18th century illustration of a woman getting dressed.

The ceremony of the toilette was an important part of fashionable society in the 18th century. The toilette was the act of getting prepared for the day, including dressing, and doing your hair and make up. It first became a ritual during the reign of great Absolute Monarch Louis XIV. In yet another brilliant move at consolidating his power and controlling the nobility, Louis XIV ritualized the process of dressing (lever) and undressing (coucher), giving nobles in the royal favor the privilege of watching the great monarch prepare for the day or night. The ritual then spread to other courts in Europe, and to the nobility, with different levels of formality accompanying the event.


From the Monument du Costume Physique et Moral de la fin du Dix-huitième siècle, 1789

For most, the most intimate portion of the toilette was performed in private, as it's rather difficult to look glamorous when you first wake up. After privately putting on the most intimate garments and getting your hair and face to look presentable, although casual, it was time to present yourself to your visitors. Fashion historian Aileen Ribeiro describes the process:

“On awakening, the fashionable lady rang for her maid who handed her a lace-trimmed manteau de lit for her early ablutions, after which she was dressed in a negligee du matin, a loose robe worn over chemise and stays. Then she was ready to receive visitors in her cabinet de toilette; these could include men, and very often abbes, who acted the part of cicisbei and were always there with the latest news and gossip. It was then that her hair was done, either by a personal maid or a male hairdresser, and the finishing touches applied to the face… The light-hearted intimacy of the lingering toilette was an essential part of dressing in the eighteenth century."

Ribeiro also notes the intimacy of the ceremony, with the lady getting dressed lingering on the undergarments, giving an almost sexual experience. Men also had a morning toilette, using the time to discuss business affairs rather than social ones.


From the Monument du Costume Physique et Moral de la fin du Dix-huitième siècle, 1789

The toilette is often called a ritual, bringing a religious connotation to the event and subsequently showing the importance of fashion in society. The very act of dressing itself is not just a simple daily task, but an important, ‘religious’ experience, showing the status clothing took in eighteenth century society. Clothing was not merely something to cover the body, but to express position and quality. By ritualizing the activity of dressing, each layer takes on an importance, not simply the outermost layer, showing that fashion was not only what was seen but what was unseen. Furthermore, ritualizing the act of dressing makes fashion a performance. A morning dressing ritual shows the elegance and wealth in each layer, not just the ones that will be seen, an important consideration for a culture obsessed with showing off wealth and power. While the toilette started with the French monarchy, in becoming a ritual for the rest of society, the non-royals could emulate the power and style of the monarchy.

A perhaps unintended consequence of turning dressing into a performance is dressing then becomes playing a part. Just as a theater performance is false reality, a woman dressing is emulating a false reality of herself. On the one hand, this performance she is beginning could be an act of submission. As viewers watch her body on display, with each layer she becomes the woman society wants her to be— beautiful, accomplished in the arts, and most importantly a dutiful daughter, wife, and mother. On the other hand, this performance could be an act of rebellion. While society wants to mold the woman into one ideal, with each layer she makes herself into who she wants to be and takes control of herself. The Petit Dictionnaire de la Cour wrote in 1788 that "a charming woman uses more subtlety and politics in her dressing than there are in all the governments of Europe."


The Toilette from William Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode series, 1743-1745.

A similar dichotomy can be seen with men, with the act of dressing either turning a man into a dutiful son or respectable patriarch, or expressing his personal fashion taste which may have been in rebellion to his family or societies' expectations (for example, many young Englishmen, returning from a Grand Tour of continental Europe, would dress in a flamboyant French style, much to the disapproval of the more subdued English view on fashion). It may be argued that taking control of ones identity was far less important for a man, as he already had greater personal autonomy in society. But it may also be argued that men too were under pressure to fit into a certain mold- father sons, run estates, be active in politics, etc- when their desire may have been for another path in life. Society wanted Louis XVI to be a great and gallant monarch like his predecessors, while the man himself was quiet and shy and had no taste for the court ceremonies he nonetheless was forced to participate in (his wife, on the other hand, bucked tradition entirely which greatly contributed to her downfall, but that's for another post).