The Fashion Historian

February is Black History Month! To celebrate here on The Fashion Historian, I asked my dear friend and colleague Elizabeth Way if she would pen a couple of guest posts about two incredible African American fashion designers and dressmakers and she kindly agreed. Enjoy!

Elizabeth Keckly in the 1860s. Allen County Public Library, Fort Wayne, Indiana.

Elizabeth Keckly, the talented dressmaker and close friend to Mary Todd Lincoln, is resurfacing as an important historical figure. She appeared as a character in the film Lincoln (2012), played by Gloria Rubin, and her life has been the subject of several fictional and nonfictional books. This attention is well deserved because she was truly a remarkable woman—over the course of her life she bought her freedom from slavery, made a major impact on American fashion by dressing the most famous political wives of Civil War-era Washington DC, created a charity to aid newly freed slaves, and wrote her memoirs, leaving important documentation on both herself and the Lincoln family for future scholars. Though her experiences in Washington DC are fascinating history—she created fashions for every notable lady from Varina Davis, the first lady of the Confederacy, to all of Lincoln’s cabinet member wives—her story as a society dressmaker began on the western frontier.

Elizabeth was born a slave on the Burwell plantation in Dinwiddie County, Virginia in 1818. Her mother was Agnes, also a slave and the head seamstress and dressmaker to the Burwell family. Her father was Armistead Burwell, Agnes’ owner and the master of the plantation. Agnes taught her daughter not only to sew and make dresses, but also to read and write, empowering Elizabeth with valuable skills for her future. Elizabeth moved several times in her enslaved life because her father lent her out as help to her half-siblings. After living in Hillsborough, North Carolina, where she was raped by a white man and gave birth to her son George, and Petersburg, Virginia, she moved to St. Louis, Missouri in 1847 as a slave to her half-sister, Anne Burwell Garland and her husband Hugh Garland.

Keckly designed this silk velvet and satin gown for Mary Lincoln in 1864. National Museum of American History, Political Life Division.

Hugh Garland was a lawyer, and the family was socially well connected, but he suffered from very poor finances. He sent Elizabeth out as a dressmaker to support the family and for two years and five months she worked as the main breadwinner supporting seventeen people! Elizabeth had gained her first experience sewing gowns for her Burwell half-sisters and was quite accomplished by the time she moved to St. Louis. However, the ladies in this city truly prepared her for the success she found in Washington. They demanded the latest French fashions, which they read about in magazines or picked up from visits and friends in New Orleans. These lady patrons, who refused to give up looking fashionable just because they lived in far-flung St. Louis, sharpened Elizabeth’s dressmaking skills and refined sense of style.

Elizabeth was intelligent, talented and an excellent businesswoman; in her own words, “in a short time I had acquired something of a reputation as a seamstress and dress-maker. The best ladies in St. Louis were my patrons, and when my reputation was once established I never lacked for orders.” Therefore, it is no surprise that this black female slave, who could support a family better than a formally-educated white man, would want to move beyond the limitations of slavery. Elizabeth repeatedly asked Hugh Garland to set a price for her and George’s freedom, which he finally did: $1200. This was an enormous amount of money, especially considering that most of her wages went to the Garlands. But the always-enterprising Elizabeth had a plan. She would travel to New York City and seek financial aid from one of the abolitionist organizations that helped slaves purchase their freedom. By this time Hugh Garland had died and Anne Garland agreed to let Elizabeth travel north, but only after acquiring the signatures of six white men who would pay her value to Anne if she never returned. Elizabeth had no problem obtaining these pledges because her clients and their husbands knew her as honest and trustworthy. The sixth man, however, spoiled her plans. This Mr. Farrow would willingly sign for her, but was convinced that she would never come back to St. Louis telling her, “you mean to come back, that is, you mean so now, but you never will. When you reach New York the abolitionists will tell you what savages we are, and they will prevail on you to stay there; and we shall never see you again.” Elizabeth was morally shocked that Mr. Farrow thought she was lying and called off her trip, explaining, “I was beginning to feel sick at heart, for I could not accept the signature of this man when he had no faith in my pledges. No; slavery, eternal slavery rather than be regarded with distrust by those whose respect I esteemed.”




In her darkest hour, Elizabeth was saved by the reputation she had earned and the loyalty she inspired, not simply as an excellent dressmaker, but as an admirable and respected person. A client, Mrs. Le Bourgois, came to visit and told Elizabeth that her patrons did not want her to go to New York and beg for money for her freedom. Instead Mrs. Le Bourgois raised the $1200 among Elizabeth’s clients, gifting her with the money. In 1855 Elizabeth bought her and George’s freedom and she started her own business as a free dressmaker in St. Louis. She repaid every penny given to her by her patrons and in 1860 Elizabeth Keckly arrived in Washington DC, beginning her illustrious career as the leading dressmaker in the nation’s capitol.

Further Reading

Keckly, Elizabeth. Behind the Scenes or Thirty Years a Slave and Fours Years in the White House. New York: G.W. Carlton and Co. Publishers, 1868.

Elizabeth Way, Curatorial Assistant at the Museum at FIT. Elizabeth wrote her master's thesis on the African American dressmakers Elizabeth Keckly and Ann Lowe and continues to research the intersection of African American culture and fashion.

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?

From Punch Magazine, 1906. http://www.punch.co.uk/

Look at this cartoon from a 1906 issue of Punch Magazine, forecasting the future of wireless technology. It shows two people sitting outdoors, but ignoring their surroundings and each other because they're engrossed in their mobile devices. The woman is sexting. The man is looking up sports scores. This cartoon was published over a hundred years ago, yet it is depicting something we are all extremely familiar with today.

Now take a moment to think of what life was like back in 1906. Compared to what life is like now, 1906 might as well be a different planet. And yet here we are, looking at the same cartoon people looked at in 1906, and thinking exactly the same thing. Of course this cartoon is fantastical, a speculation based on advances in telegraph technology. But the prediction has turned out to be 100% accurate. And just as we roll our eyes today at people engrossed in the latest technology, ignoring everything else, so too did people roll their eyes on that far away planet of 1906.

This is why I love history. Because the people of history lived in a completely different world than we do now, and it can sometimes seem unfathomable to imagine their lives. But they were still people who laughed and cried and had a favorite color and food and best friends and awkward conversations. For so many history is just a list of facts and dates and names and obviously that's really boring. But if you really look closely at history you learn about real people who were just like us even though they lived on another planet. And to be able to connect to some one that lived hundreds or thousands of years ago, in a completely different world, is amazing.

This is one of the many many reasons why I love fashion and textile history in particular. Because I get to work with the very clothes that people lived their lives in and the textiles that they slept under or sat on or that adorned their walls. You may roll your eyes at this, but I've always loved how Stanly Tucci's character in The Devil Wears Prada describes fashion as "greater than art, because you live your life in it." I think that quote so wonderfully sums up why fashion and textile history is so important, and why it means so much to me. Because these are the things that people lived their lives in. And to study that is to connect with these strange people from a distant land in the most intimate way. The first extant garment I ever held was a shoe from the early 1810s. I remember just sitting there and staring at it, because here in my hand was a shoe that was on a woman's foot when Napoleon was conquering the world. And in that moment I had a personal link to that time in history and more importantly the people of history. A woman and I, separated by two hundred years, were able to share a moment.

This is why history is amazing, and historic preservation is so important. We can't hop into a time machine and literally meet the people of the past, but we can make an intimate connection with them through the objects they've left behind. We can understand and 'make friends' (for lack of a better phrase) with people who lived in a different world, but in the end are just like us.

As a fashion historian, I find that an interesting aspect of Disney is how the animated features serve as records of the visual culture of their day. The Disney Princesses, a successful sub-franchise launched by Disney in the late 1990s, are everywhere these days. They have not been without controversy, but they are certainly popular. They are also records of changing standards of beauty for women in the 20th century. This post series will discuss selected Disney Princesses, exploring how they embody the ideals of femininity of their time.


Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs is a landmark moment in the history of film. It was the first full length animated feature produced by Walt Disney, and is one of the top ten performers at the North American box office. Based on the Brothers Grimm fairy tale, it tells the story of an evil queen who is jealous of Snow White's superior beauty and orders her murder. After a huntsman, Snow White's would-be murderer, shows mercy, Snow White begins a life of hiding in the woods and befriends seven dwarfs. Furious that Snow White is still alive the evil queen disguises herself and visits Snow White in her woodland cottage giving her a poisoned apple. Snow White takes a bite and seems to die but is ultimately awoken and rescued by the kiss of a handsome prince. And they all lived happily ever after.

Marjorie and her animated counterpart dance.

Illustration of two women wearing dress coats from Croquis de bal, 1930s. The New York Public Library.

Hat designs from the 1930s.

I recently read this article by Lisa Bloom, called How to Talk to Little Girls. It's a quick and interesting read but the gist of it is that the author recently met the five-year-old daughter of a friend, and had to stop herself from complimenting the little girl's appearance. Instead, she started talking about books, in the hopes that this little girl would learn that her mind is valued more than her appearance. Bloom also gives some troubling statistics about the girls and women of America:

"This week ABC news reported that nearly half of all three- to six-year-old girls worry about being fat. In my book, Think: Straight Talk for Women to Stay Smart in a Dumbed-Down World, I reveal that fifteen to eighteen percent of girls under twelve now wear mascara, eyeliner and lipstick regularly; eating disorders are up and self-esteem is down; and twenty-five percent of young American women would rather win America’s next top model than the Nobel Peace Prize. Even bright, successful college women say they’d rather be hot than smart. A Miami mom just died from cosmetic surgery, leaving behind two teenagers. This keeps happening, and it breaks my heart.

Teaching girls that their appearance is the first thing you notice tells them that looks are more important than anything. It sets them up for dieting at age 5 and foundation at age 11 and boob jobs at 17 and Botox at 23. As our cultural imperative for girls to be hot 24/7 has become the new normal, American women have become increasingly unhappy. What’s missing? A life of meaning, a life of ideas and reading books and being valued for our thoughts and accomplishments."

The second paragraph is the crux of her argument and I completely agree. We need to stop valuing women based solely on their appearance, and we need to teach girls to be happy with themselves, whatever shape or size they may be.

But what struck me, and what I want to talk about, is the following quote about the book the little girl read to Bloom:

"Alas, it was about girls and what they wore, and how their wardrobe choices defined their identities. But after Maya closed the final page, I steered the conversation to the deeper issues in the book: mean girls and peer pressure and not going along with the group."

This argument presupposes that an engagement with fashion and appearance is shallow and stupid. I agree that society should not tell women and girls that they have to look a particular way, and there are definitely billion dollar industries sending bad messages. But that does not mean that those who do engage in the industry and consider fashion an important part of their lives is wrong.

In 2005, a reality show aired in America (and probably elsewhere) called Beauty and the Geek. It pared beautiful but "dumb" women with "unattractive" male geeks and the teams of two competed for some some sort of grand prize. I don't really remember all the details, but what I do remember is that there would be quizzes for the participants. The men would teach the women about politics and other "serious issues" and then the women would be quizzed on it. And what did the women teach the men? Fashion and celebrities and other "shallow" things. The whole premise of the show was that anyone who is beautiful is stupid and anyone who is smart is ugly and obviously that is ridiculous. But my point is that these beautiful women knew more about fashion than politics and this made them dumb.

This all adheres to the stigma that fashion is shallow. That idea is actually a fairly recent phenomenon. The gendering of fashion is a fascinating topic and one I will post more about later, but here's a quick summary. Fashion became shallow and a female thing at the beginning of the nineteenth century, when gender roles became extremely strict. This was when men started wearing dark suits, which were relatively basic compared to the flamboyant clothing of previous centuries. It was decided that men were serious and intelligent, while women were silly and superficial. Thus the world of dress was confined to women (interestingly the majority of couturiers were and still are men but that's a topic for another post). This idea has more or less remained in tact today, coloring women interested in fashion as superficial.

My argument is to fight that stigma. A little girl can be interested in fashion and expressing an identity through clothing and still be intelligent and worldly. I say instead of fighting fashion, fight a system that labels fashion as shallow and dumb. Teach the next generation to value more than appearance, but don't devalue an interest in appearance altogether.

What are your thoughts? Comment and let me know!

Pomegranate illustration from Dr. Otto Wilhelm Thomé's Flora von Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz, 1885. Image from http://www.biolib.de/.

The pomegranate (Punica granatum) is a fruit-bearing shrub, originating from the Middle East and Mediterranean Basin. Throughout history, the pomegranate tree has been used for a variety of purposes. It's bark has been used to cure leather, it's rind and flowers have been used as textile dye, and it's fruit has been prized for its delicious taste and medicinal properties. Images of the pomegranate have permeated visual culture since ancient times. In Ancient Greek mythology, for example, the pomegranate was the food eaten by the dead in the underworld. In the world of fashion history, the pomegranate has had an extraordinary impact on textiles.

Silk from the 15th or 16th century. Museo Civico d'Arte Antica.

This textile shows the so-called "pomegranate motif". This stylized design of a central floral image surrounded by wavy stems has its origins in the Ottoman Empire. Under the reign of Süleyman I, also known as Süleyman the Magnificent (r. 1520-66), the arts flourished, and the textile design of a flowering plant such as carnations, blooming palmettes or pomegranates surrounded by a lattice pattern became extremely popular. These textiles made their way across trade routs to Western Europe where they were prized for their elegant patterns and luxurious materials. These motifs were also adopted by Western European artisans, and dominate textile design of the Renaissance.

Length of brocaded velvet, late 15th century, Italian (Venice). The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Today, it's hard to understand the extreme value textiles held in the centuries before mass mechanized production. Of course in the pre-industrial period, everything was made by hand. Creating textiles with complex designs such as the pomegranate motif took an enormous amount time and incredibly skilled artisans. Furthermore, the rich colors and expensive materials present in many surviving textiles with the pomegranate motif added additional cost. Red and black dyes were among the most expensive dyes on the market. And many textiles incorporated metal-wrapped threads. To create metal-wrapped threads, thin strips of actual gold or silver would be wrapped around a strand of thread (usually silk). When this thread was woven into a fabric, the resulting textile would literally be made of silver or gold. The above textile is a silk velvet with metal-wrapped threads. The rich red color, complex pattern, and use of metal threads would have made this piece extraordinarily expensive.

Portrait of Eleanor of Toledo and her son Giovanni, by Bronzino, c. 1514. The Uffizi.

Textiles were among the most expensive items a person could buy. Textiles with the pomegranate motif were used for clothing (as can be seen in the portraits above and below), furnishing, and ecclesiastical garments. When looking at the art of the period, textiles with the pomegranate motif show up in a large number of portraits and religious art. Their use was not just because the textiles provide a visually interesting pattern. As this post shows, the use of these textiles was also a potent expression of wealth and power.

Portrait of a Girl, by Antonio del Pollaiuolo, c. 1460-65. Gemäldegalerie, Staatliche Museen zu Berlin.

Furthermore, the prevalence of the pomegranate motif in visual culture attests to the connections between cultures all over the globe. Too often people tend to think of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance as a time when cultures were isolated, and global interactions were not present. But the pomegranate motif is just one piece of evidence that proves that a global exchange of ideas and cultures was alive and well.

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.

In the early sixteenth century, men were all about width. Their wardrobe emphasized and enhanced the width of the body, giving a very powerful presence. In today's head to toe post, we'll find out how this look was created.

Portrait of Henry VIII, after Hans Holbein the Younger, c. 1537. In the collection of the Walker Art Gallery.

Here we see the imposing figure of Henry VIII, who ruled England from 1509 to 1547. On his head he wears a biretta, a soft, round, and wide hat. These could be decorated with jewels and feathers, as seen in this portrait.

Henry's basic foundation garment is a white shirt, the collar and cuffs of which can be seen in his painting. Little puffs of undershirt are also visible in the slashing which decorates his outer garments. Over the shirt he wears a doublet, a waist length, tightly fitted garment which opened down the center front. Doublets could be elaborately decorated with slashing and jewels, as can be seen in this image.

On top of the doublet is a jerkin. The jerkin fit over the waist like a vest, with a deep V or U shaped neckline. Below the waist, the jerkin flared out into a skirt. It's a little difficult to differentiate between Henry's jerkin and doublet, but the image below better illustrates the idea. The Ambassador to the left wears a pink doublet and black jerkin.

The Ambassadors by Hans Holbein the Younger, c. 1533. In the collection of the National Gallery, London.

The bulky overcoat worn over the doublet and jerkin is a box coat, so called because it's shaped like a box. Often stuffed with straw to give volume, the box coat featured huge sleeves which gave men a wide and powerful silhouette. Often they were lined in fur, as can be seen in both images (Henry's box coat is lined in brown fur, while the Ambassador's coat is lined with white).

The legs were covered with hose, which had become two separate pieces. Upper stocks covered the top half of the leg, while lower stocks covered the bottom. The differentiation between the two pieces is particularly clear in Henry's portrait. The emphasis on width is continued all the way down to the shoes, called duckbill shoes. Duckbill shoes were flat and square in front, made of leather, and could be slashed for decoration.

The Little Black Dress, or LBD, is one of the staples of the 20th century woman's wardrobe. The Oxford English Dictionary defines the LBD as "a simple black garment suitable for a woman to wear at most kinds of relatively formal social engagements." But where did this style come from?

Portrait of a Young Woman with a Fan by Rembrandt, 1633. In the collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

According to the OED, the first use of the phrase was in 1902, in Henry James' The Wings of the Dove: "She might fairly have been dressed tonight in the little black frock..that Milly had laid aside." Of course, by the 20th century, women had been wearing black dresses for hundreds of years. Traditionally, black dye was one of the most expensive dyes and difficult colors to maintain, thus it served as a signifier of wealth. Many people were painted in black in the 16th and 17th centuries, but it wasn't because they were particularly conservative. It was to express their wealth, showing that they could afford the most costly garments.

Actress Joan Bennett wearing a Little Black Dress in 1928. Image: Sasha, Getty1.

Most people trace the modern idea of the Little Black Dress to the 1920s. The LBD is most famously associated with Coco Chanel, but it is worth noting that Chanel did not invent the Little Black Dress. She helped to popularize the LBD, it was an important part of her fashion aesthetic, and Chanel's Little Black Dresses are important to the history of fashion. But Chanel was neither the first nor the only designer to embrace the style in the 1920s. British designer Edward Molyneux was also crucial to the promotion of the LBD, and many designers had their own take on it. In 1926, Vogue published a picture of a Chanel LBD. Although it was not referred to as a "Little Black Dress", Vogue did call it "Chanel's Ford", implying that the style was as popular and indispensable as Ford's famous cars. Many historians consider this moment important in the history of the LBD.

Audrey Hepburn wearing a Little Black Dress by Givenchy in Breakfast at Tiffany's, 1961.

One of the most famous Little Black Dresses is the stunning dress worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961). Hepburn's famous dress was designed by her frequent collaborator, Hubert de Givenchy. Although this dress only appears during the opening credits of the movie, it has become one of the most iconic movie costumes of all time and helped to cement the LBD's place in history.

I don't know very much about contemporary art. It's not really my thing. And when I went to see Bound Unbound: Lin Tianmiao at the Asia Society, I knew absolutely nothing about the artist or her place in the world of Chinese contemporary art. But I was intrigued by this exhibition because the majority of the works on display significantly used textiles. I'm not sure if I "got it" or if any contemporary art critic would agree with my interpretation of Tianmiao's art. But I think one of the great things about art is that you bring your own history and experiences to the art you view, thus coloring your own interpretation. So here is the interpretation of contemporary art by a fashion historian.



Bound Unbound: Lin Tianmiao, at the Asia Society until January 27, 2013, showcases the work of Chinese artist Lin Tianmiao. Tianmiao’s work uses thread and textiles, along with other media, to create sculptural pieces exploring concepts of the human body. Her work is inspired by memories of her childhood in China, when she would help her mother sew clothes for the family. According to the introductory text of the exhibition, Tianmiao’s works “are as much about her personal journey as an artist as they are about a desire to articulate broader social issues. Through her focus on the female experience, she comments on the enormous social progress made in Chinese society during Mao Zedong’s tenure, yet she hints that some promises remain unfulfilled." Her work also explores the concept of dualities. According to the exhibition press release, “These are frequently played out in her works through contrasts between materials, but they are also evident in binary themes such as male versus female, function versus form, and physical versus psychological experience.” Within my personal experience of the exhibition, I was particularly struck by the unique interaction between textile and human form.



Much of Tianmiao’s work uses a technique called thread winding, in which “she winds silk or cotton thread around an object until it is completely covered and ultimately transformed.” In pieces such as All The Same (2011), Tianmiao wraps bones from the human body in different colored threads, creating a rainbow of bones. In other works, she covers human forms and other objects with pieces of silk. To me, these works showed an exploration of the relationship between the human body and its textile covering. The drive to clothe the body is shared by almost all societies on the planet. It is one of the things that unites us as people. I found Tianmiao’s work a reflection of this idea. Despite any cultural differences, at our core we are all made of the same bones, take the same basic shape. Wrapping these basic foundations of humanity in thread and fabric reflects the idea that, like bones and bodies, clothing is also a basic foundation of humanity.

You can learn more about the artist and her work at the exhibition website.