The Fashion Historian

The gown immediately caught the eye of the Empress, and Worth’s career as the great couturier of the nineteenth century began.

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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.

The cloister from St-Michel-de-Cuxa. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters Collection.

The above image is of the cloister of Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa, in the collection of The Cloisters at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. You may be wondering, why am I posting a picture of stone carvings on a fashion history blog? Well believe it or not, these beautiful stone columns contain valuable information on theories of the medieval body!

Saint-Michel-de-Cuxa was a Benedictine abbey founded in the early ninth century in southwestern France, in the foothills of the Pyrenees. The cloister on display at The Cloisters was constructed between 1130 and 1146, under the direction of the Abbot Gregory. Originally the cloister consisted of sixty-three capitals topping columns arranged in a trapezoidal shape at the south end of the church. The structure at The Cloisters is about half the dimensions of the original, but still conjures the atmosphere and spirit of the original structure. Although the capitols may not be arranged in their original order, the original cloister having been dismantled in the nineteenth century, the carved vignettes were not supposed to be viewed in a specific order or tell a specific story. Instead, they provide individual ideas with which the monk could form a larger narrative.


Cloister capital from St-Michel-de-Cuxa. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters Collection.

There are three different variations of the grotesque present in the capitals of the Cuxa cloister. Some capitals feature naked dancing men, others feature human-animal hybrids such as sirens— half woman, half fish—, and a third type feature strange beasts such as humans and monkeys aping each other or roaring lions devouring men. These strange images provoke ideas of sin. The obscene and ignoble gestures of the dancing men deform the body, therefore deforming the image of God. The sirens represent the dangers of women and lust. The humans imitating the monkeys shows “the degeneration of man into beast” and the roaring lions represent the terrors of the mouth of hell.


Cloister capital from St-Michel-de-Cuxa. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters Collection.

To interpret such images and their place in a cloister, it is necessary to understand the medieval idea of the human body as a microcosm, originally created in Gods image and perfect. The faithful had perfect bodies, and used orderly and elegant gestures which reflected the harmony of their souls. In contrast, those that succumbed to base desires and sin became physically grotesque in their gesture and form, aligning themselves with animals who possess no immortal soul. The physical body was thus seen as a reflection of the inner soul. William of St-Thierry, a Benedictine abbot from the twelfth century, wrote in book two of The Nature of the Body and Soul that man is formed “in the image of him who created [the soul].” The good stand tall “reaching toward heaven and looking up [and this] signifies the imperial and regal dignity of the soul”, while those who “slavishly serve the lusts arising from the senses… have put off the image of the Creator and have put on another image, one that looks at the ground like an animal, one that is beastly.” The grotesques on the Cuxa capitals, representing all sorts of physical and therefore spiritual deformity, would serve as reminders to the monks of the dangers of sin, and subsequently help to shape their behavior.


Cloister capital from St-Michel-de-Cuxa. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, The Cloisters Collection.

Furthermore, the Cuxa capitals and these medieval theories of the body coincide with an interesting moment in textile history! A new sect of Benedictine monks had emerged in 1098, the Cistercians, who believed the Benedictines were too excessive in their way of life, and who had subsequently strayed from the word of God and true religious devotion. The Cistercians sought instead to return to a strict asceticism. One of the ways of doing this was wearing plain white, undyed garments, rather than the traditional black worn by Benedictines. This shift in fashion was mocked by the Benedictine monks. Peter the Venerable described: “I have seen I know not how many black [monks], laughing at a white [monk] whom they meet, as if he were a monster, and showing by their voices and movements that they are amazed….” In the context of medieval religious thought, the grotesque gestures of the laughing monks reflected a grotesqueness of the soul that could easily be connected with the figures on the Cuxa capitals. The capitals therefore would remind a monk, perhaps walking through the arcade and mocking the fashion Cistercians, of the sinfulness of his behavior. The capitals were reminders not only of the greatest sins to be avoided, but of the small ones as well. Even something as simple as a hostile opinion to textiles could deform the soul. Think about that next time you mock some one's outfit!

I couldn't decide if I wanted to compare to an extant garment or an illustration, so you get both!


Left: Karl Lagerfeld for House of Chanel, Spring 2012 Couture
Right: Evening dress, 1925, from The Metropolitan Museum of Art


Left: Karl Lagerfeld for House of Chanel, Spring 2012 Couture
Right: George Barbier illustration, early 1920s

Agricultural scene from the tomb of Nakht, 18th Dynasty Thebes

Linen was the most important fabric in Ancient Egypt. Egyptian linen was EXTREMELY fine material, not like the cheap linen we think of today. It was important to maintain an absolutely perfect white garment, as immaculate linen meant that you were wealthy enough to sit around all day rather than working. A basic Egyptian textile was called a sheet or an ifd, and was fringed on all four sides for a decorative touch. Garments were shaped by elaborate pleating.


Facsimile of a scene from the Tomb of Sennedjem by Charles K. Wilkinson from c. 1922. Tomb dating from 1200 BC. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

While the actual garments of the Ancient Egyptians are relatively simple, they added some color and extravagance with jewelry. They wore headdresses, elaborate collars, bracelets, and other decorative accessories. These were made of gold and decorated with precious stones such as lapis. Accessories also carried various important motifs, like the eye of thoth (that famous Egyptian eye we know so well), the scarab, and the falcon.


Scene from the Tomb of Sennedjem, 1200 BC, showing a man and a woman with fragrance cones.

The Egyptians also wore elaborate wigs and hairpieces. Yup, wigs. It gets really hot in the desert, so it's much more comfortable to be able to take off your hair when you need to. Hair was set in elaborate styles with an ancient version of hair gel, according to recent archaeological evidence. Apart from the hair on the head, a hairless body was desired, so body hair was plucked and shaved. Taking care of the body was extremely important, and the Egyptians bathed frequently and applied oils for beautiful skin. They also wore fragrance cones, which were scented wax cones placed on top of the head. As the day went on, the wax would melt and perfume the wearer. And of course the Egyptians are quite famous for their make up, particularly thick black lines around the eyes, which protected the eyes from the glare of the sun.

Most of us have heard of a dowry, the collection of properties and other valuable things which a young lady gives to her husband upon their marriage. It's a word bandied about in period movies all the time. But what is less well known is the grooms version, the corbeille de mariage.


From Le Bon Genre, 1820. Bibliotheque nationale de France.

An extremely important tradition in 19th century France, the corbeille de mariage was a gift basket given by the groom to the bride upon the signing of the wedding contract. Inside it was a host of lovely things, the objects that would transform the woman from a young daughter to a mature married lady. The corbeille was worth rougly five to ten percent of the dowry, and as the century progressed became an important piece of furniture, taking the form of a little desk or a trunk.

While corbeilles varied depending on budget, certain items were simply must haves. The March 1847 issue of La Mode describes two corbeilles:

"This week, in the salons of the Maison de commission Lasalle et Compagnie, we have seen two corbeilles de mariage, one of which priced at 12,000 francs and the other at 3000 francs.

The first one... contained a superb long Indian cashmere shawl, black background, a second Indian cashmere shawl, square and multicolored... an admirable handkerchief embroidered with the arms, a prayer book in crimson velvet with ornaments in cut gold..., and a sewing bag with sculpted pieces, an antique fan, a glove box, a rosewood handkerchief box...

The 3000 franc corbeille contained a square Indian shawl in dark green, a French shawl with four sides... a prayer book in dark blue velvet with clasp and monogram in silver, and embroidered handkerchief decorated with valenciennes*, a card holder, a fan, a bottle, a purse, a glove box with a dozen pairs of gloves."

*Valenciennes was a type of lace.

The cashmere shawl was an extremely important luxury item in the early to mid nineteenth century, and no corbeille was complete without one. Fans, gloves, purses, lace for decorating garments, jewels, and handkerchiefs were similarly requirements.

The corbeille had an important symbolic value as well. Young, unmarried women would generally dress in a demure manner. Light colors, little decoration, overall a not very flashy appearance. This was part of her allure, as a woman who dressed in an extravagant manner signaled an expensive lifestyle. Men didn't want a wife who would drain all their money with her spending. But a plain and modestly dressed woman showed good sense and would not bankrupt her future husband with her spending (supposedly). Married women, on the other hand, were reflections of the wealth of their husbands and subsequently were allowed to dress in a more decorative, flashy style. Thus the presentation of the corbeille, filled with the luxurious decorative items of a married woman, signaled the transition to a new status, that of the respectable married woman. It was symbolic of the young lady's entrance into adulthood.

Further Reading:  Accessories to Modernity: Fashion and the Feminine in Nineteenth-Century France by Susan Hiner

Myth: Is it true that only lewd women wore underwear before the 20th century?

It depends on what you consider underwear. If this is what you consider underwear:


Victoria's Secret Models

Then no, women didn't wear underwear like that before the 20th century. But if this is what you consider underwear:


1830s Undergarments from The Metropolitan Museum of Art

Then yes, women have been wearing underwear for thousands of years!

Before industrialization and mass production, clothing was extremely expensive. Not only was fabric time consuming to produce, the making of the garments themselves was a time consuming process. People didn't have a million pieces of clothing like we do today. Colorfast dyes, ie dyes that won't wash away, are a relatively new invention, having only been around for a couple hundred years. So clothing was not washed very often to preserve the color, and also to save the textile from too much wear. Furthermore, clothes had to be protected from the grime of the human body. Something needed to be worn directly against the skin, which would absorb sweat and oils, and could be washed regularly. And, after shaped silhouettes came in style, women needed something to mold their outerwear into the correct, fashionable shape. Thus, underwear was very important. Undergarments were almost always white, and could be washed and changed regularly.

Underwear changed through the ages. Ancient women tied bands of cloth around their breasts for support, a very very early form of the bra. The base garment for all women since the middle ages is the chemise or shift, a plainly cut white garment that fit close to the body. The historic equivalent of an undershirt. At various times, women have also had bloomer-like garments, which fit around each leg and connected around the waist. It's important to note though that these were always crotchless, to make going to the bathroom easier. Once we get further into history, women started adding petticoats and shaping garments and padding in order to achieve the correct silhouette. In fact, the most important part of an historic garment is the underwear, as that is what gives the garment the correct shape.

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Charles Frederick Worth (1825-1895) is widely considered the first couturier. My most popular blog post in history is about him, and can be found here. After Worth's death in 1895, his descendents continued the fashion house, until it was closed in 1952 after the death of his great-grandson. But in 2010, the House of Worth returned to the couture stage. The revival is done through the House of Worth Ltd, a new company created by Dilesh Mehta and Martin McCarthy. The head designer is Giovanni Bedin, a graduate of the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne, who has previously worked with Karl Lagerfeld and Thierry Mugler. "We're taking baby steps because Worth is a huge brand with a big heritage and it's brand new again and we have to tell this beautiful story and make people know again the heritage," said Bedin on his rather daunting task of reviving the great couture legend.


House of Worth, Spring/Summer 2011 Couture

My favorite so far is the Spring/Summer 2011 couture collection, which is particularly interesting from an historians perspective. The collection is called Night and Day, and was inspired by an original 19th century Worth dress, which embodied both night and day. “When I saw this dress – the Night and Day dress – it was like a revelation. It's cut in two – one side for day and the other for night with all of the elements like the sun, the moon, bees, flowers, a bat. It was so modern,” said Bedin.


House of Worth, Spring/Summer 2011 Couture

Another obvious inspiration is the tutu, the famous garment worn by ballet dancers the world over. Says Bedin on the tutus: “The tutus – I like the idea that women in the 19th Century didn’t wear mini skirts but the basque was very important and I like the idea of wearing the volume but reducing the length.” His creations certainly capture the opulence of 19th century Worth designs while bringing in a more modern concept of short skirts for women. But is it really that modern?


House of Worth, Spring/Summer 2011 Couture

Well if you wanted to be technical about it, the tutu did develop during the 19th century which most historians categorize as the modern period. The birth of the tutu is quite mysterious, but its first famous appearance was in 1832 in the ballet Les Sylphide, and was designed by Eugène Lami (however no renderings for the tutu remain). It was worn by celebrated ballerina Marie Taglioni, who starred in the ballet as a sylph- an otherworldy spirit who inhabited the air. Soon the tutu became the standard for ballerinas everywhere, its light and floaty qualities emphasizing the ethereal beauty and lightness of the dancers. As the century progressed, the tutu began to get shorter and stiffer, and by the 20th century became the pancake shaped tutu we know today.


Carlotta Grisi in Giselle by J. Brandard, c. 1841. Collection of Marie Rambert.

The history of the tutu is fascinating (and hopefully a lengthy article I have written on the subject will soon be published!) because of the dichotomy of its symbolism. On the one hand it transformed ballerinas into graceful, beautiful creatures, floating about the stage as fairies and princesses, the delicate fabrics and sparkly decorations of the tutu adding to the magic. But on the other hand, the tutu revealed the legs of women in a period when showing legs was a social taboo. It subsequently became an extremely controversial garment. Furthermore, the fairies and princesses of the stage were mostly low class girls in reality. While the famous prima ballerinas enjoyed a celebrity lifestyle, the majority of dancers were simply ballet girls, poor and transformed into sexual objects. The soliciting of sexual relationships with ballet girls was practically institutionalized. At the Paris Opera, rich and influential gentlemen known as abonnés could gain access to the backstage rehearsal hall, where they could flirt with the dancers. While not all ballet girls prostituted themselves, many did and the reputation of the ballet girl as a sexual object was widespread.


In The Wings No. 3, by Jean-Louis Forain, shows a rotund abonné flirting with a dancer. In the collection of the Boston Public Library.

So what does all this have to do with the beautiful couture creations of Bedin? The tutu was always beautiful, but it was also once a symbol of sexuality and immorality, only donned by the lowest class of women. It is true that ballerinas today have risen far above this heritage, but I think it's interesting to look at these couture tutus in the context of their inspiration- the 19th century. What was once a marker of a lower status has now become a marker of the highest status- the woman able to afford couture. The thought of the House of Worth designing tutus to be purchased by the wealthy and (hopefully) put on display in museums someday would have been absurd in the 19th century. Now it is perfectly normal. And furthermore, in featuring tutus as couture Bedin has taken them off the stage and put them into the "real world", they no longer belong in the realm of costumes but in fashion itself (not that costumes are not a part of fashion, but I think you know what I mean). This is a garment that has made quite a journey!!

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

The ruff is the fashion item most associated with the Renaissance. It evolved from the collars of the shirts worn by men underneath their doublets. The collars would have a small decorative ruffle around the top, which would add a bit of visual interest. Gradually this ruffle grew larger, becoming its own independent garment.


The Darnley Portrait of Queen Elizabeth I of England, c. 1575

What made the ruff possible was starch. In the early sixteenth century, starch was imported from the Low Countries. But the ruff really began to blossom in the 1560s when starch production came to England. In 1564, Mistress Dinghen van der Plasse moved from Flanders to London, opening up her own starch making business. The business flourished, and soon there were manufacturers all over London. Starch was derived from cereal grains such as wheat or corn, which caused some contention. William Cecil, chief minister to Elizabeth I once said, "Is it not a very lamentable thing that we should bestow that upon starch to the setting forth of vanity and pride which would staunch the hunger of many that starve in the streets for want of bread?"


Sir Francis Walsingham by John De Critz the Elder.

Ruffs were made from starched linen cambric, edged with lace, although as the century wore on, ruffs could be made entirely of lace. Lace was a new textile, having developed in the early sixteenth century. It was immensely time consuming to make, therefore it was EXTREMELY expensive. And while we think of linen as a basic fabric today, the quality of linen in the sixteenth century was highly superior to the quality of linen today. One surviving ruff has linen with a thread count of fifty threads to one centimeter. The fabric was put into a figure 8 pattern, called goffering, and sewn with gossamer threads. The larger ruffs, called cartwheel ruffs, had a basic wire support system called a supportasse or underproper.


Detail of a procession portrait of Queen Elizabeth I of England, c. 1600.

Ruffs were highly luxurious garments. They could take hours to set, and could only be worn once as body heat and the weather would cause it to droop and loose shape. Their placement on the neck affected posture, forcing the wearer to keep their chin up and assume a proud and haughty pose. They were a potent symbol of status and wealth, as anyone who could afford to wear and maintain a ruff was clearly not doing any manual labor.


The Infanta Isabella Clara Eugenia, Archduchess of Austria by Frans Pourbus, c. 1599

The ruff continued to be worn in the early 17th century, but was beginning to peter out. By the time King Charles I came to the English throne in 1625, the ruff had disappeared and been replaced by a loose lace collar which draped over the shoulders, called a falling band collar.