Tag Archives: references

Guilty confession time

I haven’t started sewing yet.

I haven’t ordered a pattern yet.

I haven’t even really settled on a pattern yet.

This is the part in every project where inertia and procrastination settle in.  Over my many years as an academic, I have noticed my work patterns go in a similar route every time something large and difficult is looming:

1. Initial enthusiasm.  Do all the things, make lots of lists, get all my resources lined up.

2. Trouble ahead.  Get distracted, read at a slower pace than expected, put things off.

3. Panic and worry.  Despite having time until the deadline, begin to feel as if nothing will ever be accomplished and I’m a terrible person for trying to do things, and hide from the project.

4. Buckle down and flagellate.  Work like a mad fiend, all the while mentally yelling at myself for not being more efficient in those early weeks.  Usually, at this stage, I manage to pull out something useful, if not brilliant.

5. Finish.  Get everything done by the deadline, turn it in on time, and have some kind of emotional breakdown thereafter usually requiring copious amounts of children’s shows to recover (this is where my obsession with My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic comes from).

This is not a healthy pattern.  I know it’s not.  I suffer from a lot of anxiety and depression, and it makes it hard to work continuously and efficiently, using my time and resources to their maximum benefit.  The more anxious I get about a project, the more depressed I become, and as I avoid it, I tend not to use the resources out there in the word world because I can’t motivate myself to put on pants that don’t belong in a yoga studio.  When you start avoiding libraries because you feel judged, this is perhaps a problem.

I’ve been trying to overcome this pattern.  The system my program at Goddard College uses is a distance model, with packets of work, usually around 30 pages or so, going in every 3 weeks.  Ideally, I should be writing ten pages a week to keep on track.  It never works that way, and somewhere around the middle/end of week 2, I start to panic and feel as if nothing I do will ever be good enough and I am a terrible joke of a person for even trying.

(I said I had a lot of issues.  I meant it.)

Ideally, I should have a pattern in hand by now.  I don’t.  I have an eyeball at a pattern I want to make, and am doing estimates for fabric and boning.  The Laughing Moon Silverado corset pattern looks to be about where I want to be, and corsetmaking.com has a corset kit which has boning, busk, boning casing, and grommets for the project, with the option to buy the pattern and fabric from them as well.  This is probably the way I’m going to go.  I just have to get over my feeling that I have no idea what I’m doing, that this is a waste of time and money, and shouldn’t I just stick to books, which is the really important academic work, anyway?

That’s what a lot of this boils down to.  It’s hard to believe in one’s own work.  It’s hard to really own the odd stuff one does in the academy, because clearly, the serious scholars are out there, translating obscure languages and making dazzling insights into the human condition, probably at Harvard or Oxford or somewhere else important.  And I, a silly little baby scholar, at a small school, who is also a woman and took a non-traditional track to get here, my work won’t count because I am doing something weird about women and playing with fabric.  And I know all of that isn’t true.  I know it’s the academic’s version of the jerkbrain, the part of our brains that tells us all the nasty, hateful things that we believe, despite the fact that if our worst enemy said them to us, we’d punch them in the face.  We are capable of being so much nastier to ourselves than we’d ever tolerate someone being to us.  And combine that with the sort of inferiority complex that grad school breeds like bunnies, and it’s a one-way ticket to neurotic overdrive with a guilt complex to make a Jewish mother proud.

It’s hard to believe in the work.  It’s hard to believe that the clothes middle-class women wore in urban centers in the South matters.  It’s hard to believe that antiquated ideas about gender and mourning and the social world of the Gulf South has any impact outside my own interest.  It’s harder still to believe that any self-respecting PhD program will take me on to do this stuff.  But I have to.  Because this is what I’m doing, and if I don’t believe in it, no-one will (except my partner and my mother, because they have to).

So I’m forgiving myself for not ordering the pattern yet.  I’m even giving myself a break, and telling myself it’s okay to work on the papers for the packet, and to fuss over the Louisiana Studies conference I’m headed to in two weeks.  Because I still believe this all matters.  And if it matters, then not only do I have to buckle down and do it, I have to also take care of my mental health in the process.  If the work matters, then so does the person doing it.  And that means being gentle with myself, and being careful with my expectations.  No-one expects me to be a corset-sewing, paper-writing superstar all the time.  And that’s okay.  I just have to stop expecting superstardom from myself, too.

But I’m still going to order the pattern and kit next week.

On Extant Garments

I spend a lot of time looking at extant garments.  I look at them on museum websites (the Met’s Costume Institute is a great one, as is the Museum at FIT and the Kyoto Costume Institute’s Digital Archives).  I look at them on auction websites (Augusta Auction, anyone?). I look at them on Pinterest (like on my board for this project).  Extant 19th century garments tell us a lot of useful, functional details that fashion plates and paintings cannot.  They tell us about construction, material, and how a garment hangs.  They tell us about social class, about availability of items and fashion trends, about communication between places.  They tell us what people actually wore.

But what extant garments don’t tell us, 95 times out of 100, is what average, middle-class people were wearing (never mind working class).

You’ve all been through this weird permutation of people’s bodies in the past.  You’ve gone to a museum, and looked at dresses with waists small enough to give Scarlett O’Hara’s 17 inches a run for their money.  The docent usually says that “people were smaller back then.”  This is an accepted “fact.”  Why else would all the garments we have be so tiny?

Because they weren’t passed down.  They weren’t remade into something later, once they were out of fashion.  They were put away because no-one else could wear them.  A size 0 skirt is much less likely to become a hand-me-down than a size closer to average, even today.

In his book, In Small Things Remembered, historical archeologist James Deetz cautions us from drawing too much direct meaning from museum groupings, or extant, well-preserved historical items.  He says on page 8 that “for a variety of reasons, surviving artefacts cannot be taken as necessarily representative objects of their period.  If we were to rely on museum collections, we might get an impression of a much richer level of material wealth than truly was the case.  This is because must museums save the unusual and the valuable object, and individuals now and in the past consign commonplace objects to the dump.”

So not only are we looking at smaller items that could be preserved (Deetz throws the “people were smaller then” out the window on the same page), extant garments are of a higher value than others that were not preserved.  Just as today, people of middling or lower classes wore and rewore their garments until they could no longer repair them, or they were so far out of fashion as to be ridiculous (for the middle classes).  Upper class people had the means to make a dress and preserve it.  Some gowns, usually of significance, were save — wedding dresses in particular had a sentimental value that would ensure they were tucked away, if the family could afford it.  But many a middle-class bride wore and re-wore her wedding dress for best long after the wedding.  (It is for this reason, Carol Wallace argues in her book, All Dressed In White: The Irresistible Rise of the American Wedding, that middle-class brides often chose a colour other than white in which to marry — wearing white would immediately scream “new bride” to dinner guests post -1840 and Queen Victoria’s popularisation of the colour for weddings.)

This leaves us with the problem of extant garments.  They remain valuable for construction details, and as a visual for what the wealthier classes were wearing.  In this way, they’re as illustrative as photographs of celebrities in People — we know women were wearing these dresses, wealthy women who were frequently visible as consumers of fashion.  The gowns are likely to be on-trend for when they were made, especially in large, cosmopolitan cities like New York, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and others.  And they do allow us to see what a woman actually wore rather than the idealised image of a fashion plate.  But as an end-all be-all reference, especially when it comes to middle-class lifestyles, they end there.

For my purposes, as I consider a mourning gown worn by a middle-class person, the gowns preserved at the Met and at FIT are an ideal, a piece of aspirational hope.  How a middle-class lady would have wanted a fine silk ballgown made in Paris.  But her dresses would have been simpler, with less elaborate trim, with less expensive materials.  A mourning gown, even moreso — what recent widow wants to seem overly vain?  This at once proves a frustration and a relief.  On the one hand, I must rely on cartes de visite and other images of middle-class women instead of the beautiful period garments I’ve always admired in museums (and who doesn’t want to imagine themselves as a gorgeous, wealthy girl with hundreds of fine dresses to choose from?).  On the other, it lowers the expectations of what I must do with the garment to be appropriate (which probably means no beading, a relief for my eyes and my needle).  And I think it points to the frustration of all people of middling means.  The aspiration for more is always there. The desire for more and more beautiful dresses, finer jewellery, grander things is always there.  But, in a very real sense, the 19th century was very concerned with being appropriate for one’s station, and not overreaching for things.  Being frugal and simple was upheld as a virtue, even if it wasn’t always acheived.  And that’s something important for me to remember as I start to price out materials and supplies.  Frugal housewives were the expectation, idealised in their own way, even if the beautiful belles in their gowns were the much sighed-after image.

Helpful links

Occasionally, as I troll the web, I find useful things to help me in my quest for a period document.  Today I found Historical Sewing.  This site is a treasure trove of information, divided into periods but largely focused on the 19th century.  It’s making me think very hard about my choice of an 1850s gown and where in the 1850s to situate it. And there’s a corset book they sell which might prove to be a godsend. The community seems welcoming as well, which is always a boon for a seamstress bogged down in details other people can’t quite understand as being vital.  (Trim is important, people!)  I think I’ve found a new bookmark for this project.