Context is Critical

Context: it’s everything, right? We so dislike our statements taken out of context. But what about our clothes? They make statements, too, and so do our accessories.

A friend noticed that market baskets were fairly prominent carriers used by reenactors portraying the Boston gentry greeting L’Hermione this past weekend, and asked, “What gives? Is there something I missed?”

There are two images that people often turn to in documenting these baskets:

The Farmer’s Return, by Zoffany

Johan Joseph Zoffany RA, 1733–1810, German, active in Britain (from 1760), David Garrick and Mary Bradshaw in David Garrick’s “The Farmer’s Return”, ca. 1762, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

and

The Harlot’s Progress, Plate 1

The Harlot's Progress, Plate 1. William Hogarth.
The Harlot’s Progress, Plate 1. William Hogarth.

In both of these, the context is working class and food-oriented. As my friend asked, “Are these floppy baskets for floppy birds?”

Two images from 1740 to 1760 aren’t a lot of documentation to go on for 1775-1783, so I checked the Rhode Island newspapers for 1770-1790, searching for “basket.” No mention in ads, but “baskets of grapes” appeared in stories, and a mention of Chinese dogs in cotton-lined baskets (apparently the “basket dog” is the 18th century equivalent of today’s purse dog).

As satisfying as basket-dogs might be, they’re not helpful in this instance.

The Yale Center for British Art helpfully adds keywords or tags to their catalog records, which allows one to look for “basket.” Aside from The Farmer’s Return, this ovoid, market-basket form isn’t really seen. What is seen?

For one thing, not many upper-class women carrying baskets, or any kind of burden or bundle. A woman carrying a kind of ovoid basket over her arm is shopping for food, not perambulating.

The upper class girl with her father has an open basket full of flowers (hint: probably symbolic) which appears to be made of what we lump into “wicker,” in an open design. (BTW, that’s not a pinner apron; zoom in and you will see shoulder straps. Fight at your leisure.)

Arthur Devis, 1712–1787, British, An Unknown Man with His Daughter, between 1746 and 1748, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

In the most class-appropriate image, The Virtuous Comforted by Sympathy, the workbasket at the woman’s feet is a tidy, round form with a lid, more similar to Nantucket baskets* than to market baskets. It really doesn’t look like the kind of thing you’d leave home with. It’s a sewing basket.

Edward Penny RA, 1714–1791, British, The Virtuous Comforted by Sympathy, 1774, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection
Edward Penny RA, 1714–1791, British, The Virtuous Comforted by Sympathy, 1774, Oil on canvas, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

On balance, I think it appears that public basket carrying is more suited to carrying foodstuffs than personal items, and that the most common use of baskets in this period is to collect and carry food, whether from a greengrocer, fish stall, or gathering apples— at least if you are trying to be quite precise in the use of documented accessories. If you’re using a market basket to carry food, you do so knowing that it’s only (thus far) documented to England, and that the handles must be woven and not leather riveted to the side.

The material from which the baskets are made is another question altogether, along with the proper woven form. As I noted to my friend, I don’t care that much. And why?

Balthazar Nebot, active 1730–1762, Spanish, active in Britain (from 1729), Fishmonger's stall, 1737, Oil on copper, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection
Balthazar Nebot, active 1730–1762, Spanish, active in Britain (from 1729), Fishmonger’s stall, 1737, Oil on copper, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection

Pockets, of course. My enormous pockets contain multitudes, sometimes even camera and water bottle along with wallet and phone, even if that much stuff distorts the line of my skirts somewhat. I can also fit my knitting in a pocket, and a slim, if dangerous novel (perhaps Moll Flanders). For carrying more than that, a wallet is probably best, or a cloth bag, or a portmanteau. But for a day in town, even if you’re a lady, you can carry quite as much in your pockets as I can as Bridget, though of course of a better quality.

* I am not advocating carrying Nantucket baskets, to be quite clear.

Itching for Style

Dress Date: 1830s Culture: American Medium: wool Dimensions: Length at CB: 53 1/2 in. (135.9 cm) Credit Line: Gift of John Eastman and Gerard L. Eastman, 1976 Accession Number: 1976.209.2
Dress, 1830s. American, wool.
Gift of John Eastman and Gerard L. Eastman, 1976.209.2 Metropolitan Museum of Art

Wool. It’s a thing. This dress from the Met has many of the markers of everyday fashion– a vernacular form, if you will, of what Deliverance Mapes Waldo is wearing in this portrait

Deliverance Mapes Waldo and Her Son about 1830 Samuel Lovett Waldo (American, 1783–1861 American) DIMENSIONS 77.15 x 64.45 cm (30 3/8 x 25 3/8 in.) ACCESSION NUMBER 45.891 MFA Boston
Deliverance Mapes Waldo and Her Son, about 1830
Samuel Lovett Waldo. 45.891 MFA Boston

Of course, dating these things is never a science when they don’t come with a clearly labeled tag you can affirm with research. The extant garment first. The sleeves say 1820s, the waistline says 1830s. Could it be 1840s? Perhaps. Without provenance, it’s really hard to know.

Mrs Waldo’s sleeves are clearly 1830s sleeves: full on gigot, sloped shoulder. It’s the contrast between her sleeves and the Met’s dress that makes me question their date (along with the fashion plates we saw yesterday).

Here’s a wool gown from England, land of the fabulous wools.

Dress, England, Great Britain.  1836-1838. Printed wool, trimmed with printed wool, lined with cotton, hand-sewn Given by Mrs H. M. Shepherd, T.11-1935. Victoria & Albert Museum.
Dress, England, Great Britain. 1836-1838.
Printed wool, trimmed with printed wool, lined with cotton, hand-sewn
Given by Mrs H. M. Shepherd, T.11-1935. Victoria & Albert Museum.

Here the sleeves are starting to be narrowed at the shoulder, taming the gigot. That places this 1836 or later, which is helpful. The bodice style is still not the pleated or smocked front of the 1840s, so that’s another marker for mid-to-late 1830s.

What will I do? I don’t know. I’ve ordered two patterns (and one for a new chemise, sigh). The Past Patterns Lowell Mill Girl dress appears to make up quite nicely, but I also ordered the Wisconsin Historical Society pattern for comparison. (Hey, when you can’t examine originals, you have to use the patterns.) Fabric is always a question, but if I’m feeling plain wool, there’s always Burnley & Trowbridge’s “Virginia Cloth.” I’ve worked with it before, so I know how it handles, and while the color looks itchy, it’s actually pretty soft.

Gigot or Gigantic?

Carriage and Morning Dress, 1832. LAPL Fashion Plate Collection
Carriage and Morning Dress, 1832. LAPL Fashion Plate Collection

So, about that 1833 thing…

No, it’s not that I’m reconsidering. It is merely that as I consider the options, the fashion plates are a bit overwhelming. On the other hand, I am getting really good at recognizing the look of the 1830s in undated portraits. There’s an upside to everything.

Extant garments are fairly plentiful in the Usual Suspects’ Collections; there’s even a Tumblr. There’s a Tumblr for everything.

Woman's Green, Tan, Yellow and Blue Striped/Plaid Gown. OSV, 26.33.63
Woman’s Green, Tan, Yellow and Blue Striped/Plaid Gown. OSV, 26.33.63

Fortunately, there are some tamer garments out there, with sleeves less likely to result in flight in a high wind. Bonus: not floral, and not silk. Printed wool seems to have been fairly common, but the weight is just impossible to find. I did some looking in New York, but nothing convinced me with print or price.

This is a milita muster, so there will be time outside. I’m toying with a habit or Amazone (hard to resist a garment with that name) though the most I know about horses is that they have four legs. It’s tailoring that attracts me, not use. Also, wool. Mid-September might warrant wool, even if that’s hard to imagine today. (The downside, of course, is that there’s menswear to be made, too, so a simple dress is surely the best option.)

Smell Ya Later

Wool on hooks, cat on prowl
Wool on hooks, cat on prowl

One of the most common questions you get when you’re wearing historical clothing is the undying, “Aren’t you hot in those clothes?”

A heavily perspiring visitor wearing practically nothing usually asks this question, and the standard reply is a variation of “Aren’t you hot? In really warm weather, everyone is hot. But natural fibre clothing wicks the moisture from the skin and helps to keep you cool.” My internal response (vocalized only once) is, “Why yes, I am—and thank you for noticing. I work hard for this look.”

The “aren’t you hot” question is often followed by, “Wow, and they didn’t bathe, so everyone really smelled.” You try not to think of that Monty Python sketch about Britain’s deadliest joke program in WWII and move the conversation on to weekly laundering of body linen, multiple shifts, shirts, and under-drawers, and the general hygienic practices of the past.

What struck me after a sticky weekend is how much I noticed the smell of modern people.

two tailors and a tailoress
two tailors and a tailoress

My traveling companions and I bathed on Friday morning, drove for 7+ hours in muggy weather, slept in our clothes, wore wool, cotton and linen in rain and thick humidity, sweated in the tailor’s shop, slept in our clothes again, and spent another warm, close, day in muggy weather, including grave digging and pall bearing. But as feral as my shift may have been on Sunday night, I never smelled us.

Mr H reported that his wool trousers were really stinky in the rain, and I think his white Spencer was well-seasoned even before this weekend, but I didn’t notice anything. Mr S’s soaking greatcoat was whiffy only at extremely close range.

What I did smell were modern perfumes, deodorants, and hair products. Those linger around their wearers and trail behind them, sometimes eye-watering in their intensity. I encountered lingering perfume in a bathroom at the museum, and we were overwhelmed by cologne at diner Monday morning: wow, people must really smell now, of petrochemicals.

more wool
more wool

This is not to say that homeless people and sulky teenagers don’t smell of unwashed bodies and clothes, but people in the past may not have smelled quite as badly as we think. They washed, if not bathed (bathing being full immersion washing) and by changing body linen and airing their clothes, they kept reasonably clean.

There was plenty to whiff in the past: wastes of all kinds, stagnant bodies of water used as dumps, rotting foods and corpses. But I’m not convinced that we haven’t simply exchanged one set of smells for another of different origin and intensity.