It’s the time of year when people post what they accomplished in the past year. I’m late to the party, but I found it helpful to look at what I did manage as I think about what I’d like to do in the coming year. Underlying all these goals is the near-constant existential crisis of daily life in this world, which produces drag on anyone paying a bit of attention. Oh, and health issues like appendicitis twice and an ear infection to see the years out and in with a flourish. As I look back, I’ll break the year down chronologically into multiple posts.
January was packed with disparate projects, each with their problems. There was a big work project that consumed a lot of the month, so Bryan decided that this was the time to plan and schedule a wedding. That meant making a dress at the same time I was working on a quilted hood and padded silk pelisse to represent Emma Smith at the Joseph Smith house in Ohio. Making a dress in this context meant deciding on a time period and a pattern, along with the undergarments, accessories, and shoes. I settled on the 1920s to work with a suit Bryan could comfortably wear– weather was also a consideration, as we anticipated being outdoors– and looked for inspiration and patterns.
In the end, I made a hat, a corset, a slip, and three dresses. The three dresses were all the same pattern: the first to test the shape in silk, the second to be married in, and the third to wear on our “honeymoon” trip to Atlanta. That dress was made up in a vintage-style cotton print from Mood.
The pattern I used was based on an original 1923 McCall’s pattern in my collection. I traced the entire pattern and then scanned by sections to assemble a full, cuttable version that I could grade. The sleeve pieces were not intact, so I had to recreate the sleeve I wanted. Is this madness? Yes. Is it also my SOP? Again, yes. Obviously, I made up a muslin, but I also made a mockup in some gingham taffeta that I wasn’t particularly in love with, and had forgotten why I’d bought it. I took this step because I knew silk and cotton behave differently, and I really wanted to head off a draping failure.
In the end, It’s a very simple dress: a two-piece bodice slips over the head, with the main interest in the color and trim. The dress trim is vintage velvet ribbon in a simple geometric pattern that didn’t take too much repinning. The accessories are a vintage wool purse I already had and a coat I picked up in a Facebook sewing group. The hat was originally a rose-colored straw sun hat my mother sent me. I covered it in black velvet and finished it with vintage trims.
We got married down on the Potomac River at Jones Point Park, with just one friend with us. To celebrate with other friends, we took the cake to them, which made scheduling a lot easier.
And, in best vintage fashion, the “traveling” dress in the same pattern, worn at the Atlanta Botanical Garden, one of the places we visited on our honeymoon.
Technically, the polonaise. I was supposed to be part of a Burnley & Trowbridge master class way back in … March 2020. Not that year, Satan. Fortunately, it did happen, in August 2022!. I was so glad to be part of the pilot master class for this gown, and back sewing in a class, even as I was intimidated by the form. (I am a maker continually in want of confidence, except for the times when I overextend myself.)
After an introductory lecture, we had a trip to view extant garments at Colonial Williamsburg, which is truly a delight. (I can’t collect 18th-century pieces; only a few early 19th-century things occasionally dip into my price range.)
There’s nothing quite like looking at an original. You can see sloppy stitches and fine sewing, mistakes and alterations, stains, mends, and bright original colors in hidden seam allowances. Every garment tells a story, even without provenance, and sometimes those stumbling stitches give me the confidence to just keep sewing.
Background and References
To understand the history and style of the polonaise, Kendra van Cleave and Brooke Wellborn’s article, “Very Much the Taste and Various are the Makes” (Dress, 39:1, 1-24) is the place to start. Kendra published an accessible summary here, if you can’t access the article. The main thing to know is that the gowns are made much like men’s coats (two back pieces, with pleats; bodice fronts that fall away from the body like a man’s coat, and that meet the back with side seams and pleats) and while the skirts are looped up, looped up skirts do not make a polonaise!
The other thing to know is that these appear earlier than we sometimes think. In the 1771 Louis Carrogis watercolor, both Mmes les Comtesses de Fitz-James et du Nolestin wear polonaise gowns (right). In the English world, the May 1775 Lady’s Magazine describes “nightgowns in the French jacket fashion, flying back, and tying behind with large bunches of ribbons.” (Ladies Dress for May,” 235. (1775). Despise these early references, we know the polonaise is not taking New England by storm, but it does appear in Philadelphia by 1778. This put the form within my interpretive range, so I felt more comfortable tackling the gown: I knew I would have a place to wear it. (What I will do with the redingote underway or the polonaise à coqueluchon I crave remains to be seen; at least the polonaise hoodie is a plausible stretch for Philadelphia.)
To the Making
You get where you need to go however you can
Starting with basic shapes from the last B&T pre-pandemic workshop, updated to reflect the rollercoaster of pandemic weight and tweaked yet again, I cut the backs and stitched the center back seam. The front bodice shape is cut wider, and in one piece with the skirts, as it will be pleated to fit the body. The fullness of the skirts ends up pleated at the side and back seams much the way a man’s coat skirts are pleated, only more generously. So the body of the gown is cut from four main pieces (two fronts, two backs) along with the sleeves and sleeve straps. That’s it. In some ways, this is a simpler form than the English gown, though the fitting feels trickier because it’s not happening in vertical back pleats that many of us default to. It is a gown best made to you by someone else (hence the workshop) or by you on a well-fitted mannequin.
I chose a dark grey silk taffeta from Silk Baron, purchased in November 2019 just after I registered for the class. By the time I was actually packing for class, I’d started a new job, moved to a new city, and helped Drunk Tailor move to a new place. I had no idea where I’d put 8 yards of silk— purchased before prices really jumped. Reader: when we moved BK, I’d stashed it under my bed, handy for the class. I did not rediscover this cleverness until all other locations had been searched and a mild panic had set in.
Beginning
The inspiration was a watercolor drawing by Louis Carrogis of a woman in a black or dark grey gown. Back in 2019, I think I was thinking of a polonaise for a widow, but I don’t recall. In any case, there it was: dark grey silk. Off we went.
The back was simple enough, with a straightforward center seam and inverted box pleats; with that and the lining/front bodice pieces as a foundation, the fronts were pleated to fit. Basting was key to keeping this all in place, and yes, I discovered just how asymmetrical I am.
Stitching the side pleats was straightforward, and satisfying as the gown began to take the polonaise shape. Once the side bodice seams are set, the skirt seams can be stitched (you would’ve basted them already). Then you can start working on the buttons and cords that control the pouf of the skirts.
Much of the shape is determined by the rump, which is essential for this fashionable profile. I used the Scroop Frances Rump largely because it is free and that was much faster than fiddling about patterning this myself. It’s stuffed with horsehair for upholstery, which adds more warmth than you’d expect as you work on this in August in the steamy mid-Atlantic. I also used my red silk quilt petticoat for shape, continuing the warmth theme, and the cat added her fur, just to make sure all the hair and warmth bases were covered.
The sleeves were made from the shape I’d gotten in that last pre-pandemic workshop, so they were pretty easy. Setting them was another matter; fortunately, I had help. The construction from here on is standard 18th-century gown making, with a should strap piece and a binding piece for the back. Cutting the skirts seemed beyond me, so I diverted into a fancy apron.
A Diversion
Sprigged muslin or lawn was a common apron fabric for the decorative aprons worn by the better sorts and seemed appropriate to my milliner. She needed to be fancy but practical since I was imagining this ensemble as comfortable but fashionable workwear. Is there a 21st-century analog? The 20th-century analog for polonaises might be the velour Juicy Couture tracksuits a certain kind of upper-middle-class woman wore to go shopping with friends on a Saturday: expensive, trendy, and comfortable.
I imagined Ann Pearson Sparks projecting her currency in fashion trends by wearing this style while wearing an apron as she trimmed bonnets. That’s a fantasy as far as it goes since I have no immediate evidence of Ann’s clothing, only educated guesses based on readings in costume history and Philadelphia in the 1770s. The apron fabric is a reproduction from Burnley & Trowbridge, trimmed with a plain cotton lawn, also from B&T.
That brought me to October, a full six weeks after I started this project.
Cutting the fronts
I knew I’d initially cut the fronts too long, longer than a fashionable proportion, and I knew, too, that I had to get trimmin’ because this gown had to be wearable in four weeks. (Admittedly, I took another workshop along the way because a spot opened up and I grabbed it.) I started by pinning the fronts to gauge the length I wanted, and then there was nothing to do but trim. The change (improvement) was immediately apparent.
Trim it!
Trimming the fronts also gave me the fabric I needed to trim the gown. I’d decided on self-trim because as much as I love how gauze looks, the hemming seemed insurmountable. My first impulse was to pink the edges and gather the trim. This failed because I could not get sharp pinking irons in the shape I wanted, and my assistant’s tests with pinking shears didn’t look right, somehow. Pinking was abandoned as too much work for the results, so I bought some plain weave silk ribbon, and set about binding the edges.
I needed two widths of ribbon because the trim was scaled, from two inches at the neck and upper bodice opening to four (?) inches at the gown hem, with a full eight inches of ruffle on the petticoat. After starting the trim on October 8, I finished it on November 2. Three and a half weeks, while working full-time and undergoing an outpatient procedure at the end of October. (Yes, I had surgery the Monday before a two-day event, worked full-time, and went to a workshop while addressing debilitating anemia. I am not the most sensible human around.)
To manage the trim– there were yards and yards of it– I rolled it around empty toilet paper and paper towel tubes. Judge not, this made the wrangling easier. The ribbon was stitched on with silk thread using a running stitch, and the same stitch was used to attach it to the gown.
In the end, it’s probably not as complicated as I thought it was (though I am hesitating before I lay out and cut another one). It is certainly a fun and comfortable gown to wear, and I absolutely love it. It’s delightful to see the skirts behaving the way they’re portrayed in period art, puffing up and filling a chair, thanks both to the rump and the fullness of the skirts.
I accessorized the gown with a silk handkerchief, a cotton gauze cap, and silk mitts as well as the sprigged apron. The handkerchief is pinned closed with a fouled anchor stick pin, which, together with the cap trimming, emulate a Charles Willson Peale portrait at the Met. The hair is as high a roll as I can manage, over a homemade cushion, with hair extensions for fullness and buckles (side curls). High rolls and powdered hair were the very thing in 1777 Philadelphia, so I knew I had to manage it somehow. The Cadwaladers once purchased 12 pounds of hair powder from Ann Pearson’s sister Mary Symonds, so obviously, hair powder was required. While 12 pounds initially seemed excessive, by the time I’d done my hair twice, 12 pounds seemed like it could go pretty fast.
Yesterday was #difference day in Pinsent Tailoring’s #modernlessmarch challenge, and while I’m not participating, finishing up a cap order yesterday got me thinking about what makes a difference in what I make.
I fished out the very first cap ever made, and here’s what’s made a difference:
1. Practice. Make more things. Make practice pieces. The more you sew, the better you get. That is the only way to get better.
As with writing, “butt in chair” is what will make a difference, and there is no short cut. But the more you sew, the better you get.
and here is linen
Cap the Recent
2. Materials. Buy the best materials you can afford. This first cap was made of linen from JoAnn’s, while the most recent cap is made of linen cambric from Burley & Trowbridge.
Here’s silk
Selecting the right material for the task is critical, and higher quality materials will give you a better result. Silk and linen will give you very different results (yes, silk caps are a thing. They show up in inventories and ledgers in the Carolinas). Even poor and working-class women’s caps were made of finer materials than we can typically get today, so for caps, you are looking for a fabric that combines fineness of weave and thread with crispness.
Cap the First was made nine years ago, while Cap the Recent was finished this week. The first real cap breakthrough I had was in 2016, with the Cap of Floof, made with a finer material that allowed me to make smaller seams and successful whip gathers for what felt like the first time.
Floof!
and more Floof!
Lance needles: the best I’ve used.
3. Tools. The smaller the needle, the smaller the stitch. You want to use the smallest needle you can (different sizes are appropriate for different fabrics; thicker fabrics need longer needles). It can take time to get used to using a smaller needle, but the practice (see point 1) will pay off. Appropriate thread (finer for finer fabrics), a thimble, and sharp thread snips will make your work easier. A good iron is another necessity, and while you can substitute a rolled towel for some pressing forms, tailor’s hams and sleeve boards also make life easier and sewing smoother.
All of these things take resources, whether time or money, but the rewards are worth the investment.
I had a bonnet I made in 2014 (I think) that had been languishing in a box for years. I liked it– the soft tip was unusual, and the vintage ribbon and pink paper roses from the V&A went well with the dull grey– but I didn’t wear it. Sunday morning, I woke up resolved to remake the bonnet into something I will wear.
An upcoming weekend event in Dutchess County has me trawling through the fashion plates again, along with research helpfully sent along by the event organizers. A particular plate has stuck with me for some time, and finally I had the skill set necessary to tackle the thing. It takes making and looking and failing and remaking to figure out these things.
Step one was to take apart the bonnet-as-was. Satisfying work, really, not as unnerving as I feared it might be. And then? Paper patterns to figure out the sizes of the ridge and crest pieces.
I’d already committed myself to the silver-grey taffeta– slightly slubby, so second-chop, I’d already made muff cover, and had just enough left for a bonnet. The silver-grey seemed well-suited to a helmet-inspired style, and came close to the deep grey of the gros de Naples of the plate.
For mull, I used organic cotton quilt batting. It’s a little thick, but I pull my stitches tight and don’t want the buckram or pasteboard to show too much. The old brim piece served as a pattern for new, though I did have to use a different color for the brim lining.
The ridge was cut from homemade buckram (gum arabic on coarse linen from Burnley and Trowbridge). I used heavy cotton organdy to interline the crest. I know there is a way to get the ruffle more even, but my brain hasn’t produced it yet. Cartridge pleats and starch come to mind, along with goffering irons, as places to start. For now, this represents a Hudson River Valley milliner’s interpretation of the latest fashions.
The crown is taken from the 1770s bonnet I made, to take advantage of the way that crown slopes from a brim shaped like this one. If I were to make another one of these, I might switch up the order of assembly, and I might make the ridge piece of interfaced taffeta instead of taffeta-covered wired buckram.
The finished bonnet reused the same ties as the original bonnet, with a similar Petersham or grosgrain ribbon band. With my 2014 pelisse and a new muff, the only new accessory I’d like to make (or can remember wanting to make) is another, slightly larger, reticule to complete the ensemble.
For mull, I used organic cotton quilt batting. It’s a little thick, but I pull my stitches tight and don’t want the buckram or pasteboard to show too much. The old brim piece served as a pattern for new, though I did have to use a different color for the brim lining.
Kirsten Hammerstrom 
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