Sempstress

With the help of my lovely assistant, Janey (currently seen
modeling my absolutely excellent “Henchwoman” shirt (thanks, lynn!)), this article
will fulfill a need that does not exist (because drea already wrote the article
on it, but I was having fun with my parent’s digital camera, and am now trying
to use most of the resulting pictures), which is to say, it’s all about what
goes on under all the stuff you can see.

Picture one is just janey hanging out and being casual before
the shoot. (Note: I am not drinking now, nor was I when I took the pictures.
I’m actually like this without help.) Picture two shows the basics of Elizabethan
underthings: A chemise, corset, and overskirt. This is suitable as your sum
total of underthings for lower classes (more than enough for the lowest of the
low, in fact). Underpinnings get a little more complicated for the nobility.
Picture three has the addition of a farthingale. (Yes, that’s the one I wore
last year, and the year before. And Yes, I am aware that the fabric is not period.
In fact, I can think of few fabrics that would be less period. I suppose it
would be worse if it was, say, nylon instead of cotton, but that wouldn’t holdup
nearly as well. I hate making farthignales. It’s mind numbingly dull. I hate
making tucks in a-line skirts, which is technically what making farthingales
is all about. (Or is it? Alcega says make tucks, and that’s been accepted as
canonical truth, but the wardrobe warrants in QEWU mention bents being held
down under ribbon. That’s exactly what I did in this one, not out of any inherent
sense of authenticity (I didn’t have a copy of QEWU when i made it, and I thought
the tuck thing was how it was done because that’s what I was told by people
who sounded very convinced about the whole thing), but because it’s *just*bloody*easier*.
Never underestimate the power of laziness.)

Anyway, picts 4 and 5 are petticoats. The first is a red to
peacock blue changeable silk with trim in pepto-abysmal pink satin ribbon, edged
with gold cord. (Why is that color called peacock blue, any way? I peacocks
are not predominantly blue.) The second is made from highly synthetic (but extremely
lovely, in a period kinda way) fabric from jo-ann’s…. There was apparently
an extreme trend for sari-wannabe fabrics this spring, which I thought was great
because they were great costume fabrics. Not sure I would ever wear them normally,
though. Since this petticoat fits over a bumroll, I had to make the back longer
than the front (which is par), but since the fabric had two distinct stripes
(one at the top and one at the bottom of the skirt), and I wanted it to look
nice all around, I shortened the front by taking a tuck right above the band,
which is hidden by trim. There’s more trim at the bottom of the band, and a
row of fringe. (Highly period, but not recommended if leaves are a part of your
venue. Will I ever learn?). the bumroll was put on under the petticoats. Someone
described these as ‘pretentious petticoats’. I rather like that. Nothing says
‘too rich for my own good’ like pretentious petticoats… Well, except maybe
for being an open catholic at court, which the character was.

After the underthings, the skirt then bodice of the underdress
are put on (picts 6&7), then the safeguard (that the red skirt lookin’ thang),
then the jerkin. In case you’re wondering, yes, it’s hot in there. I mean, if
it’s hot *outside* the dress, of course it’s hot *inside* the dress……

Finally, pictures of the finished dress from the most recent
diary of a work in progress. The gold
part is the underdress. The cherry part is a safeguard and jerkin. (There was
not a safeguard and jerkin in the original plans. It’s a long story. I did i
make the flanders gown, but due to, erm, technical difficulties, it ended up
in a pile, which basically made it a cat bed for a tabby who does not consider
herself spoiled, thank-you-very-much, and I didn’t feel like cleaning it off.)
The jerkin was rather a spur of the moment thing, because, um, well, it looked
like it would look cool, and there are far too many very dark colors in court.
Both dresses are very plain, comparatively. That was a choice made for a number
of reasons. First off, the character being portrayed (Magdalen Dacre, Viscountess
of Montague) is an older woman and a staunch catholic. I thought the more severe,
spanish style would help emphasize that. Also, there’s the fact that the underdress
is made from silk, and I did not want to detract from the fact that it’s *gorgeous*
fabric. (The silk had a not-entirely anticipated theatrical effect. Between
the dress and the gold (silk with patterning in metallic thread) veil I wore,
I ended up with a halo in direct sun. I think that’s pretty cool.) Lastly, as
always, I failed to finish quite precisely everything I had planned on. Originally,
the underdress was to have a little more fal-der-a between the lines of braid
on the skirt. I decided I actually liked the look with it more plain, so I left
it that way. The jerkin (red vesty looking thing) and the safeguard (red skirt
looking bit) were made as a sort of riding costume. They are made of grosgrain
(faille, unmarked moire, whatever you want to call it) in a cherry color. The
darker red on the bottom of the skirt and around the collar on the jerkin are
rust red leather. (The leather at the bottom of the skirt more than makes up
for the fact that the grosgrain lacks weight and body, and makes the skirt very
easy to clean.) There’s a little bit of color from a trim that is cornflower
blue gimp on either side of a dark gold center. I had meant to put gold (ish)
filigree medallions on the collar and around the bottom of the jerkin and safeguard,
and I still might at some point, assuming that I haven’t used them for something
else by the time I get around to feeling like it. (That’s always a problem,
isn’t it?)

I generally write up articles to tell how things were made and
share tips and tricks and design elements and things. This has a nice side effect
of being very good for my ego. I’m going to try something a little different
this time. I’m going to focus on specifically what makes this dress “work” and
what detracts from the overall effect. I liked the overall effect of the outfit,
and I liked the fact that it’s a very flexible look. I think it demonstrates
some crucial parts of the elizabethan “look” very well. It also fails in others.
There are a couple of crucial things to consider when looking at a garment that
attempts to recreate a specific era: line/silhouette, design, and execution.

As it goes, I think the general lines and silhouette turned
out rather well. The goal is to look like a portrait from the period you’ve
chosen to recreate. There are a number of key checkpoints for the silhouette
on an elizabethan gown (I’m focusing on english, roughly 1570-1580). From the
front, the sides of the bodice should be smooth, with no buckling seen. The
doublet does fairly well in that category, the jerkin does not do as well. One
of the key points of elizabethan clothing is that fitted pieces tend to be absolutely
fitted. Wrinkles along the sides of a bodice indicate a fitting problem. Wrinkles
along the side by the waist tend to indicate that the bodice is cut too long
at the sides, wrinkles that work from the center point of the bodice drop up
to the sides at or slightly above waist level indicate that the point is being
pulled oddly – possibly to far down, as is the case with my jerkin. Wrinkles
from the side that run diagonally upwards indicate a problem with the cutting/shaping
at the bust – it was cut either too height or two low. (This is one of the few
things that’s terribly difficult to pattern on a dummy, btw. Janey is a compressible
foam, so she can be corseted, but corseting a dummy tends to compress the foam
inwards, whereas a human will show a distinct ‘my cup runneth over’ effect.
I made janey a pair of, well, falsies, basically, for the cutting and double
checked the pattern against myself. For the photos, I actually stuffed the top
of the doublet with plastic bags. Recycling at its finest….) Always always
make the patter with the corset you intend to wear for the finished product,
just like you should always wear the intended foundation garments when getting
a prom/wedding/etc dress fitted. Finishing up with wrinkles, the little bit
of bucking you see across the drop at the front of the bodice is caused by the
fact that the bodice and skirts are, essentially, arguing. The bulk of the skirts
pushes the bodice out. The problem here is that I did not add enough shaping
to the bodice at waist level to accommodate extra bulk, and while I’m perfectly
happy to accommodate the fact that janey’s foam does not behave like the squishy
parts of my bosom, I blissfully ignored the dreaded tummy fat (note: effigies
are buskless – anticipate this issue if you are similarly blessed with a rather
Aphrodite-esque soft belly).

Moving right along in the silhouette department…. I think
the skirt swell at the hips from the front, back, and sides is actually rather
perfect. There are two things at play in the draping of the top part of the
skirts: the stiffness/type of pleating and the size/position of the bumroll.
With only the gold dress on, the skirt goes over the bumroll and descends nicely.
The addition of the safeguard makes a more domed shape at the top of the hips.
The gold dress has very stiff cartridge pleats that are sewn in rows to about
2″ from the waistband. Hence, when the fall over the bumroll, they don’t bend
and droop. The safeguard is pleated with a series of stacked knife pleats (box
pleat only at the center back), and those pleats are separate from the second
they leave the waistband. As they fall, the drape and droop, and give a much
softer look. If you ever wanted a good showing of the difference between the
effect of cartridge pleats and the effect of stacked pleats, that’s it in a
nutshell. In either case, wearing a bumroll of the right size at the correct
position on the hips is essential. In this case, I am wearing a roll that is
about 4″ diameter at it’s widest. That’s it. It’s sitting along the top of the
hips at the sides, and the a little lower than that at the back. The bumroll
should not be worn at waist level. I know it’s tempting. It feels more comfortable.
You can’t feel it on you butt all day. It just doesn’t belong there. You end
up with a drink tray behind you. While this might be great at a cocktail party,
I’ve seen no pictorial evidence that makes me believe this is the look you’re
going for. If I were wearing a skirt with less stiff pleating (either fewer
lines of stitch on the cartridge pleats, thinner fabric, or stacked pleats instead
of cartridge) I would probably want a somewhat larger roll. Stiffer pleats do
a lot towards holding themselves out, though. Looking at the overall hang of
the skirt from the side view, the fact that there is a lot more of an angle
at the back of the skirt than the front is correct, i my estimation. (There
aren’t enough portraits that show gowns from the sides, darn it.) What is incorrect
is the fact that the front is at as much of an angle as it is. I’m doing research
in this particular area right now, and I will try to have that posted soon.

The second major area to consider when looking at a gown is
its design. Beyond the obvious choice of period styles, design also includes
choices regarding color, trim, and fabric. The most important thing, i think,
with period recreation pieces is, ‘Does it look like something from the period
in question?’ This is where research, even if that just means ‘I looked at a
lot of pictures and I kinda liked these’, is important. (Please note: if you
follow the ‘I just looked at portraits’ school of research (which, frankly,
I often do), it’s extremely important to try to pick portraits from roughly
the same time and geographic local….) Things that I find particularly important
to look at with a critical eye are necklines, bodice drops (by which I mean
‘that weird thing the bodice does where it extends below the waist line), and
how the clothes relate to the probable anatomy of the wearer. (What? They’re
*on* the probably anatomy of the wearer! Like, duh, missa, that was so not rocket
surgery.) Ok, seriously, hear me out on this one. Elizabethan costuming is all
about illusion. While nutrition and lifestyle have made some distinct changes
in the human form in the last 500 years (largely in the last 150, really), it’s
not like we suddenly all grew extra ribs that make our waists way wider, or
suddenly got way shorter legs or something. The basic proportions of a human
figure that da vinci established way back in, er, like 14something still work
with modern bodies. A person is roughly 7 heads high (if I recall that correctly
– it’s a drawing proportion technique I never actually got around to using –
but I’m inclined to believe its one head for, well, your head, 2 more for torso,
one for waist to hips, and three for legs or something basically a lot like
that as a general guideline. Obviously, anyone who sews is aware that human
figure never actually deign to follow general guidelines and you will always
have to adjust the nape->waist measurement on any commercial patter, but the
idea here is to get a *general* idea of where the human is, and this is a good
way to sight it. There is a magic guideline for shoulder width, as well, but
I have absolutely forgotten it. Mind like a steel sieve, I tell ya… If only
I could retain facts as well as I’ve been retaining water lately.) Anyway, the
really important part, with most female portraits, is that the torso (bottom
of chin to waist, which I realize does technically include some neck, which
is not torso, but this is are analysis, not biology, so we can fudge that),
is naturally roughly twice the height of the head. If you look closely at a
lot of Elizabethan portraits, you will notice that the skirts are slightly above
waist height. (This is extraordinarily apparent from the back, which you almost
never get to see, so that prolly doesn’t help you much.) They eye naturally
picks the appropriate location for the waist. I dunno why. Humans are good like
that. Since the skirts are placed high, the waist you see is about 1-3″ down
on the bodice drop, where the bodice has started to narrow. In a large number
of portraits, this trick (combined with sleeve styles that put the sleeve right
off the edge of the shoulder, rather than mounted squarely on top of the shoulder
as modern sleeves are) creates a “waist” that looks significantly smaller than
it is. (Yes, yes, I know that there’s records of french women tightlacing as
far back as the 1570s, but like, they’re french, ok? I happen to like using
this trick instead of tight lacing because a) it works fabulously, b) I am terminally
addicted to breathing, and c) it works fabulously.) This illusion depends on
the bodice drop being cut correctly. If you look at portraits from the period,
you will find that the bodice drop is *wide* at the top. Making it skinny at
the top will not make your waist look thinner. it will completely ruin the illusion
you are trying to make. Depending on style, exact period, and geographic local,
the bodice may come to a sharp point or a rounded bottom. The style I used is
rounded, which is more typical of spanish styles. The neckline is also very
crucial the the illusion of an impossibly perfect figure. When the elizabethans
wore bodice style necklines (as opposed to doublet style), they wore them very
wide – shoulder tip to shoulder tip, practically. With a doublet neckline, the
shoulder should be smooth to the tip, and the collar should be as close to the
throat as possible. You want to create the widest possible line across the shoulders.
This creates the illusion of wide shoulders. The width of the shoulders is one
of the comparison points the mind uses when figuring out if a woman’s waist
is large or small. (Ever notice how football players always look like they have
nicer butts when they’re in uniform? It’s not just the spandex – it’s the huge
shoulder thingies.) At any rate, there’s an awful modern tendency to put the
straps of the bodice right at the edge of the trapezious (the muscle that makes
that odd angled bit on the shoulders from the lower neck to about mid-shoulder)
so that the straps wills stay nice and secure. This makes your waist look wider.
Well, now, if that don’t just beat all….. Doublets, I think, are primo if
you’re looking to make your waist looks smaller, since the line is absolutely
unbroken across the shoulders. They also make the torso look very long because
they do not break it basically in half like a bodice does. Unfortunately, they’re
warmer, and fred and alastair occasionally need air. (Yes, the two bald men
have names. I figured that if I was going to spend as much time in corsets as
I do, with the resultant attention being paid to my breasts, I should at least
be able to introduce them properly. It’s a long story. I almost went with statler
and waldorf….) The point here is that, when you’re looking to copy a style
from a portrait, the key points you have to get right to get “the look” are
the neckline (check the width of the longest unbroken line across the shoulders),
the bodice drop (width at top, length of drop, style of bottom) and the position
of the top of the skirt and the start of the bodice drop relative to the natural
waist of the wearer. In this, I think the gold dress and even the safeguard/jerkin
do rather well. The longest unbroken line across the shoulder actually follows
the topmost line of trim, which goes from shoulder point to shoulder point (check
the cover of Patterns of Fashion III for a reference). The skirt/bodice drop
are about 1.5″ above my natural waist (which is harder to judge on janey, who
inherently has no head, but trust me on this. Oddly, this is one of the reasons
that everything looks slightly better on a proper dummy – your brain has a harder
time checking the proportions). The bodice drop starts wide (it comes in about
an inch inside the normal line at the top), and drops at an angle to about 2″
above the pelvic floor. Check portraits of Anne of Austria to compare the skirt
height and bodice drop. Also, there is a quote from roughly 1580 that states
that the bodice is worn very low “… almost to the honor…” (If you have to
ask which part your honor is, you are not thinking in the terms of elizabethan
culture. And yes, I know I should dig up both portrait links and the exact quote
there. It’s on the to do list.)

The next issue to consider in design is the choice of colors,
trims, and fabrics. I’ll hit color and fabric first, since they directly impact
each other. Obviously, you want to stay with period colors. This is not always
something you can get from portraits. In many cases, original colors have changed
over the centuries due to pigment oxidation, poor cleaning techniques, yellowing
of varnishes, etc. I strongly recommend a book called “Dynstasties: Portraits
in Elizabethan and Jacobean England” for not only a more in depth analysis of
changes to the apparently colors of clothing in portraits, but also for a series
of stunning portraits accompanied by explanations of the context of the portrait
and the imagery intended to be evoked in the viewer. It’s stunning. There is
a particular example of a portrait with a heavily pearly forepart that appears
pale pink, but when the frame was removed for cleaning it was found to be rose
colored where the pigment had been protected from light (the forepart, that
is, not the frame – I have no idea what color the frame is, and I couldn’t care
less). Grave clothes are also not much of an indication. Let’s face it, most
things change color in the immediate presence of a rotting corpse. I certainly
would, although that’s rather a different phenomenon. You can read period accounts,
which will give you a good idea of what the elizabethans considered a smashing
color combination, however, a) some of the color names aren’t too normal, however
descriptive they might be, and I’m inclined to consider explanations of color
terms suspect because, really, it’s pretty hard to describe a color (I know
two women from court who each wore dresses they described as ‘gooseturd green’
– they were both different colors. They insisted that one was simply a grain
fed goose, while the other referred to a corn fed goose. It’s a point. Anyone
who has been forced to change diapers repeatedly knows the the exact color of
baby shit brown depends an awful lot on what originally went into the other
end of the baby. ‘Obvious’ color terms are maybe not so obvious. Take ‘camel
snot khaki’ – everyone tells me they know exactly what color I mean, but I have
to confess, I’ve never actually seen camel snot myself. It just sounded cool.
The elizabethans are pretty notorious for making up and combining words just
because they sounded really cool or seemed to work pretty well together.) So,
what does that leave us with? Well, we know the dyes and mordents used in the
period, so we could do a study of the dyes available, with the mordents available,
on the fibers available, and then we’d have something approaching a good answer
to the question, “Is this a good color to use?”. That sounds a lot like work
to me. I don’t like work. I do enough of it as it is. I have two thoughts when
it comes to judging color usage in a costume, with a nominal third whim. The
first thought is, “is it a screamingly fake color used in large amounts?” Is
the entire dress, say, neon anything? Is Crayola asking you for suggestions
of new and interesting colors that the world has never seen before? If look
at a dress and answer yes to either of these questions, odds are the color could
be described as ‘a bit off for the intended effect’. My second thought is, “Is
it ‘courtier camouflage’?” In other words, what are the odds that two or more
persons in the area where the dress is primarily worn are wearing the same color?
(The same color of the same fabric is even worse! The fear of showing up in
the exact same dress as another person is a modern byproduct of mass production.
Fabric supplies and dyelots were far less standardized in the elizabethan era,
for a number of reasons, not the least of which includes the fact that this
was significantly before the advent of fabric store chains.) Courtiers competed
for attention like mad, and color was just another way to set yourself apart.
The presence of largely homogenous color/style in some group portraits can confuse
this issue, but it occurs, to the best extend of my knowledge, only in family
groups. It seems to me that what we are seeing is the result of a family simply
buying an entire lot of a given fabric, then making use of it. I chose gold
for my dress because no one else wears the color, and there’s very little use
of cherry/rust combinations as well. Unfortunately, there are other people who
use these colors (separately). The ‘whim’ I referred to has to do with color
symbolism. A lot of people get as far as using black to indicate that yes, they
are a ‘bad guy’. I like to think that colors chosen should convey something,
should influence a first impression of the character. If I had to look at the
dress, the gold would probably say something about wealth, and I am at a loss
to find an obvious meaning in the red. It seems rather bold, I guess…. As
much as I like the colors, I confess that they fail to “speak”.

The other half of color is fabric choice. What? Here’s the deal:
you choice of fabric controls whether the color you have chosen has depth or
shine (velvet and satin are probably the opposite ends of that spectrum; velvet
absorbs light, satin reflects it), what kind of folds the skirt falls into (which
adds apparent texture (many small folds) or apparent smoothness/weight (stiffer
fabrics), and how “rich” the overall look is. You might have noticed that matching
a velvet and a satin (aside from plain white or plain black) is a trick affair
at best. You actually need a darker satin than your velvet. The depth of velvet
makes it look darker (because the pile absorbs light, and color is determined
by light absorption/ reflection) and richer (because light and shadow play more
softly on velvet, which does not have a flat surface). Satin, contrarily, looks
lighter and, well, chintzy a lot of the time. The smoother the satin, the lighter
it looks, and the taller the pile on the velvet, the darker it looks. Surfaces
with patterns give the eye more of a workout. Additionally, some kinds of shine
scream “synthetic” (rayon velvets and acetate satins are good examples) and
some types of weave will just never look as expensive as they are (ever seen
twill silk? Why bother paying so much for something that looks like cotton?)
The fact that a fabric is 100% silk does not mean that it doesn’t *look* like
a medium poly/cotton or cotton/linen blend. If you have to explain to me that
it might look like rayon velvet but it’s actually silk, then the really important
part is that it *looks* like rayon velvet. I don’t care what it’s made out of
(except for the obvious heat issues) – if it looks like a rayon velvet or a
medium weight cotton broadcloth, then it doesn’t look appropriate for a noble
of the elizabethan period. That’s just it. (I will acknowledge that occasionally,
you come across a portrait of an elizabethan noble wearing something that does
not look appropriate for an elizabethan noble. The little boy wearing what janet
arnold describes as ‘possibly ikat died silk’, which, for all the world, looks
vaguely like tie-dye springs to mind. The point here is that if you have to
keep explaining over and over that it’s not what it looks like, then something’s
wrong.) ps- chenille drapery weaves really don’t look like voided velvet. I’ve
seen both. Trust me. And yes, silk velvet does look a lot like rayon velvet.
(Always remember, rayon was originally created as a silk substitute, before
they figured out how to get the silk worm cocoons apart without having to unwind
them….) Why spend a lot of money on something that will just confuse people?
“It’s authentic” doesn’t really cut it as a persuasive reason in my mind. The
fabric choices for the gold gown aren’t perfect. The silk, in spite of being
a really good quality, is slubby (it’s got irregularities in the width of the
threads in the weave), which is far more popular now than it was 500 years ago.
The grosgrain is a very authentic weave of fabric, and I think very authentic
looking, in spite of an absurd lack of natural fibres. Leather hasn’t gone truly
out of fashion since the cavemen…. The stuff I used I feel is actually too
thick, though (it’s cowhide for leather upholstery – if you ever get around
to the Kane County flea market, there’s a guy there who does leather upholstery
and sells his offcuts. He’s usually in the last barn (dairy 1966, I think).
Tell him you heard about him from one of those crazy chicks that buys leather
by the bundle for costumes…. He always remembers me and my friends… Very
nice guy, incredibly good prices. Just don’t buy him out before I get there!)

The remaining design consideration is the trimmings – all applied
elements, including “trim” (be it ribbon, gimp, contrasting fabrics, or what
have you), embroidery, lace, and sparkly bits (jewels, rhinestones, filigree
thingies, etc). Most period portraits show gowns with trimming at edges (closing
edges at the center front of the bodice or skirt, top neckline edges, shoulder
strap edges, edges of epaulettes, skirtings, and tabs, and grading around hem
bottoms), over possible seam locations (side back, sleeve join, etc), down the
center front of a backlaced bodice, center front of a skirt or forepart which
does not open at the center front, diagonally from the outside edge of the neckline
to the point of the bodice drop in bodices, and horizontally across the front
of a doublet, either in pieces of a constant size or on progressively sized
from small pieces at the point of the bodice to longer pieces at the shoulders.
It is important to note that this is not simply a guideline for ribbon placement,
but for almost any applied trim. Lace tends to occur at the outer edges of ruffs
and cuffs. Embroidery may follow normal trim locations, or may be all over the
dress. Sparkly bits tend to occur in the same location as trimmings, or follow
a pattern within the embroidery (especially if you count pearls as a ‘sparkly’
bit). What might properly be termed a jewel by virtue of size seems to be far
more common than the small rhinestones that are so common at ren faires. Small
sparkly bits include small metallic beads, seed beads (yes, that’s what I wrote,
and yes, I mean the little glass hummers, which came from venice), and seed
pearls, coral beads, and turquoise beads (none of which, admittedly, sparkle).
Clear stones, like diamonds, tended to be backed with black. The gold gown and
safeguard do not fall into the common ‘disco courtier’ trap. If anything, there
is not enough trim on them. While it was not impossible to see a courtier wearing
so little by way of embellishment, it became progressively less and less likely
towards the end of the reign. In 1574 (the year in which bristol is technically
set), embellishments seen in portraits are somewhat simpler than what you see
during the 1580s. (Note: I normally wear a fair amount of jewelry with this,
either a veil with metallic gold woven into it or black veil with silver and
gold metallic trims and laces, and decorated gloves. Often, accessories make
a huge difference with an outfit that is otherwise leaning towards under-embellished.)
I will say that I consider the brown ribbon I used as a bottom guard rather
disappointing. It just really doesn’t blend with the rest of the outfit. When
it’s covered in dust it’s not too bad, but it does not work with the rest of
the outfit when you can see the color. It draws attention to itself without
adding anything to the overall effect.

The last major thing I like to consider when looking at a gown
is the overall execution. Execution, to my mind, encompasses everything from
sewing technique to how the gown works with the person wearing it. (That last
might be hard to judge, since no dress looks the same on a human as it does
on a dummy. For one thing, dress dummies have unflinchingly perfect posture.
For another, humans have heads.) Concentrating on what we can concentrate on,
the first things I look at overall fit, trimming, and closures. A bodice or
doublet should fit smoothly, without gaping away from the wearer. There should
not be an obvious bulge where the corset ends (especially right by the arms
in front or back) – that means the corset is not cut right (it probably needs
to be continued an inch higher than it is, or it might need more or an angle
to make more room for the bust). Necklines should fit smoothly at the front,
rather than standing away from the wearer’s body. Also, the finished garment
should not set directly at the waist – it should be fitted as a dress in a portrait
is (see above). The skirt should be ground length. You get maybe 2″ leeway on
that rule. The skirt should not be ankle length. (Hint: it is very very important
to take all your measurements wearing the proper foundation garments and the
*shoes* you intend to wear with the costume. If you work with a dress dummy,
adjust the height to reflect your ground to waist in shoes!) Also, foreparts
should not arch up at the front – they should be cut with a slight downward
curve (ie, longer at the absolute center front) to avoid this. With the obvious
exception of the italien multi-layered skirt look, all you skirts should be
the same length. Trim that is straight, or curves smoothly, is a good sign.
Trim (including lines of fake pearls) that are “wobbly”, or rows of trim that
don’t maintain an even distance from each other, look ‘homemade’ (or, in more
period terms, “domestic” – they look like the work of someone who is not a professional
and maybe isn’t focused). Ideally, the stitches holding the trim down should
also be straight, and in a color that blends with the trim in question. Standard
flat gimp has a “channel” down the center (between the two lines of curly-q
thingies). Your goal is to get all of your stitches right in that channel. (This
can be done. This can be done quickly and without pins. I’m at a loss to explain
it. It’s kind of a zen thing. What I can tell you is that the trim is less squirrelly
when you stitch with the curly-qs than when you go against them, lead the trim
with one hand and the fabric with the other, and line up with the line in your
presser foot, not the needle. Trying to line things up with the needle will
make your eyes cross every time. In a pinch, a judicious amount of fabric glue
works well. (Ahem, and there is still some evidence of wax and seize being used
to seal edges and possibly as tacking on surviving garments, thankyouverymuch.))
Closures are an area where you un into some firm opinions. To my mind, the most
important thing is that the closure edge should be neat, and the close should
be precisely edge to edge. With internal hooks and eyes, or hook and eye tape,
the edge should not roll open to reveal the lining. Looking at the gold dress,
the closure is a complete failure. This would be far less obvious if I had ever
gotten around to the 30 second solution of making a placket (a 2″ rectangle
of fabric the length of the closure done in the outer fabric, which sits behind
the closure just in case the closure gaps. In this case, specifically what is
wrong is that I do not have any stiffening at the closing edges, and the doublet
is not lined with anything stiff enough to get it to hold a straight edge. Oddly,
it’s not an issue of the doublet being too tight, as there as about 3/4″ extra
fabric. But it pulls a little funky, and since the edge is not stiffened, it
pulls the closing end open in gaps.

Now, I have a personal theory that all costumes naturally look
better on a dummy. Dummies hold perfectly still, resist the temptation to ever
throw all their weight onto one hip (a decidedly modern stance that really messes
up skirt falls), don’t breathe, and never complain about the heat. Dresses that
people are moving in are rarely given such an optimum showing. Walking in a
skirt, for example, is the easiest way to make more of the skirt shift towards
the sides and back, which bows in the hoops, which in turn push up the front
of the farthingale. *grumble* This dress was prone to that, especially with
the slight pull-out train. Dresses on a human have to deal with the fact that
humans tend to move their shoulders. This doublet style is significantly less
affected by that than a bodice style would have been. My silk changes color
when faced with pH’s of a biological persuasion. I found that out when a cat,
who was very upset about the ordeal of moving, peed on the skirts. (“oh, my
goodness, do you mean to say my normal litter is clay, not silk? Ooooh, my bad.”)
This also became a problem with sweat. I was a little surprised. I don’t normally
sweat. I almost never sweat on my face (that normally takes a 2+ mile run).
This was the summer of the sweats. The perspiration fairies became my constant
companions. I was *not* amused. Fortunately, the color change is slight, and
silk is rather shifty in the color department anyway. But still…. Strike up
another in favor of dress dummies – they never sweat. They don’t even glisten.

All in all, I think it’s a fairly solid dress. The design and
patterning are solid. The colors are effective and stand out well. It could
do with a little additional trim, possibly. The execution is good except for
the closure, which really must be fixed. But I didn’t think it would be fair
to let that slide all season then fix it right before taking the pictures….
;) It was, as always, a learning experience.

I had the rather great privilege of getting involved in a costume-for-portrait
trade with the fellow who plays Nicolas Hilliard, who happens to be a fantastic
artist in real life. This is great on a number of levels, especially since I
was given leave to go a little nuts with the costume. One of the major factors
in settling on the design was that Hilliard carries around a wooden easel that
he uses when he does portraits on site, so we wanted to make the shoulders out
of something that wouldn’t wear through easily. As far as I’m concerned, any
excuse to work dead animal into a costume is a good excuse, so the shoulders
ended up being made out of leather. For a number of theatrical reasons, as well
as the purely practical ones, the design of this costume rather breaks from
the image of Hilliard in surviving miniatures. Most obviously, there’s not a
scrap of black anywhere on the costume (except for linings). It is a solidly
period design, though. In fact, it’s taken almost directly from Patterns of
Fashion. The doublet is based on a surviving leather doublet – bob’s original
design for his costume had trim radiating out from the neck, so we altered the
pattern from PoF to include that detail. The slops are, pattern-wise, directly
off of pg 75 of PoF, (except that the waist measurement is smaller and the pocket
is rather smaller as well).

The top of the doublet and the sleeves is quilted green leather.
The stitch lines of the quilting are laid in with gold trim – alternating between
a heavy gold soutache, and a delicate gold open braid. The lines are about 1.5″
apart at the scalloped edges. They get considerably closer together at the doublet
neck (the practically converge) and the get slightly farther apart at the tops
of the sleeves. Sewing leather in a house without air conditioning when it’s
98 and humid is not a very good idea. The machine foot does about the same thing
that human thighs do on leather car seats in july. I’ve fallen absolutely in
love with tearaway stabilizer as a way around this rather lamentable fact of
nature. (The other option was to walk the machine for all of the leather work,
and honestly, I did not have that much time.) The fabric part of the doublet
and sleeves is a green stripey heavy cotton (it feels like it has been sized
slightly with something, but I bought it as a remnant from another costumer
so I don’t know). All the pieces were cut on the bias, and yes, all of the stripes
chevron up exactly, except for a small part of the bottom of the front closure
(and the side seams, which don’t really count because no one sees those. Really.)
The doublet and sleeves close with hook and eye tape. I think, now that I have
had time to try this and curse and cry a lot, that I will *NEVER*EVER*EVER*
again do anything that involves joining leather with any fabric cut on an unstable
bias. Ever. I mean it. The sleeves on the doublet tie in, which is unusual for
me lately. (I hate tie in sleeves. They’re so fussy. And please, don’t mail
me ant tell me that all sleeves in period tied in. It’s not true. :) )

I went a little nuts with the slops, which was silly considering
the time constraints involved. They needed some visual interest to keep up with
the doublet, and I thought, hey, gee, *nobody* ever does serious amounts of
slashing in court (note: this is because the rest of them are, comparatively,
sane), I’ll try that. That’ll be lovely. I wanted to do something that would
have a strong vertical design element, without looking like I was trying to
make paned slops but not entirely clear on the concept ;) and the slashing and
cording fit the bill. Here’s where things start to get insane: I had to have
the costume ready for a dress rehearsal on sunday, and in fact, it had to be
on faire grounds at quarter to 8am sunday morning. On thursday, I started cutting
the slops. That’s when I realized that I didn’t have enough fabric. So thursday
night, I was dying three yards of white velveteen grey. Friday morning, I realized
that the grey I had managed was mottled and no where near dark enough. (This
was probably related to the fact that my pasta pot was never designed to hold
three yards of 60″ velveteen.) Friday night, I was getting more dye and redying
the velveteen, in a much larger container. Since I didn’t have time to do it
over, I used twice as much grey dye, and added a touch of black. The fabric
promptly turned out darker than I wanted. (And at least two people have told
me that the completely slops look a touch purple under indoor lighting. It’s
not purple. It’s grey. No matter what you think you see, it’s grey. I dyed it,
I should know. And Hilliard can’ wear purple, so it’s very important that everyone
believe me when I say this is grey.) So, friday night and wretchedly early sat
morning, I was sizing and cutting the slashes on still damp fabric. I ran out
of fray check, switched to clear nail polish (fray check is watered down clear
nail polish, basically), ran out of a supply of clear nail polish that I swear
I have had since the mid 80s, and finally, grudgingly, switched to fabric glue.
I didn’t want to use fabric glue because it creates little bitty, nearly microscopic
stringies all over the place, but I think it turned out to be the best of all
of the options I tried, because it stays slightly springy when it dries, so
the slashes (cut on the bias) can pull a little without ripping if they catch
on something, but spring back into shape. My dining room ended up looking like
spiderman had dropped by and had an epileptic seizure by the time I was done.
The gold cord is two strands of gold lame crochet thread. My mother saved my
ever lovin life by helping sew the cord down while I did handwork sat evening.
THANK YOU MOMMY, thank you thank you thank you. Not only did this woman give
me life, she (yet again) helped me out of an absolute disaster caused partially
by my inability to plan my way out of a damp paper bag. (Of course, technically,
she was the one that introduced me to sewing, which I’m still not sure was a
good thing to do to my sanity.) Anyway, once all of the great huge (90″ wide)
panels of slashing and cording were made, the slops were assembled per the pattern
on pg 75 of Patterns of Fashion. There’s a closeup pic of the funny little corners
you get at the front and back inside of each leg panel above. These help to
hold the legs in a nice, even poof. (This is only a useful statement if you’re
looking at the pattern, and wondering about that odd little box cutout at the
bottom crotch area of the leg panels.) The pleats in the legs have a 2″ strip
of padding worked along the length to help the cartridge pleats maintain their
shape where they attach to the canions.

Technically, the design for this costume was approved on a sunday, the construction was started
the following tuesday, and it was done sunday morning. Not bad, considering a list of crises that
included my sewing machine deciding to hate me and refuse to play, and two takes at dying the
fabric. I think that, overall, this is one of the best costumes I’ve ever turned out. I really
like the leather shoulders and upper sleeves, and the slops. :)

This was a commissioned costume for a very nice fellow who
is playing Robert Cecil, the incredibly cranky hunchback. The costume was a
challenge on a couple of levels. The most obvious is that the actor wanted to
actually have a hunchback, which means that I got to make, and draft all my
patterns around, a prosthesis (ie, “oddly shaped little shoulder pillow”). That
wasn’t so much of a problem with the weskit (the red bit that you barely see
behind the black slashed doublet), but it was a royal pain in the patoot for
the doublet. See, the doublet has very long vertical slashes across the chest
and back. If you’re machining something like that, it’s easiest to make up a
bunch of separate panes and attach them to each other where they are supposed
to be attached. There are three slashes on either side of the chest and back,
making for a total of 15 pieces on the body of the doublet. Each of these pieces
is lined, which means they are all sewn right side to right side with their
linings, then turned. The right and left sides of the doublet are completely
different shapes and somewhat different sizes. And I *cannot* tell left from
right to save my life. (Honestly. I have to take my hands off the wheel and
do the “Left makes an L” think to follow directions while driving.) Needless
to say, the doublet involved about 15 nervous breakdowns and a lot of double
checking. I was doing very well until I suddenly realized that I had done an
entire set of panes backwards, started ripping things out, then realized that
that was the *back* section of the doublet and backwards was, technically, correct.
I really have to get a handle on that left and right thing…..

The costume consists of a weskit (semi-boned underdoublet)
in dark red wool crepe, the doublet, which is black wool pique trimmed with
matte silver soutache, sleeves, which are made of black fine wool and edged
with silver cord, venetians, which are of the same wool as the sleeves and have
a stripe of black velvet edged in red velveteen running down each side (the
stripe on the right conceals a pocket), and a nearly full circle, knee length
black velvet surcoat with a red velveteen turnback edged with matt silver braid.
There was a surprisingly large amount of handwork on this costume – the edges
of the weskit are neatened by hand, the doublet hem was completed by hand and
several panes in the doublet had to be edged by hand, the cording on the sleeves
had to be attached by hand, and of course, armscyes are almost always done by
hand (this was no exception) and the hook and eye tape on the weskit and doublet
was secured to the front edges of the respective garments by hand. There’s also
a hat and one of those silly nightcap looking coif thingies that go with this
costume, but I was a doofus and did not bring them to the dress rehearsal where
these pictures were taken. I’ll get more pictures with those later.

This is a strongly germanic dress that would date to about
1535 or so. German costume history isn’t my strongest suit (I’m working on it),
so I’m not sure about the date. I’m absolutely positive that the construction
is not authentic (even beyond the fact that this dress might be accurately called,
“An Ode to My Serger” or, “Fabric Glues I have known”). The dress consists of
an underskirt of orange to green changeable silk, and an overdress of green
velvet, banded with brocade and trimmed with gold. The over dress is a skirt
and bodice that are sewn together at the back (from side seam to side seam)
and are separate at the front. That way, the skirt can be fastened and move
independently of the bodice in front, but will not separate from it in front.
The skirt is made in bands that are serged together. The gold trim was put on
while I was sewing the serged edges to the back of the velvet bands for added
stability. The skirt is only lined to about half way up. It is deliberately
made about 4″ too long, and has to be carried. (I can walk in a skirt that length
in a pinch, but it’s a little iffy on uneven ground. The underskirt is actually
about an inch long, because it does not have its hem treatment nor it’s proper
waistband on, and I do more or less fine on that, even while doing the incredibly
quick medieval shuffle run.)

The green part of the bodice covers the back and the sides
of the front. It’s lined with two layers of cotton duck, and boned. There are
two pieces of boning on each side that go from the side back, over the shoulder,
and down to the side front. This keeps the shoulders from ever drooping. It
worked out well, and I’ll do it again in the future. The front white thingy
(which I think is a plastron, although that might technically just be the band
– I’m a little fuzzy on that) is made of patterned cotton that matches the chemise
I’m wearing. The band is goldenrod silk woven with a pattern in gold threads.
The band is made as a tube, and is lined with thin batting so that it doesn’t
look flat and doesn’t rumple up. The band and the white cotton are both mounted
on a shield shaped support made of two layers of cotton duck with plastic canvas
for stiffening. The plastron laces into the green part of the bodice with internal
lacing strips. The lacing that you see over the front of the white is not really
stress bearing – all of the stress is taken by the internal lacing. The lacing
that you can see is there because a) it’s in all the paintings I looked at,
and b) it keeps the sides of the green bodice from flapping out funny. The first
day I wore it, I found out I had made the bodice too loose, and I kept, erm,
slipping. I took in the lacing panels inside the bodice and it fit better the
second day (except for a terrifying incident with the stitches holding the tuck
I took ripping when I was being laced in. Gods bless the safety pin manufacturers,
and keep them from harm.)

The sleeves are made from a single layer of velvet, and not
lined in any way. This was meant to be a hot weather costume, so I really cut
back on linings (then turned around and made the thing out of velvet. So terribly
clever, I is….) I marked where I wanted the slashes on both sleeves, then
sized the back of the velvet that was to be cut with fabric glue. (The stuff
you get at jo-anne’s that comes in a clear bottle, not the aleene’s stuff.)
After the glue dried, I used my sharp stork scissors to start the cuts, cut
them with a normal fiskers, and voila, slashed sleeves. Then I added the trim
to the right sides (more fabric glue, there), and sewed the sleeves up. The
sleeves were then sewn into the armscyes. I sewed too far around the armscye,
and popped the stitches on the right sleeve about thirty thousand times. I hate
popping stitches I can’t reach…

So, really, that’s about it. I started the pattern on a wed,
and wore the dress the following saturday. There are some things left I want
to do, and I want to make a new hat, but that wasn’t too bad…. It was made
entirely from fabric that I had, mostly so that I can justify keeping a fabric
stash as large as I have. ;)

Update: I added a new picture from this year. I lost a bit of
weight over the winter. To make this dress fit again, I removed the front panel,
and made the top gold band into a pinned in bust support. The front lacing now
actually *is* holding the dress shut, and the whit behind it is my chemise.
I think this is closer to the actual construction used in german gowns of the
1530s.

There’s all sorts of info on how this was put together in the
diary I kept while making the
dress. (Well, mostly I kept up with it. Until I got distracted by the actual
sewing part, that is….)

The basics go like this: It’s a big silvery yellow brocade
dress, in a roughly venetian style that feels pretty risque to wear. (And risky
— that bodice is on pretty sturdily, and never budged even a scosh, but I couldn’t
shake the feeling that it was about to fall off.) There’s a bit of stiffening
built into the bodice, which is worn open at the front, over the chemise. (I’d
love to tell you that I made a special camacia for this one, but, frankly, I
was busy working on the sleeves.) The sleeves are basically two spiraling panes
each. Having tried this, I’m not sure I recommend it. They do look kinda cool,
though.

As always, I will at some point try to get a better set of pictures. Honest.

Mme. de Grande Rose (that’s "Lady of Big Pink", for
the non-francophones in the audience) was inspired by one of Boucher’s Mme.
de Pompadour portraits. The portrait was used more as a starting point than
a goal, and the dress does depart from the design standards of eighteenth century
dress on several levels. This is a theatrical piece. The purists in the audience
should probably stop reading now. ;)

Still there? Ok. Here’s the gory details…..

I was commissioned by my client, Stephanie,
to make this dress for her halloween festivities. She was kind enough to contact
me almost a full year before needing the dress. Nine months ago, she politely
reminded me that she was, in fact, serious. (I really do need hints like that,
unfortunately.) Four months ago, things finally calmed down enough that I could
really start to focus on this project. Now, she and i still live in different
states, 8 or so hours apart, so I sent her the list of measurements I needed,
and she sent me back the numbers, then I made up a moulage (it’s a draft with
no wearing ease — basically a dress form cover. They’re brilliant, but the
draft is a little tricky). I sent the finished moulage for her to try on, and
amazingly, it fit. (Why is that amazing? You had to be there for the part of
the conversation that went, "I changed a couple of your measurements so
that your bust point wouldn’t end up past your armscye…..") So, moulage
in hand, I started a little research since the eighteenth century is not, precisely,
my era. And then a ren faire happened.

Around the middle of august, it started to dawn on me that september
was rapidly approaching, and the month after that is october, and I had to send
the dress out. At that point, I didn’t have fabrics or, for that matter, a firm
idea what I was doing. Or a design. So, I did what any good costumer would do,
and stuck my head back into the sands of obsessive research. The eighteenth
century has a very different feel to it, aesthetically, than the sixteenth,
and I was trying to re-adjust my expectations. When september started, I knew
I was well and truly screwed, so I figured I should probably start working on
the corset, at least….. So I picked out some fabrics from my stash, and proceeded
to stare blankly at them for a week. And then I decided I hated them. They were
ALL WRONG. I couldn’t understand why, but I knew they were ALL WRONG.

Well, after about 19 nervous breakdowns and a lot of whining,
I realized that a huge part of the problem had to do with my color choices.
Namely, given any choice, I will choose color. Big, bright, saturated color.
Two or more big colors that don’t, technically, "match" is a preference.
But the eighteenth century was a bit, how shall we say, pastel. ("Pastel"
is only two letters away from a four letter word in my world.) Well then. About
those mental shifts? I burnt out the cranial clutch on that one.

And then I found the *perfect* fabric, and it was good, and
it was right this time (and no one would have to be nailed to anything), and
I went out and bought several more perfect fabrics, and got started. The *perfect*
fabric was a piece of golden-beige silk with raised and cut embroidery in a
floral motif (all in dark reds, latte brown, and dark moss green). I decided
it would go with salmon and dark gold. Just trust me on that one…..

The corset was made following a period sketch shown in Corsets
and Crinolines (Waugh). Unfortunately, this requires boning channels that cross,
which is immensely annoying to sew on a machine. So I used a sew in boning.
Yes, you read that right. I used Ridgeline. I would never in my life have considered
that, if I hadn’t spent the last two semesters with a teacher who feels that
Ridgeline is the One True Boning ™. It turns out there’s a trick to getting
it in so that the little rods won’t poke out, and like any other boning, it’s
all in how much of it you use and how you run it. The corset works. And I didn’t
have to sew down crossing channels. I’ll take that.

What didn’t work, originally, was the blasted pannier. Now,
my client told me that the panniers "couldn’t possibly be wide enough",
so I added a little extra fabric in to the pattern in Corsets and Crinolines
(and by pattern, I mean sketch), threw a hail mary, and started sewing. Panniers
turn out to be a surprisingly sensitive suspension system, and I, being totally
insensitive to how they actually work, didn’t get that right. And the boning
I used wasn’t strong enough to make up for my engineering mistake. They collapsed,
like a paper kite in a storm.

So in a fit of total desperation ("I don’t have time for
this to go wrong!") I went hunting through the local super-mega-everything-mart
(aka, Meijers) looking for *anything* that would trigger a flash of invention.
(It’s important, if you’re at this stage of desperation, to head to a store
that has automotive, hardware, and homegoods all under the same roof. Being
able to get chocolate and alcohol at the same place is a bonus.) The answer
I settled upon involved two children’s animal pop-up hampers — one chicken
(what could be more traditional than sacrificing a chicken while praying for
a miracle?) and one cow (which was cute, in a scary-demented-gay-rodeo-cow sort
of way) — and a pool noodle. It’s just not a costumer trick unless you use
a pool noodle somehow. (The trick here was explaining to my sweetie why it was
that I really needed to find a pool noodle in the middle of september, when
they’re well out of season, and then why it was that I was buying the store
out of them. He didn’t seem to think that these were at all a clothing item,
so I was standing in the middle of the aisle demonstrating the .107 ways to
wear a noodle’.) The problem was that the hampers were 18" diameter, and
I needed something no more than 16" diameter (because the panniers shouldn’t
be significantly wider than the person front-to-back), and, honestly, I didn’t
want to explain to my client why I was asking her to wear a freaky-creepy-rodeo-cow
under her skirts. So I thought, hey, easy-peesey, I’ll just make a little tube
the right size, sew bias tape around it, and insert the spring wire. THIS IS
NOT EASY. DO NOT DO THIS. The spring in these buggers is about 20′ long when
it’s not in the stupid hamper, and it has a mind of it’s own. Much better to
destroy the hamper to get at the spring as you’re putting it into the new tube,
inch by inch, than fight the 20′ spring which will manage to thread itself through
the louvered doors of the laundry area and hold on for dear life. Even better,
shop around and find the right size flipping pop-up hamper. Oy. Anyway, I mounted
the hampers on a fitted yoke, secured the side nearest the body to force them
into a maraconi shape, then hacked off a few chunks of pool noodle to serve
as "bumpers" so the highly ornery wires couldn’t beat on my client.
And thus was born the pop-up pannier. (It collapses for packing and driving!
You have to know I’ll use the same trick if I ever have to make a bustle gown….)

Around that time, ten yards of pink taffeta arrived at my door,
and I ordered a million jillion yards of lace, and got busy. The dress is a
sacque-back, which is another surprisingly sophisticated eighteenth century
pattern which I promptly screwed up. But I got it straightened out, and the
assembly of the dress was surprisingly uneventful (especially given my incredible
attention to detail and frequent habit of saying, "eh, I need a piece that
looks about like this…" while cutting). The trim was, well, ok, it was
just plain annoying. I think I made about 45 yards of rolled-edge ribbon out
of changeable chiffon, then I had to put together the trimmings on the dress.
The salmon trim was all sewn with a scallop stitch, which I trimmed around to
get that lovely decorative ruffle effect that was popular at the time. (I spent
a lovely few hours listening to a lecture class while leaving little bitty pink
triangles on the floor beneath the little chair-desk thinger. My teacher was
amused.) The yellow trim over that has a rolled edge and metallic lace. The
full piece of trim for the fronts and neck of the dress is 360" long, gathered
down to fit and scalloped. The little bits of lace in the negative of the scallop
each have their own little bitty bow. (Because I’m pathologically insane, that’s
why.) Those four dainty butterfly bows at the front of the dress are actually
the closure — they hide snaps. Yes, snaps. Don’t give me that look…. If I’ve
learned one thing from the theater, it’s "rig everything". Besides,
it’s hard to tie nice bows when there’s someone in the dress squirming, right?
The underskirt was simple enough. It’s just loads and loads of trim work. There’s
somewhere over 65 yards of metallic laces in this dress, I believe. And 30+
yards of regular lace. I also decorated the shoes (they started out white) and
made some fun little shoe roses.

Then I packed it all up into a big ol’ box, overnighted it,
and waited to find out if it actually fit the client. Which it did. Hoorah!
And ain’t she pretty? :)

Anyway, that’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.

Jim approached me about making a costume design he and his wife had done into a
reality. Give or take some slightly fancier peblums, this is basically what they had in mind.
(Yes, I stuck to a plan. Well, except for one bit where I ditzed out on what fabric I was supposed
to use.)

The doublet is made of white jacquard and black upholstery fabric,
lined with two layers of duck cloth to give it some body. The sleeves are made
of a light weigh stretch wool, and tie in to the doublet. The stripy detail
is a wide ribbon, edged with braid, with diagonal lines of braid out to the
center closure of the sleeve. The sleeves close where the stripes meet, with
hooks and eyes. The doublet is closed with hook and eye tape. The chevron stripes
on the shoulders are all made with applied braid. That was a pain in the patout-y,
really.

The slops are made of strips of fabric, with a line of ribbon
edged with braid down each. The panes are mounted on to a vandyked waist line,
which follows the bottom edge of the doublet. Behind the panes is a lining of
jacquard. They’re pretty much standard issue slops. The only thing I did that
might be unique was to line the leg bands with satin, so that the nice slippery
satin faces the leg and prevents the leg band from sticking to the tights.

There is a cloak that goes with the costume, in a teal green velvet. (It’s not in
this picture because it wasn’t done yet.) It’s actually a 3/4 circle cloak, made of a highly
stretchy spandex laden velvet, interlined with a highly not-stretchy cotton jacquard, and trimmed
with five lines of various trims. I had about sixteen nervous breakdowns making it, but it worked
pretty well. I worry about the stretchy layers stretching and bagging when I do things like that.

I had the privilege (well, I felt privileged, anyway) of doing
costumes for two members of the Bristol Court this last season. Teri’s gown
was a very last minute commission — if I recall correctly, I got it two weeks
before faire was set to open. Yikes! The fabrics had (mostly) all been bought
by the client with the help of her Guildmaster, but there wasn’t so much what
you’d call a design in place. The first time I met with Teri, she explained
that she wanted to portray a younger female character at court, and didn’t want
to do a standard issue, "matronly" looking court dress with a tall
hat. (Those of you who have been to Bristol have probably noticed that our court
ladies have a distinct "look", and that’s what Teri wanted to avoid.)
We settled on an italien inspired design, with an open partlet. Since Teri is
a very tall girl, I got a chance to play with some of the bolder design elements
that never sit right on me — namely, those great big guards that run straight
up and down the front. She wanted to have something interesting on the back
of the dress, and I wanted a chance to work the back closure into the design
somehow, so the guarding continues from the front to the back (over and under
the armscye) and makes an odd sort of tapering design. It looks pretty cool,
although it’s not something I can document in the slightest. (There’s just not
a lot of portraits of people’s backs, huh?) With the italien inspired design,
Stacy (the Guildmaster for the Court) approved a hairpiece instead of a normal
hat. Whether that was love, faith, or just plain desperation, I don’t know.
I didn’t ask. ;) The hairpiece, which looks a lot like a big white muffin in
the photos, is actually a fairly fancy italien style hair twist coronet around
the head, with a braided bun at the back. This is covered with a transparent
white close veil. I think it turned out rather well for my first attempt at
making a hair piece, and it covered Teri’s extremely short hair nicely.

Now, for the technical details… The bodice and skirts were constructed separately,
and hand stitched together into a one piece gown. There’s a fair amount of resistance to the “skirts
attached to bodices” theory of construction up in the Bristol court, but I really felt that that was
the only way to make sure that the guarding on the bodice and the guarding on the skirts lined up
perfectly and never moved around. It also ensures that the skirts and bodice never gap apart when the
wearer bends, and that’s a plus. The guarding is appliqued black hammered satin, edged with flat gold
braid. The guards on the bodice were applied as a single piece of satin, stitched down, and then the
extra was trimmed away to create the guard pattern. That made it easier to get all the lines and
angles correct, since satin likes to crawl. Since my client planned to bead the satin areas, I couldn’t
use my normal trick of gluing things down, so I had to do it the hard way — with lots of pins and patience.
(Ugh. I hate pins.) The sleeves are made separately, and attach with swim suit hooks (the long flat ones
that are designed to hold a swim suit bra closed) and looks inside the bodice straps. This appears to
have worked amazingly well, and I’ll use it again in the future. The cuffs on the sleeves are fake — it’s
just a band of velvet, attached to the finished sleeve. There is no boning in the bodice. The partlet is
cut as a rectangle with a horse shoe shaped piece removed, so it that sits over the shoulders in an italien
style. The entire open edge has a gold organza ruffle, and the body of the partlet is composed of a layer
of very light weight cotton voile and a layer of fine gold mesh. There’s a small detail in applied gold
cord around the neck.

The hair piece is set onto one of those headbands with the built
in comb that are normally used for veils. Because the Teri had such short, fine
hair, the only way to keep it on her head was to make the front of her hair
into two little piggy tails, so that the comb had something to grab. There’s
a band directly in front of the comb, which has a hair laid over it so it looks
like part of the updo. Behind that is the coronet twist, which is covered by
a (removable) close veil. The hair in the piece is the fake hair meant for hair
extensions. It’s done up, sewn through with a decorative gold thread, then shellacked
into place. (Yes, shellac. Waterproofed shellac, in fact. I didn’t want to redress
the piece every time it rained.

For what you can’t see in the picture, there’s a very nice corset
(cream colored silk shantung with a top guard and straps in blue velveteen,
with a line of gold trim marking the border between the cream silk and the blue),
and a petticoat in sky blue hammered satin with guarding in a dark brownish
color. It was rather pretty. Teri also had a hoop skirt, made by her mother.
I’d made her a bum roll (yes, I actually made one of the blasted things). Since
I hate the idea of those showing if a skirt placket abandons it’s post, I’d
made it out of the dress fabric, and set it up to mount to the petticoat waist
band with hooks and eyes. Owing to a long list of circumstances that I find
somewhere between annoying and unfortunate, and the good intentions of others,
she was convinced to abandon that in favor of a larger bumroll mounted on ties.
Now, not to harp, but I want to take a moment to quote Jean Hunnisett (She Who
Oughta Know(tm)): “Never leave pads on tapes to be put on by the dresser or
artiste as they nearly always pull them too tight, making the pad ride too high
in the waist.” For those of you who like your bum rolls and will be separated
from them by nothing short of the Great Scissors of Death, I *strongly* advise
you to mount the roll on hooks and eyes that connect to the petticoats, or on
ties though eyes on the corset. Mark this carefully, so the roll is precisely
where you want it every time and cannot shift around. (On a front opening skirt,
you can sew the roll into the skirt pleats.) Tied rolls shift, and it’s ridiculously
difficult to get them tied at the right level!

I’ve wanted to do a good, solid tudor gown for years. When Stephanie
was referred to me and asked if I could make this gown, designed by Angela
Friedman, I jumped at the chance. Now, here’s the tricky bit: Stephanie
lives in Ohio. I live in Illinois. We’ve never met face-to-face. (Check this: This gown never had a
single formal fitting. This project somewhat blurred the line between confidence, arrogance, and
stupidity.)

There’s something you need to understand about me as a seamstress
here. I absolutely refuse to trust anyone else’s measurements. It’s not just
that I think my odds of getting an honest answer to “Waist?” are slim. I’m pretty
gosh darn specific about how and where I take measurements, and I know what
I’m used to working with. Eventually, we settled on Stephanie making up and
sending me a paper tape dummy to work with. This was almost ideal. I need to
stress almost. This happened back in august, when the midwest was, well, really
freakin’ humid. I propped the paper tape form out the best I could with spray
insulation, packing peanuts, and about 5000 plastic grocery bags, but the humidity
definitely got to it. I was able to stave off the inevitable long enough to
get a working, fitted corset, but the poor thing finally collapsed. (Before
anyone mails me to tell me that the duct tape dummies hold up better, trust
me, I did know that. I am allergic to adhesives. I am extra-special allergic
to the very high tack adhesive in duct tape. I dunno about the rest of you,
but if I can avoid being covered in little stinging blisters, I’m just as happy.)

Anyway, Stephanie and I collaborated online to pick the fabrics, they were shipped to
me, and work commenced. Steph was actually a perfect client — she totally refrained from any kind of
open panic attack, nagging, and anything else that might stress a seamstress out.

That’s good, because I was having fits and panic attacks all of my own. I wouldn’t
really recommend working without the possibility of fittings unless you’re very sure of what you’re
doing. I had an unexpected advantage — her measurements are very similar to my own. She’s just 8
inches taller than I am. :/ I was able to use my own dress dummy for a lot of the final assembly
work, though, and that was a help.

Starting with underpinnings, there’s a square-necked chemise
of fine cotton with wrist ruffles. Over that, there’s a back lacing corset (with
straps, thank you), and a farthingale. Because I’m incapable of being normal,
and I needed to fold everything up, shove it in a box, and ship it, the farthingale
is boned with 1/4″ nylon covered steel cable. It folds down neatly and has absolutely
no shape memory. That’s good. I like that a lot. But it’s sort of a bitch to
cut and crimp, so I actually have one big ol’ spiral of ribbon going up the
farthingale, and the cable is threaded through that. There’s a petticoat in
a lovely celery green cotton/linen, with an applied forepart of a celery pin
tucked silk-like fabric. Those fantastic Tudor “praying mantis woman” under
sleeves are made of the same fabric. They are lined with two layers of cotton
duck for stiffness, with fake puffs made of the chemise cotton. Those puffs
are sewn in and ain’t going no where. ;) The under sleeves pin in to the over
gown. Not only is this period, it’s adjustable.

The over gown is made of a lovely cotton red cotton velvet,
line with a slightly more burgundy cotton/linen blend. The bodice and skirts
were made separately, then joined. The gown opens down the back with hook and
eye tape. The opening down the back of the skirts is hidden by the top pleat,
which is held by a hook and eye on the right side. (Look, I wasn’t about to
tell a client that I wanted her to close her bodice along the front side with
40 small brass pins. That’s just not normal anymore. This might be less
documentably period, but it worked out beautifully.) The turned back sleeves
are attached directly to the upper sleeves, which are sewn in to the bodice.
They are pinned back to the upper sleeve to form the turn back. The bodice has
a thin line of gold trim at the neck as it’s sole decoration. There is also
a matching french hood.

Now, here’s what you can’t see from these pictures: Every single seam in the entire
ensemble is totally finished. There are no raw edges anywhere. Anything that’s not lined is constructed
entirely with french seams. Anything that is lined is, lord help me, *pressed*. The seams that
could not be lined or frenched (petticoat and farthingale hems, and the join between the turned back
sleeve and the upper sleeve) is bias-bound. I’m not sure why I got that ridiculously anal retentive.
But it turns out to have been a good thing — I found out after the dress was turned over that Stephanie’s
mother used to be a couture seamstress, and checked all the seams (as seamstresses are wont to do).

The only other note I have is that all of the pleating and attaching
of the skirts had to be done by hand. At the center back of the skirt, there’s
about nine stacked knife pleats. In VELVET. Lined velvet, no less. That
is a pain. It’s a pain in the neck, it’s a pain in the fingers, it’s just a
pain all over. It’s also mildly impossible. I had to sew the pleats together
in groups of three, then lash the pleats together, then sew the upper and lower
pleats securely square against the bodice. To give you some idea how much resistance
I encountered from the fabric itself, I broke three needles in the process.
Because I’m paranoid, the stitches holding the pleats together are tied every
third stitch, and the stitches holding the large pleats to the back (which will
take the strain if some steps on the train) are knotted every stitch.

All in all, both Stephanie and I thought it turned out darn well. :) (Note:
As Stephanie is at least as much of a perfectionist about the wearing of the costume as I was about
the making of it, I think I should point out that she knew the hood was sitting too far forward on
her head in these pics. Actually, that’s the first thing her email to me said when she sent me the
pics. There was an incident with a rather stiff breeze, and a lack of available mirror. It happens
to the best of us from time to time…..)