6. Made a bow (two tubes, one big, one small) from more of the patterned fabric, arranged modern floral and antique feathers from my millinery stash until I liked how it looked, stitched all that on, then stitched on a little bird.

I could've done all of this, start to finish, with hot glue. But for whatever reason, I seem to prefer stabbing myself repeatedly. You may feel otherwise. Feel free to do what works for you. There are no millinery upcycling police that I know of.

The only machine sewing I did was at the outer edge of the brim – first for the under, then for the outer, and some basting of raw edges on the band and the bow. What remained of the outer-brim fabric after sewing and trimming got folded under and hand-stitched to create a neat-as-I-could-manage finished inner edge.

My second excuse for failing to document "before" and also "first steps" is that I get so wrapped up in the doing, I don’t think about anything else, including any potential future blog post. That's part of what makes it so enjoyable.

All this to say, I only thought to take the first photo after I'd already reattached crown to brim, added the crown lining, and started stitching on the crown cover. Here are annotated images, starting from that point, in order: 

Here, I've already attached the vertical portion of the brim cover to the top oval, folding under the raw edge as I went. Now I'm adding the outer-brim cover. I think I had bobbin or tension trouble, because I had to stop partway through:

The next step was tacking down the outer-brim cover along the base of the crown. That would get hidden by the band, so it didn't need to be super neat, just reasonably so.

Next, I made the band (just a strip of patterned fabric with raw edges folded and basted), and stitched it to the hat, hiding the ends beneath the lapped ends of the crown fabric:

Here's how it looked after all this was stitched in place:

Next, time to finish the interior:

Next up, embellishments:

Attached them one by one:

Et voila! Finis. Here I am modeling the finished product, just after completion:

And here I am, a few days later, volunteering at Atlanta's Historic Oakland Cemetery for the annual Capturing the Spirit of Oakland history tour. My dress is an antique original. How would you describe the hat? Perhaps as the opposite of me -- Old on the inside, young on the outside? 

 
If you enjoyed seeing this process, you might also like learning how to make a Regency bonnet or how to recreate an Edwardian hat. Thanks for reading and feel free to leave a comment!

- Liza

The Archery Dress from the 1993 film The Age of Innocence, beloved by many, is my all-time favorite movie costume. It’s utterly beautiful. Sweet but not overly so. And the juxtaposition of deadly keen marksmanship and delicately cascading white ruffles? Divine. Several years before the pandemic I’d already planned to recreate it, and had begun collecting bits and pieces I could “cobble” into some reasonable facsimile.

Now that I’ve completed the project, I’d say there’s no outfit -- from real life or the movies -- that I’ve studied in closer detail. I scoured online images and watched the movie scene repeatedly, frame by frame, to identify every aspect of the ensemble I possibly could: from the hat pin to the hem. Here’s how I went about trying to recreate it: 

Above: The inspiration. The world's loveliest dress on Winona Ryder, age ~21. That face! That natural-form-era-perfect ribcage! My goal was to get as close as possible to recreating this look, without learning to (properly) sew, tailor, or embroider, and without having plastic surgery.

And finally, my friend and fellow Atlanta Time Traveler Lorrie Ann took this silly video below, showing me accepting the prize for “Most Beautiful Costume” (aw, shucks, thanks! and yes, I was absolutely thrilled!). There were many winners, in all sorts of categories – from best historical to most creative -- and several Atlanta Time Travelers took home prizes (including Best in Show!). Also, you can see that another needed fix is the pull across the upper back. Not sure what happened there, but it only showed up after adding the corset. Could mean I go without next time I wear it. Could happen. We'll see.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading about how I made my recreation of The Age of Innocence Archery Dress. My thanks and apologies to costume designer extraordinaire, Gabriella Pescucci, and to costume house Tirelli Costumi, for the inspiration. I hope that they send the costume, and its beautiful friends, on a tour of the U.S., stopping somewhere near me (SCAD Fash? Biltmore Estate? The Georgia Museum of Art at UGA?). I think if I ever get to see it in real life, I’ll burst into flames, or perhaps tears.

What is your all-time favorite movie costume? Why do you love it so much? Have you ever tried to recreate it? Tell us about it in the comments!

I knew it was in rough shape, but the price was within reach, the sellers friendly, and you know I love rescuing old clothes. I imagined I could wear it a few times before it permanently expires.

Once again, I forgot to take “before” photos. (Seriously, what is my problem?) Heather & Amelia graciously granted permission to use their listing photos, which I’ve combined for you here:

First, I had to do something about the edge of the brim. It was essentially naked. And things would only get worse. This triage maneuver served to tidy things up and to prevent further immediate damage:

Once that was done, I thought about adding a lace or tulle frill inside the brim, as was the style. But I quickly realized that the sheer lining I’d be attaching it to was in worse shape than the brim had been. Pieces kept falling off. I said “Sorry” and tore it out:

Look at that block-printed cotton! And, as is so often the case, it’s in great condition. Cotton is really the most miraculous fabric. Go ahead, sing the jingle. Also, you can see clearly in the above photo that I’d already created a lining at the back of the interior, using black cotton chintz from my stash. Whatever had been there was gone, leaving only exposed buckram.

 As for the lost sheer lining, I thought I should try to replicate it. And, I just happened to have some cream silk organza. Here’s the process of making and installing the new “top lining” (I’ve no idea what this second lining layer is actually called):

And here’s the result. Doesn’t look like much, but it’s close to what was there originally, and it looks nice on:

 
Before I began working on this bonnet, I was rehabilitating another antique hat, whose dry-rotted silk ties snapped off the first time I tied them. Somewhere along the way I’d bought a length of wide, black, antique silk ribbon, which was waiting in my favorite storage box, the one labeled “Good Trim.”

I cut the length in half. I hemmed and then pleated one end of each to match the width of the originals, then cut the other ends at an angle. I stitched the ties onto that other hat, only to discover that it looked goofy. I preferred it without any ties at all.

This was good, as I had no more suitable ribbon. I removed the ties from the first hat and attached them to the bonnet, instead. Here’s the result:

This view of the back shows that something will eventually have to be done. I just don’t have the wherewithal to do it right now. I don’t think I have black silk taffeta, either. If you do, feel free to send some:

Here are views of the completed project. Cracked Betty’s big 40s hair doesn’t allow the lower edges of the bonnet to sit properly. They actually curve inward beneath the chin. But that’s okay. You get the idea. Eventually I’ll wear it and you can see it in action:

 
A whole lot of fashion plates, museum-collection descriptions, and research into the changing shape and construction of Victorian bonnets later, and I can semi-comfortably date this bonnet to the late 1840s to early 1850s, based on shape, size, silhouette, and embellishments. Old hat, hehe.

Finally motivated, I got right to work, and forgot to take a "before" photo, also as is typical. Here's the jacket, Photoshop'd back together to show you what it looked like, along with a post-surgery view, and its tags:

Not exactly historically accurate (HA). But seeing as I've worn black leggings and a t-shirt on all but 10 of the last 669 days (and nights), I count a Spandex-laden, polyester-lined, all-the-wrong-seams, faux Regency jacket as a step in the right direction. It anticipates a return to the mask-free dress-up events I so enjoyed in The Beforetimes.

I know what the real thing looks like -- what makes a reproduction "historically accurate." If you don't, no shame in that. Here's a primer**:

 
The stylistic period now known as Regency stretched from about 1790-1820. Its name comes from the span of 1811-1820, when Britain's prince regent took the throne while his dad, King George III, was sick. This interim emergency monarchy is called a Regency. 👑

Regency style (along with Empire, Biedermeier, and friends) is part of the neoclassical movement, which recalled the spare, clean lines of Greek and Roman art and architecture. It was a rejection of and contrasted starkly with the over-the-top curlicues and gilding of the Rococo:

The same changes applied to fashion. Highly structured dresses with skirts too wide to fit through doorways gave way to high-waisted, diaphanous columns. What a difference!

But then, fashion can and does change a whole lot in 25 years. Pick any of the following ranges and do a mental comparison: 1900 (late Victorian) vs. 1925 (flapper) vs. 1950 (New Look) vs. 1975 (disco). Just imagine the hairstyles, if not the clothes!

So, back to the Spencer. Over these slim, lighter-weight dresses with their raised empire*** waistlines went coats and jackets to coordinate. Through the years, waists rose from slightly elevated to so high that breasts were practically touching collarbones, then plunged back down to the natural waist before it was all over.

Meet George, 2nd Earl Spencer:

George, 2nd Earl Spencer,
by John Singleton Copley, 1800

When his coattails were singed, so the story goes, he had the jacket altered to be shorter and tailless. I'm skeptical that 18th century British aristocracy were the "make do and mend" sort. But I suppose it's possible. Perhaps Spencer had a thrifty bent. Fire or no, Earl Spencer set a trend.

The jacket's bodice length fluctuated with that of the dress beneath, and trims and other design details went in and out of favor. But Regency garments were, so we’re told, always constructed with distinctive seams.

These original Costume Parisien fashion plates show typical styles of the era:

As you can see, the armscye (armhole) seams creep toward each other while the top and bottom diagonal seams form a diamond shape across the upper back. There is no center seam.

I knew all that when I looked at my thrifted jacket with its vertical back darts, center seam, and 21st century armscyes. I knew, also, that I'm short on time, energy, and patience. I'd love to be able to sew really well, making a proper Spencer "from scratch," with all the lovely details. But expertise doesn't develop through wanting or wishing, and since I haven't prioritized it, it's not going to happen.

Instead of feeling bad about all that, I opted to feel creative and not worry about historical accuracy. I don't expect any fashion police to patrol upcoming events. In fact, I don't anticipate any upcoming events (sigh).

Here's what I did with what I had:

I cut everything off below the waist, leaving what I hoped would be enough to work with. I set the chopped-off piece aside for later.

Here I am with the new hem pinned in place, testing the length:

I hand-stitched the new hem and covered the seam with random bias tape from my stash:

Next, I removed all the sleeve buttons to use as trim. It was a challenge concealing the remaining mess. There was almost no extra fabric to work with and the faux flap wasn't on the seam line:

Yes, it looks like a scar. Moving right along…

Time to add the trim. I tested several options from the stash. This one was a little blue, a little metallic, a nice width, easy to manipulate:

I stitched it by hand onto the edge of the hem, lapels, and collar, adding buttons at the hook-and-eye closure and lapel peaks. I later added another two buttons at the center back hem, as was the style.

Then I moved on to creating the "tail" -- the little back peplum flourish that was quite popular:

I used the leftover piece I'd cut off the bottom of the jacket, trimmed down and gathered into a (less than perfect) fan shape. As you can see in the bottom left photo, I had to add more random bias tape to cover the new seam, because I am crazy.

And that was that. It seemed like a reasonable enough approximation. Still, the all-wrong back seams bugged me. What to do? Google search! On Regency romance author Suzan Lauder's blog, Road Trips With the Redhead, I found a post detailing how to fake the diamond seaming with strategically placed trim:

Great idea! But I had two problems. First, not enough trim, no idea where I'd got it, and being pre-vaccination days, I couldn't go hunting. Second, my jacket had a center seam and a faux diamond would only draw attention to its wrongness.

I set Suzan's tutorial aside for a future project and resigned myself to multi-level historical inaccuracy.

Then, to my surprise, I found these original fashion plates:

And that was all the evidence I needed to avoid additional work and consider the project complete.

My faux Spencer is now living in my Regency costume tub, along with its "upcycled church suit" sister, awaiting the end of the apocalypse and a return to playing dress-up. Here's how it turned out:

More views:

Thank you for reading. I hope you're inspired to take on a costume project of your own, without worrying what the HA police or the negative voice in your own head may think. At very worst, you'll be out the cost of a thrifted inspiration piece and a few enjoyable hours of your time. You’ll probably learn something along the way. Overall, it's a low-risk, high-reward proposition.

*OK, not true. I'm way too uptight to “toss anything on a pile.” At worst I would neatly fold it and add it to a tidy stack. In actuality, I placed it on a hanger and hung it on the project rack (where it really did remain for 5 years). But that's wordy and doesn't have any sort of ring to it.

**Did you know that the word primer rhymes with simmer when it means "beginner's guide" (as opposed to rhyming with timer when it means "the stuff you apply before the real paint")?

***Empire (pronounced: ahm-PEER) style was named (after-the-fact) for the First French empire of Napolean. It's another sub-set of "neoclassicism."

Sure, you could buy an antique hat. But this was more fun. And if I don't count my time or blood loss in the equation, much less expensive! It's not difficult and requires no advanced sewing skills*. It only takes time, patience, and a few supplies, including, in my case, band-aids.

*You could do this entire project without sewing a stitch. All you'd need is a hot glue gun and maybe some fabric glue. If glue's fine by you, it's fine by me. I am not judgmental when it comes to costuming.

(I'm very judgmental when it comes to potentially endangering lives. For now, in the midst of a pandemic, consider ordering your supplies online.)  

To start, you'll need a base hat. Yes, I had options. I used one of several very basic, natural-straw sun hats. It cost $3 at a thrift store:

When you can't wear a bustle dress, wear an unflattering bustle-dress t-shirt!

Step one is to whip your hat into shape. I used a mini hand-held steamer. You could hold your hat over a tea kettle or pot of boiling water. Anything that produces lots of steam will work. 

Be forewarned, it takes a long time to see results. Be patient. Keep steaming, coaxing the hat to reshape, and holding the new shape in place until it's absolutely cool and dry. You can use clips and gadgets to help, but be careful not to create unwanted sharp crimps. 

Here's my hat being reshaped. Its once completely flat brim is developing a permanent swoop. And my vintage hat form mannequin, Mabel, now has eyes.

Time to choose fabrics. I wanted my hat to coordinate with a particular dress while being neutral enough to work with other outfits. If you're going to do a lot of work, and have limited time and/or resources, it's best to make something versatile. And no, your hat doesn't have to match, merely complement.

Suitable fabrics I had on hand ranged from $2/yard poly lining fabrics to pure silk. I was more concerned with a pleasing color scheme than with using only superior materials.

L: The dress I planned to wear. R: Potential fabrics.

Time to cover the hat.

I was nervous, so I procrastinated and made a hat band. 

Here's the in-progress hat band with a flower mock-up. It's all pinned in place to assess the overall look. Do you agree that it's pretty as is?

Mabel gets a mouth.

To make the hat band:

1. Measure the circumference around and height of your hat's crown.
2. Cut a rectangle of fabric a few inches longer and about twice as tall as the crown.
3. Finish the edges (turn up and press, stitch if desired).
4. Pleat as desired, press, stitch to keep the pleats in place (you're not making a face mask, it just feels like it for this step).
5. Wrap around the crown. It's like a hat cummerbund.

The hat band is an oblong, turned under for tidiness at the edges, then pleated.

 
Time to get on with it and cover the exterior brim. And as it turns out, this was really no big deal. Then again, it's a hat, not neurosurgery. The risks are minimal. Forge ahead!

✂︎ HELPFUL TIP 1 ✂︎ It would've been easier and faster if I'd done the interior before the exterior, so remember for next time: interior brim comes first. 

But I'm showing you what actually happened. Here's how I did it:

I cut a width of my chosen fabric several inches taller than the width of the brim. I basted and gathered one long side. Don't overthink or worry about this. Just gather up one long side of the fabric however you can. 

I tidied above the gathers, then pinned this piece onto the brim (actually, I attached it at the bottom edge of the crown, so the hat band would hide the gather line). I can't recall if I needed to add another section to make it all the way around the brim, but if so, no matter. Joins are easily concealed in the folds, and a few stitches will prevent gaping.

The photo below shows how the fabric extends a few inches past the brim, as planned. Nothing is stitched down yet, just pinned:

I preferred and used the less-shiny, bluer, darker "wrong" side of the fabric. But regardless, in order to have the stripes radiate out like spokes, I used the width of the fabric rather than the length. It worked fine. 

With needle and thread, I stitched the fabric to the hat, all around the base of the crown. I was too busy preventing blood stains to take a photo, so please enjoy these images of a few of my hat-cobbling injuries, all minor.

The roughness of my index finger is from poking myself repeatedly with various needles,
particularly the brutal-but-convenient self-threading sort.

✂︎ HELPFUL TIP 2 ✂︎ You will lose your mind or die of blood loss hand-stitching through straw at an awkward angle with a regular (straight) needle. The solution is a curved needle (a.k.a. carpet, upholstery, quilting). They're easy to find, inexpensive, and work like a charm. Wish I'd discovered them sooner.

Next step: Sew the fabric to the hat at the edge of the brim.  

I used a machine for this. Sewing through crunchy straw was strange, but my machine (a modest Singer Patchwork) had no problem with it and my goodness, that's speedy (and draws less blood).

Go slowly. Keep the fabric evenly taut. Avoid distorting your reshaped brim. Maintain reasonably even gathers. Don't run out of fabric before you've made it all the way around. Despite all these warnings, this step is not difficult and it's really gratifying. You'll like it.

When you're finished, it looks like this. I find it extremely appealing, if imperfect (just like our favorite people, right?).

All this time, the naked crown was glaring at me. But if the brim cover seemed daunting, covering the crown seemed impossible. To avoid thinking about it, I half-heartedly experimented with embellishments, all of which looked ridiculous.

Just two examples:

Dumb and dumber.

It's no fun knowing you're only doing something to avoid doing something else. I suggest you skip this time-wasting silliness and cover the crown straight away. 

Here's how:

1. Recall from 10th grade geometry, or a box of Laughing Cow cheese, that a circle is comprised of wedges.
2. Create a triangular template and use it to cut fabric wedges.
3. Place these wedges face down on the crown and pin them together until the crown is completely covered.
4. Sew this thing together by stitching up all the pinned seams. It looks scary but trust me, it just works. 
5. Flip it right side out, stick it on your head and exclaim, OMG, I can't believe I made this super cool tea cozy thingy! I wonder what else I can do?

Yay, high-school math! Yay, cheese!

I first learned of the book when Mr. BDV and I toured the historic homes and commercial buildings of Dalton (an hour-and-a-half north of Atlanta) with The Georgia Trust for Historic Preservation.

I snapped the photos collaged below at the 1840 Hamilton House, home to the Whitfield-Murray (County) Historical Society and at the Bandy Heritage Center, which occupies an old train depot. Both museums are chock full of information about, and fine examples of, locally made chenille.

Reviving a colonial-era craft, enterprising depression-era women hand-tufted cotton bedspreads on their front porches. They enlisted friends and neighbors to share the labor and reap the profits.

Strung on clotheslines, their colorful wares captured the eyes and hearts of tourists "rollin' down highway 41" -- the main drag between chilly northern states and always sunny Florida to the south. Peacocks were the most popular motif, and this stretch of road became known as "Peacock Alley."

By the 1950s, when the new interstate highway system redirected traffic away from small towns, the long-wearing, oddly bumpy, comfortably soft spreads, robes, and other tufted items had become a national craze that was already waning.

Individually hand-tufted pieces still existed. But the industry was now a large-scale operation, churning out machine-made chenille fabric by the mile and employing thousands in mills and factories across the region.

Dalton's Crown Mill, next door to the historical society, is a typical example. 

Today it's an attractive mixed-use development of residential and retail space.

The store for mill employees, situated right across the street, is still up for grabs. Wouldn't it make a wonderful watering hole/gathering spot? Who wants to go in with me to open a pub called The Company Store? The logo would, of course, have to include a crown.

Eventually, the chenille fad faded (as all fads do). But that wasn't the end of Dalton. Even as chenille went from chic to dowdy, resourceful entrepreneurs adapted all that chenille-making equipment to make carpet (another "tufted textile"). To this day, Dalton remains the carpet capital of the world.

"Southern Tufts" outlines this entire history and Callahan includes images of an array of vintage chenille clothing. These splendidly strange c. 1940 pants were personal favorites. Don't they look comfy and a bit crazy? Can't decide which pair I prefer. Thanks to Lizzie, who's borrowing the book, for the photo:

Callahan describes in detail the process of hand-tufting and how it was scaled up for mass production. She provides histories for what appears to be every chenille industry enterprise that ever existed, with longer, more complete profiles of some of the biggest and most famous players.

In the Dalton museums, Mr. BDV and I saw a variety of original examples (though no wacky trousers), as well as original equipment and ephemera from the local mill.

Lizzie has several examples in her outstanding collection of women's historic sports and leisure wear, and you can see photos here, in her own review.

Soon after finishing the book, I found this small chenille drawstring purse in an antiques shop. Reading glasses are for scale.

It's from the 1990s, so doesn't count as vintage by my rules, but it was $6 and is made of cotton, so I bought it.

Callahan's book told me that Damze was the post-1989 iteration of DMZ, a company founded in 1980 by Debra Maria Zomparelli. She'd made fashionable jackets from vintage chenille spreads, eventually turning to surviving Georgia manufacturer Soft Goods for a reliable source of quality tufted textile.

The bag looks to be made of scraps, which could certainly be the case. Back when, both enterprising individuals and big companies fashioned bedroom slippers, plush toys, and other small items from the pieces left over after robes and other larger items were cut. Waste not, want not.

But scroll back and look at that awful, cheap-looking drawstring. It had to go. Trips to my mega-fabric place, two national chains (the one I call "Fleece and Intolerance" and Joanns), and a pricey local shop netted me only kinda maybe ok twisted cord. But then Lizzie sent some cotton rope-like stuff that was a perfect match. 

The rope-like thing was the clear winner. It could hardly be more perfect.

After snipping and discarding the hideous original, I tried (and tried) to thread the new rope through. I can't believe how long I kept at it. I managed one loop, but there was no way to get both loops through. A shame, because size-wise, it actually looked quite good.

Eventually, I did as Lizzie advised and just kind of split the thing in half. The resulting slimmer rope threaded through fairly easily, and here's the happy result. Much better, no? Thanks, Lizzie!

Full disclosure, I'm not a huge fan of chenille. I never liked the robes and I can do without the bedspreads. But learning the history of the industry and visiting its epicenter has softened me on it a bit. Enough to carry a little purse in tribute, if not wrap myself head to toe.

Now I just have to work up the... what, exactly? ... to snip off the original hangtags. It's not even real vintage, but so far I can't bring myself to do it. I only wish this little bag were tote size. How cool would that be? As is, I think it will coordinate nicely with my 30s beach pajamas. 

Basic patchwork quilt by mom and me. I cut and assembled, she finished.

I like the result, but don't enjoy the process. So what's the point? It may save money over store-bought, but only if you have lots of scraps on hand and don't factor your time into the equation. 

I admire well-made, artistic quilts. I've watched tutorials, thinking I should give it a try. But all the cutting, piecing, and rearranging to create those intricate named patterns feels a bit too much like higher math. I find "with right sides together" challenging enough. I'm not good at visualizing several steps ahead. It's why I stink at chess.

Admiring the real thing at Bulloch Hall's annual guild show (photo by Melissa Feuer).

Even if I took the time to learn all the magical maneuvers, what to do with the results, good or bad? I have only so many beds and sofas, and my walls are full. 

But last spring in Colonial Williamsburg I saw something that inspired me. Something that uses up scraps, doesn't require mathematical prestidigitation, and serves a function. Look in this drawer:

18th century pockets (and quilted petticoat/skirt) at Colonial Williamsburg.

Now that seemed doable! Fun, even. It's small enough to complete before I lose patience, an excellent use for leftover bits of favorite fabrics, and with the practicality I desire in most anything I make or buy. Bonus: I actually "needed" one of these for my 18th century costumes.

I was already familiar with antique pockets. They were tied, singly or in pairs, around the wearer's waist, and accessed through hidden openings at the sides of her skirt. It's what Lucy Locket lost and Kitty Fisher found. How long did you wonder how someone could possibly lose her pocket, and not just whatever was in it? Yep, me too. Decades.

Kate Greenaway illustration found at the Gutenberg Project reading room.

Built-in pockets didn't come into regular use in women's clothing until fairly recently (and have now gone missing), although menswear has had more than its fair share since way back.

Liza, hiding cellphone behind back, to Mr. BDV: "Hold this for me, would you?"

When dresses became more diaphanous and form-fitting, bulky separate pockets became obsolete. The Regency-era Lucy in Greenaway's illustration probably wouldn't have had a pocket beneath her slim, lightweight dress. And that red "pocket" Kitty has found looks a lot like a reticule (small, drawstring purse). 

Regency lady to gentleman: "Hold this for me, would you?"

Even when skirts became (enormously) full again, the era of the separate pocket was mostly over. Can you imagine an outfit more perfectly suited to concealing copious separate pockets than this mid-Victorian hoop skirt ensemble?

Yet, there's only one way to access what's beneath, and no one would do so in public. She's forced to carry a purse. Seems like a serious waste of storage space. IKEA could create a living room under there. But, no pockets.

The Civil War-era traveler below could stash everything in her duffle bag into a few pockets beneath her skirt, and she'd be hands free for parasol and fan!

Civil War-era ensemble at The Mint Museum.

Some of my original Victorian dresses and skirts have integral pockets (the tiny sort at the waist meant for a watch and the more typically sized sort in a side seam). But they're from later decades and by then, women relied mainly on chatelaines for holding regularly used tools, and a handbag or travel bag for everything else. The separate pocket was a relic. More's the pity.

Even though they were hidden and seen by few, pockets were often exquisitely decorated, usually with embroidery. A secret not unlike "Victoria's" -- decorative underthings hidden beneath conservative work clothes. I wondered if women of earlier eras found such whimsically beautiful personal accessories empowering.

I also wondered if patchwork pockets had been a thing. A little research told me yes, definitely. Here's a sampling. The doubles are at Winterthur, the singles are in the collections of Boston's Museum of Fine Arts (top) and England's Royal School of Needlework (bottom):

Ready to give it a try, I dug through my scraps. I liked that I could recall what each fabric had been used for or salvaged from. At first I thought I'd go with "any colors and patterns at all" as if I were some non-OCD free spirit. The idea was to wind up with something like the pocket at bottom right, above. Ha. Know thyself.

I stashed away all but the pinks and greens for another project and started hunting for a simple tutorial.

Turns out, you don't need a formal, printed pattern even if you aren't all that experienced or skilled. There are enough free, on-line how-tos to work it all out. 

I used the dimensions provided above (7" wide across the top, 9" wide across the bottom, 12" high), and various sets of free online instructions as guidelines.

First, I needed to create the patchwork panels. Time to "quilt." I figured if I made a rectangle as tall and as wide as the template, plus another inch or so all around for seams, that would be fine. And it was.  

My first attempt at a "crazy quilt" approach was a disaster. I'm not sure how you go about using all sorts of different shapes and sizes of scraps, but that's a mystery for another day. I'd stick with squares and rectangles and make strips of whatever height the smallest swatch of remaining fabric allowed. The "craziest" I got was the two times I created a "block" from two smaller pieces. Oh, boy.

Here's how the first panel looked before I sewed the strips together:

Just when I thought I had it right, I'd see something "unbalanced" and move the strips around some more. Tall strips needed to be at top and bottom because they'd lose height in the seaming. I'd also lose whatever was at the upper, outer edges and I'd have to slice down the center, so best not to have any favorite or tiny pieces in those areas.

I made, weeks apart, two panels of the same fabrics but in different arrangements. I was bummed to have only two little pieces of cranberry-background floral for the second panel, but pleased at how quickly and easily it came together. Shortish, flattish learning curve. Here's the fully sewn second panel:

Terrible photo of the completed second panel, awaiting cutting.

I decided to line the panels with handkerchief cotton left over from making a modesty scarf/fichu. It didn't add any weight or bulk, and should protect the patchwork from falling apart with use.

I folded a piece of a newspaper advertising insert in half, trimmed it to the size of the uncut panel, and then drew half an approximate pocket shape. Unfolding gave me a symmetrical pattern. As you can see in the photo below, it was a bit too square in spots and looked like a hot water bottle (I'm no artist), so I tweaked it a bit and recut.

Pocket front interior view, with lining, cut out using not-yet-perfected pattern.

Here's how it looked, still pinned together, after cutting all three (ok, five) layers out. Pattern, then back and front "with right sides together," then interlining. 

All three layers (exterior+lining counts as one), pinned together and cut out.

I'd planned to line the fronts before sewing them to the backs. My mom said, "Just do it in one." So I did.

FYI, to this point everything was machine sewn. I'm busy, impatient, and really, I'm using it to hold a cellphone, car keys, and credit cards, so I can't take the charges of the historical-accuracy police too seriously.

Here's how it looked sewn together, flipped right-side out, and awaiting the scariest part -- cutting the slit down the center:

Pocket layers sewn together and flipped right-side-out.

The next step was finishing the edges of the slit. I used cotton twill tape, and mostly because it offers more control and less likelihood of disaster, but also because it's visible and would look "better," I did this part by hand. I pinned the tape in place along the slit, stitched it to the interior, then to the exterior.

Before and after finishing the slits with twill tape.

Here's a view with the unfolded pattern:

Pocket and pattern, side-by-side. Nope, my sewing is not perfect.

The last step was attaching the waist tie, which also serves to finish the raw tops of the pocket(s). I forgot I'd used up all my twill tape making my 18th century petticoat (skirt), so I had to stop the process to go buy more. Annoying!

Same process as for the slits, but easier, as it's straight across. I pinned the pockets to the twill tape at either side of me, but off-center on its length. This meant I could tie the bow off-center. I left the tails long enough to tie it below my waist, at my hips.*

And here are the finished pockets. I'm pleased with the overall result. They're big enough to hold just about anything, comfortable to wear, and the patchwork is full of memories. 

The completed pockets.

I'm thinking we should bring this accessory back into style. Why not? They offer plenty of storage (whether worn singly or as a pair), endless variety for personal expression and showing off handiwork, and are more comfortable to wear than any purse. Fanny packs/bum bags are making a comeback for good reason -- they're handy and handsfree. But I'm sure you'd agree these are a more attractive solution, no?

* By the time you're fully clothed, you've likely got a lot around your waist. This is true for many historical eras. It's wise to tie each in a different spot, at a different height, if possible. This not only avoids bulk, but prevents an "I'm tangled and stuck and freaking out!" moment.

Do you agree that sometimes, though, the anachronisms we see in costuming -- whether by a wardrobe-department pro, a museum docent, or an amateur reenactor -- may not be quite so... calculated?

There is something about our own time that mires us in it, making it impossible to fully embody or recreate times past -- even relatively recent times. And even when we give it our best effort.

It goes beyond clothes, of course. Hairstyle, makeup, grooming, accessories, even posture, deportment, and expression can be giveaways*. 

We move through the world as modern people. We are shaped by our daily experience, both literally and figuratively, and it is difficult, if not impossible, to transform ourselves completely. This was as true for those playing dress-up 150 years ago as it is for us today.

Last year, my family attended a living history event at Fort Yargo State Park. 

That's the actual color of the "red Georgia clay" between the logs.

The fort was built in 1793 and the event focused on daily life at that time. No way I was showing up in modern clothes.

But I had only one option, this 19th century dress I'd bought from an online seller. Forgive the tiny image, it's the only pre-modification one I've got.

I'd given it the usual going over -- repairs, reinforcing, and then into the wash. As is typical of cotton antique clothing, it came out fine. I added new engageantes (ruffly cuffs) over the remnants of the delicate originals. I also added a matching ruffle at the hem to conceal stains (looks tacky, I'll remove and possibly replace it).  

The dress was meant to resemble an 18th century robe à la polonaise such as this one:

French, 1775 (LACMA via Wikimedia)

The U.S. Centennial of 1876 brought back styles popular 100 years prior, and the Bo-Peep shepherdess look was once again trendy. The style had come and gone a few times already, and would do so again.

Marie Antoinette [center] at Petit Trianon Playing at Being 
a Shepherdess, by Charles Delort (1841-1895)

My dress is nearly 150 years old. It is definitely antique. But it's not 18th century, it's the 1876 revival version.  

Playing dress-up for the Fort Yargo 18th century event.

And if you can't tell that just by looking at it, here's what gives it away:

1. The construction is all wrong. On a real robe a la polonaise, the drapery at the sides and back are part of the dress -- the robe -- itself. It's made as a fitted bodice with an attached skirt that's split at the front -- like a dressing gown or bathrobe, thus, "robe." The skirt could be worn loose and long, or lifted up into side poofs "a la polonaise" via internal rigging (basically a couple sets of ribbons). 

The robe went over the "petticoat" which, confusingly, was not an undergarment, but what we'd now call a skirt (the solid green part of the ensemble in the LACMA image, above -- it's just a skirt and it goes all the way around).

My centennial costume, drying on the line.

As you can see, the drapes of floral fabric on my dress are phony in that they're just extra pieces formed into swoops and permanently affixed at the skirt's waistband. There's also a long, free-hanging piece. This is doubly odd. 

My polonaise dress is about as far from an original, in both age and construction, as these real and revival Edwardian dresses:

L: Original Edwardian dress purchased at EaDo Vintage.
R: Edwardian revival 1970s dress available at BDV.

2. The shape is all wrong. My dress has the curvy, boned, waist-length bodice of a typical bustle-era dress. And even though I could close the bodice without a corset, when I put on my reproduction 18th century stays, I couldn't. Not even close. The 18th century corset rearranged me into the wrong shape.

Repro 18th Century stays by Historical Designs

When I switched to my reproduction Victorian corset, the dress fit perfectly. Compare the curvy, Coke-bottle shape below to the flattened ice cream cone shape, above. The one below emphasizes the waist. The one above does not.

Most modern clothing conforms to fit us regardless of what we wear (or don't) underneath. It's often stretchy and forgiving. But the silhouettes of earlier times demanded specific foundation garments -- and not just to create the desired silhouette.

This was true even up to the mid-1960s. Many women still wore waist cinchers and other figure-refining undergarments not simply to smooth out lumps and bumps, as Spanx and similar shapers do, but to fit into the clothes at all. 

Even from afar -- without scrutinizing the construction or knowing what textiles were available and popular at the time -- someone with an interest in historic dress can see that my dress is the wrong shape. This alone is convincing evidence that it isn't 18th century.

Up close, more clues told me it wasn't from 1926 or 1976, either (both had seen similar patriotically inspired style revivals). No. It was a Victorian dress. No doubt about it.

Was it the weave of the fabrics? The pattern of the floral print? The way the seams and hems were finished? The way it was lined? All of these, sure. But there's something more. Is it meaningless to talk about the overall feel of the thing? I don't think so. And while I'm not expert enough to fully define each point that tells me "1876," in the end, yes, I could "just tell."

I suspect that whoever made my dress did her best to approximate the look of the 1770s. But she couldn't transcend her own time. She sewed it as she'd sew her modern clothing, and fit it to her body shaped not only by her modern-day corset but by a lifetime of standing and moving, and being, a person of her own time.

Without being aware of it and with little ability to do anything about it, we inject into our creations the time in which we live. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. But even if it's just the subtlest of suggestions, it's there -- that indefinable something that makes an object, a person, an image, "of its time."  

Can you tell when these two faux-18th century, Marie Antoinette costume patterns are from? I'd bet you can, even with the fonts and other packaging clues concealed. Just in case, the answers are provided below***:

How about this shepherdess ensemble? Can you Guess the Date?****:

What does all this mean for the average vintage lover scouring the internet or local shops for treasure of a certain age? What if you can't (yet) rely on your own fashion-dating expertise? 

For some buyers, it's not an issue. They care only about the look of the thing. If they like what they see, the seller's expertise (and honesty) regarding its vintage isn't of concern. 

But for those who do care, there are ways to avoid being deliberately or unintentionally misled. The first step is to do your own homework. Even well-meaning sellers -- and I'd say that the vast majority of sellers are fundamentally honest and don't intend to mislead -- can be wrong.

I'll be writing up a vintage reference sheet to help you identify and date your finds. For now, my advice is to be inquisitive and do your research. Never hesitate to ask a seller how they dated their item -- they'll often admit they're trusting the word of the previous owner. Shopping online? You can always ask for additional images or information. No reputable dealer will be offended or annoyed.

If there's a label, check online vintage label encyclopedias and/or do a search on the company's history and trademark. A 1920s dress wasn't made by a company founded in the 1940s, no matter what the seller tells you. Similarly, you can't create a garment from fabrics not yet made, using technology not yet invented (that blouse with polyester lace is 1970s, not 1910s). Time, outside the TARDIS and our dreams, only goes in one direction.

Finally, to familiarize yourself with the overall look and feel of your favorite era, refer to original sources such as fashion plates, reputable museums' images, and advertisements from the time in question. And read, read, read.

* Descendants of today's young adults will see Grandma's tight leggings, multiple tattoos, and highly styled eyebrows and say, "Ha! 2010s." Those duckface selfies will one day -- for better or worse -- help date photos.

** Seller had listed the dress correctly as 1870s.

*** Vintage patterns are from the 1930s (L) and 1950s (R).

**** Shepherdess Guess the Date answer: 1890s 

Here we are, just before heading over to the country's largest private home to see what sartorial treasures Oscar-winning British designer John Bright and his crew of period-costume magicians at Cosprop had in store. 

Liza, Lizzie, Bobbie Jo, Randi

Lizzie doesn't dress in period costume, but she wore a beautiful linen coat she'd recently made. The photo doesn't do it justice. And I don't know why I look like a sunburned pumpkin. But you get the idea. I'll tell you about my ensemble after the tour. 

The weather was gloomy, but we were in high spirits as we headed inside the house. As annual pass holders, Randi and I were handed free audio-tour gadgets. The recorded program was billed as essential to the immersive experience, but once we discovered it held no additional intel on the clothing, we returned them. 

What made this exhibit special was that Cosprop had used original photographs and family records to faithfully recreate the clothing worn by George and Edith Vanderbilt, their family, houseguests, and servants.

The reference photos were black and white, so wardrobe palettes were a best guess based on each person's known preferences, the popular colors of the time, and other clues such as receipts and diary entries.

This pink and cream dress, worn by newlywed Adele Burden while honeymooning at the estate just after its completion, was my personal favorite. I wish my photo were clearer, but Biltmore's display lighting is challenging.

As Lizzie points out in her own review and you can see in the original photo, the reproduction's sleeves are not nearly poofy enough. That year was the pinnacle of the giant-sleeve craze. Only the sleeves of the 1830s could outdo those of 1895 in wacky ginormity. Bonus: really big sleeves make your waist look tiny. More on that, later.

Doesn't husband James look as if he should be walking in the parade of athletes at the modern summer Olympic games, decked out in custom Ralph Lauren? Very modern preppy.

The main floor's formal hallway and sitting area, paralleling the veranda, always features beautiful vignettes. First up was George holding infant Cornelia wearing what appears to be her Christening gown.

Edith's relatively simple dress above was my other favorite. It's not a photo recreation, but one of several Belle Epoque fashions borrowed from Cosprop's collection. The majority of those, including this one, are from the Merchant-Ivory film, The Golden Bowl (2000). 

I wore one quite similar to dance in the upcoming film Bolden! (see it May 3). Grab your magnifying glass. Here I am:

Yours truly, dancing in the movies, in original Edwardian clothes.

Our film costumes were Edwardian originals, and of course I was in heaven. It helped that I was wearing my own comfy cotton corset, while the other women suffered in their heavy, ill-fitting, polyester contraptions.

But back to the exhibit and a recreation of a black velvet evening dress worn by Edith in 1898. 

Let's talk about her impossibly small waist. Yes, she's been wearing a corset all her life. No, that doesn't mean her ribs were broken, her internal organs damaged, or that she regularly keeled over. It does mean that her ribs, unlike ours, have been molded into a more conical shape. Think orthodonture, not plastic surgery. Yes, her waist is probably smaller than yours. But, maybe not. 

She's almost certainly wearing bust improvers to widen and plump her upper body, and pads to bolster her hips. When combined with an S-bend corset forcing chest forward and derriere back, the effect is a tiny waist. Also, look how she's posed -- strategically! 

Compare the reproduction dress on its uncorseted, unpadded, stock-straight mannequin. More evidence that underpinnings make the silhouette. And look how much lower the entire bodice sits on Edith's frame. 

John Singer Sargent portraits brought to life by Cosprop at Biltmore.

 
The last hallway vignette featured George Vanderbilt and his mother, Maria Louisa, in portraits by John Singer Sargent. Note that George is shown holding a book. A studious man, George was an avid reader and book collector. His library of more than 20,000 volumes contains many first editions by noted authors, including several newly popular at the turn of the 20th century. A previous exhibit at Biltmore showcased several of these books with fashions from their film versions.

Upstairs in the main foyer sitting area -- site of last year's "shoe debacle" -- we found Lila Vanderbilt Sloane Field, William B. Osgood Field, and friends, lounging about, in 1902. 

Once again, note how the overall effect is slightly thwarted by mannequins without the proper undergarments and posture. Lila's beautifully recreated dress needs a pigeon-bust silhouette to look precisely right.

This beautiful mauve ensemble, worn by Edith in 1900, was a group favorite. I didn't care for the oddly wide ribbons at the elbows. We know they're ribbons, because an informative film about the making of the costumes was showing in the basement. The polka dots were applied to the ribbons, and the ribbons to the blouse. I loved the jabot, the belt, and the soft purple hues.

George is shown with Russian wolfhound Iwan in 1902. His recreated look seems a bit slimmer and tighter than the original. Sporting clothes are meant for active use. Some ease would be needed.

While family and friends socialize, the servants are busy putting the guest's belongings away. We couldn't get close enough to see if the maid is holding a real gown or a dressing gown. And doesn't that trunk just scream for a "rom-com makeover montage"? Put me in, coach.

Also in the sitting area, little Cornelia and maternal aunt Pauline Dresser Merrill stand ready for a 1904 outing. Perhaps Pauline's jacket is open to show the lines of her skirt? The original image provides another real-life example debunking the "everyone was skinny back then" myth. Lizzie and I wished they'd recreated doggy Iwan for the tableau.

For the wealthy, each activity and time of day required a change of clothing. The Vanderbilts' personal servants must have spent considerable time gathering and preparing each ensemble.

In George's room, his butler holds driving essentials, including goggles and duster coat. Edith's lady's maid, Martha Laube, carries beautiful shoes (all the shoes in this exhibit were lovely). She wears a skirt the same length as mine. I'd thought mine was 5" too short on me. Perhaps not.

At the time, skirt fronts were smooth and sleek, while the backs were still gathered to accommodate a small bustle pad or wire frame. When shorter-than-floor-length, these skirts may be easier to move in efficiently, but the silhouette becomes odd and unflattering.

We headed down the long, portrait-lined hallway and convinced the friendly operator to let us take a ride in Biltmore's antique elevator. Click for a video.

On the lower level, in the servants' dining room, we find George's coachman William Matthews. His seems to be another more-sleek-and-snug-than-the-photo-suggests ensemble. 

We saw sporting ensembles modeled in the bowling alley and swimsuits modeled at the pool. You can see images of those on Lizzie's blog. Biltmore's indoor pool terrifies me, even empty. The room is windowless, with an oddly low ceiling. Have you ever seen the movie The Legacy? I saw it in a theater in 1978 and this scene has stuck with me. It comes to mind and makes my heart pound every time I visit the Vanderbilts' oddly claustrophobic pool.

The tour wended its way through the various service areas of the lower floor, including the laundry room and a butler's pantry none of us had ever visited.

A well-dressed servant sends refreshments upstairs from one of several dumbwaiters. The original telephone is protected behind plexiglass. By this point, I'm getting a bit tired.

Heading upstairs for the last leg of the tour, we are directed into the dining room. The table is lushly decorated with fruits and flowers. I've never seen it so lovely. Guests assemble for dinner. 

I like Florence Vanderbilt Twombly's smile in the original photo. She seems genuinely happy. The recreation of her butterfly gown from 1900 is one of the projects detailed in Cosprop's short film. The photo shows only the gown's upper bodice, so I don't know what the skirt looked like. If I had my druthers, the butterflies would form a less-symmetrical, swirling arc up and around the skirt, rather than the somewhat static oval. Then again, no one asked me.

Just because it's pretty and I thought you might like to see it, here's another dress from The Golden Bowl. 

 
On the other side of the enormous room was another recreated dress. 

Bobbie Jo noticed that the new dress had net insets and straps at the shoulders. We were unable to tell if the original had them. At right, Randi and I discuss how we'd go about giving a mannequin the S-bend posture, to more accurately recreate Edith's 1903 look.

I point to the blue underskirt showing unevenly and suggest it should be completely covered by the lace. Perhaps a sewing miscalculation came into play. Randi didn't agree. 

UPDATE: Cosprop confirms our suspicions that yes, the net overskirt should and does completely cover the blue underskirt, all the way around. I feel compelled to make another 7-hour round-trip to jump that velvet rope and set things right. Just kidding (sort of). I'll let the folks at Biltmore handle it.

One fun thing about this exhibit was the addition of costumed mannequins in unusual spots. In addition to servants at work and guests at play in the normally empty lower-level rooms, we saw guests in other places we'd never before seen occupied.

 
Someone is browsing the books on the upper level of the magnificent library. In the dining room, a guest (do I recognize that dress from Titanic?) looks down from the pipe organ balcony. This scattering of additional mannequins helped bring the "house party" theme to life, showing servants working and guests enjoying themselves as they would have at the time.

Last, but not least, a few views of the truly splendid floral arrangements that decorate nearly every room of the house. From what I've been told, the flowers are grown and arrangements created on site. For me, they're always a highlight.

After the tour, we headed to lunch and a spin around the gift shop. Lizzie set off to see the exhibits on the other side of the property, while my dress-up friends and I went outside and headed toward the gardens. 

No longer raining, but still cloudy.

My ensemble, from the inside out, consisted of:

• antique one-piece underwear (cotton, open crotch)
• modern cotton corset (Playgirl brand)
• antique white cotton combination corset cover + petticoat (like a full slip)
• antique black polished cotton petticoat 
• black cotton knee socks (in lieu of stockings)
• modern flat shoes with a mid-19th century silhouette (best I could do)
• antique taupe wool skirt with black velvet trim
• antique black cotton blouse with fleur-de-lis pattern
• antique chatelaine with antique watch, button hook, and pencil (all purchased separately, and all fully functional)
• antique brooch (my great-grandmother's) over a slim, black velvet ribbon
• vintage kid gloves
• antique black velvet frame purse
• relatively modern earrings with an antique vibe
• about 45 hairpins (really)
• modern straw hat from thrift store "cobbled" with a mix of modern, vintage, and antique ingredients (to be described in a future post)
• antique hat pin of illegal length (one must be on guard) 

Doing my hair. All laced up. Some wardrobe options. The final selection.

I recently attended a fascinating lecture on antiquities. The most interesting part was about forgery. The lecturer explained how, after some critical accumulation of time and knowledge, a fake is revealed. Something shifts, and a curator sees with new eyes. "Not Byzantine, Victorian! That sculpture is not what it's pretending to be."

That made me think about costumes and historical-reproduction clothing. About how no matter how hard we try to recreate the fashions of the past, something always gives us away. The sartorially savvy will, almost without exception, realize the garment is not what it's pretending to be. 

Sometimes, a designer may not have been trying to recreate history at all. The "forgery" was never meant to fool anyone. Perhaps the intent was to capture the spirit of the time. Take the most recent film iteration of Anna Karenina:

Durran's version of the 1870s.

Costume designer Jacqueline Durran has said in interviews that her version of 1870s bustle dresses was influenced as much by the architectural silhouettes of 1950s couture (Charles James et al.) as by Victorian fashion. Historical accuracy was never her intention.

Below are original 1870s ball gowns for comparison. Compare the fabrics, embellishments, and overriding symmetry with Durran's Oscar-winning costumes.

In other striking departures from historicity, the costumer's primary concern may have been wooing the audience or showcasing a star's assets:

Anne Baxter and Debra Paget wear Edith Head's Oscar-winning designs.

Edith Head was not attempting to replicate biblical-era dress with her designs for The Ten Commandments (1956). Her aggressively mid-century looks were surely meant to appeal to contemporary moviegoers.

I argue that by emphasizing body parts (waist, bust) and styling (red lips, sculpted hair) currently en vogue, Head was intentionally creating a more-relatable ancient Egypt. It's a very (very) long movie and theater-goers hadn't signed up for a documentary. Furthermore, Academy Awards are not bestowed by museums or historians. 

Examples of costume designers playing fast and loose with history -- for any variety of reasons -- abound. Whether it's always a conscious decision on their part is up for debate.

Take Walter Plunkett's beloved 1939 costumes for Gone With the Wind. 

Scarlett O'Hara's dress is only marginally more historically accurate
than the one Carol Burnett wears in her hilarious spoof.

Only Olivia de Havilland's garments and styling as Melanie Hamilton Wilkes came close to resembling the actual fashions and styling of the 1860s. 

Even if you'd never seen either film, would you have any difficulty determining which pair of star-crossed lovers is from 1936 and which is from 1968? I don't think the filmmakers necessarily intended their Romeo and Juliet to appear firmly rooted in their modern decade. Yet, they do.

Leslie Howard and Norma Shearer (1936)
vs.
Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey (1968)

A vintage-loving friend recently mentioned being irked by Ralphie's mom's oh-so-80s hairdo in "A Christmas Story." The film is from 1983. And you can tell.

Melinda Dillon's big 80s hair is out of place in this 1950s scene.

Despite the Edwardian underpinnings, this dreamy opening scene from the original Picnic at Hanging Rock immediately declares its mid-1970s production:

These Marcia Brady look-alikes may be lacing corsets, but they could just as easily be teaching the world to sing in perfect harmony.

In contrast, some of the most convincing work I've seen were Ms. Durran's Oscar-nominated designs for Mr. Turner (2015). Rumpled and detailed just so, these clothes had the magical effect of blending into the scene. I realized halfway through the film that I wasn't noticing the "costumes" but simply enjoying each character's clothing.

Those familiar with romantic era construction would surely recognize these as costumes, not antiques, if they viewed them up close. What wardrobe department can hand-stitch the thousands of garments needed for a large-scale production? But the on-screen effect was marvelously authentic.

When Durran goes for historical accuracy, she nails it. It's interesting that her Oscar win was for the objectively less-authentic designs. 

Hollywood values creativity over accuracy, which is fine. If we're talking about movies (documentaries aside), they're purely entertainment. It's hardly criminal for an actor's styling to miss the historical mark.

That's artistic license, budget limitations, and/or nods to current fashion at work (if we assume knowledge of historic dress on the part of the designer). If the audience collectively sighs "aah!" and the costumes enhance the story, it's a job well done. We can make fun of historical inaccuracies, but it's hard to argue an ethical crisis.

But what if it's an unscrupulous or under-educated seller claiming something is older than it actually is or concealing their lack of knowledge? What if it's an educator, museum docent, or historical re-enactor imparting misinformation? Do they have a moral imperative to know what they're selling or describing, or, at minimum, to disclose a lack of knowledge? I think so. 

I made this dress using a real 1930s pattern. The ingredients are modern (I didn't trust my fledgling skills with expensive fabric). But even if I'd used high-quality vintage materials, would it fool an expert on close inspection? I doubt it. Could I sell it on eBay as a 30s original? Probably.

Another example is this hat and purse set I crocheted from a vintage pattern using vintage yarn. There's nothing tangible to give the finished products away as new. There's no difference between crochet stitches then and now. Again, I could rough these up a bit and sell them as vintage.

But are they vintage? No. These newly created pieces haven't "lived through" the interim and somehow, that makes a difference. Their newness isn't merely conceptual or a matter of semantics. Somehow, you can feel it. Both literally and figuratively.

For stage or screen, passing off new as old can be a worthy undertaking. But for sellers? If you don't disclose the full story, you're being dishonest. Misleading someone -- even by omission, and even if they're happy with the item or the information they've received -- is unethical.

In a follow-up post I'll discuss how to recognize a "forgery," even if it's a really old one. For now, what play, movie, TV show, or other production set in the past do you find most, or least, authentic? Have you ever been sold something antique or vintage, only to discover it was newer than advertised?

Click here to read about the world's most-famous forgery. Or is it?
Click here to do The Time Warp again.

Here's a closer look: 

It easily held a picnic blanket, full-size umbrella (the weather was iffy), snacks, water bottle, and more. So handy! Compare that with the tiny reticule we historic-costume ladies typically carry or even the capacious poche-pompadour (traveling bag) on my arm.

When Steve told me he'd made his bag the night before from an import-store carpet and without using a pattern, I was once again blown away by his creativity and ingenuity. And I wanted to make one, too!

Within a few weeks he'd managed to find two more of the carpets at our local World Market. As you can see, they cost $20 and come in a variety of designs -- if you can find them:

If you don't have a World Market near you, try an eBay search for "2x3 cotton rug." If you're going for a period-correct look, add "block print" to the search terms. If you just want a cool bag, your only concern is how your chosen design will look when it's folded in half.

Yes, authentic carpet bags such as these antiques were made from wool carpet remnants (most had leather handles and many had top frames).

Perhaps you can find wool carpet thin enough to work with. But without industrial machines or iron fingers, the cotton rugs were about as thick and ornery as we were willing to go. I suspect our bags are lighter to carry, although they're by no means insubstantial or flimsy. 

In addition to the rug (and needle and sturdy thread), you'll need one 36" wooden dowel and some wood stain. Both are available at any hardware store. The dowel costs less than $1, the stain is about $8. Steve used a 5/8" diameter rod and it worked well for him. I chose a slightly slimmer, more delicate 1/2" diameter rod. It's easier on my smaller hands, and creates a less-rugged, more-feminine look. 

Before you start making the bag itself, you can prep your handles so they'll have time to dry. 

Making the handles:

• Cut your dowel into 16" lengths with a saw. Sand the ends to round them.
• Stain to your desired color. I did about four coats with a one-step stain/sealant. Let dry completely.

Once we'd gathered all the ingredients, Steve came over for an enjoyable Saturday of "cobbling." He told me exactly what to do, step by step. Did I mention he's exceedingly patient? He recalled his first-timer errors such as cutting the handle notches too deep and placing the pockets too high, and we adjusted accordingly.

Knowing how difficult it can be to remember exactly what I did once I've done it, never mind weeks or months later, I kept notes of the process so I could share it with you, and, if so inclined, successfully repeat it down the road. 

Here are the steps:

1. Create the body of the bag:

• Cut any fringe¹ from the top and bottom edges of your carpet.
• With the right side facing in, fold the carpet in half so the bottom and top edges meet.
• Sew up the sides². 

2. Shape the bottom of the bag:
This step creates more structure and allows your bag to remain upright when you set it down. All this is done with the bag still inside-out. Here are my notes:

The dotted line in my drawing represents the side seam you just created in the previous step. Use it as the center line for creating your bag's base. The line that says "stitch" is 7" across. You do this step twice, once on each side. 

Your bag's bottom-to-sides ratio is up to you, but you're limited by the total length you have to work with. A wider bag provides easier access. A taller bag is more secure. A lot depends on what you're carrying and how you'll use it.

Before tacking down the points, iron the triangles flat and toward each other (toward the center of the bag). You are making them disappear. Truth is, you don't need to tack them down once they're pressed, as the insert you'll make later secures them perfectly well. I'm just very OCD about finishing. That's why everything takes me at least twice as long as it needs to, even if I don't make any mistakes. Feel free not to be as crazy as I am.

3. Create the handle holders:
This step makes four flaps that will eventually be folded over to make channels for your dowel handles. 

• From each long side of the bag cut a 5" x 5" notch at center. If you have strong hands and good scissors, you can cut both sides at once. If not, use what you cut from side 1 as a template for side 2. Take care to cut the notch in the same spot on both sides.
• Along each short side of the bag (the gusset) cut a 4" deep notch. 

4. Create and place the lining:

Using a 2'x3' piece of coordinating fabric, repeat steps 1 and 2, above. Do not cut notches.

• Create any desired pockets and sew them to the lining. How many and what style is up to you. Just be sure to place them on the lining low enough to be hidden when the bag is in use but high enough to avoid getting caught in the base liner at the bottom of the bag. 
• Place the prepared lining and bag together with right sides facing each other (inside-out lining inside the inside-out bag). 
• Pin the lining to the bag at key points: interior corners, gusset seams, the top of each handle. Then, pin the rest, leaving only a small section free to allow you to flip the whole thing right side out once it's stitched together.
• Stitch the whole thing together except for the section without pins.
• Check for and remove any stray pins!
• Flip the bag right side out.
• Trim away the excess lining fabric between the handle flaps, being sure to leave a generous allowance. Turn this allowance under, press, and pin in place.
• Top stitch around the whole thing. 

I made one deep pocket and one shallow, three-section pocket. Two of the sections are for holding business cards:

5. Make and insert the base liner:
This is optional, but it enhances the structure and gives the bag a sturdier feel.

• Cut a piece of cardboard the size and shape of the bottom of your bag.
• Cover the cardboard with coordinating fabric of your choice:

I used quilted fabric I had on hand to make it a bit cushy and cozy. The result amused a friend, who said it looked like a sanitary napkin. Now it makes me laugh.

6. Finish the Handle Holders and Insert the Handles³:

• Fold each flap over and sew along its bottom edge. 
• Slide the dowels into the handle-holder channels.
• Sew shut each channel's outer end to hold the dowel in place. You can still remove the dowels if you need to, there's just a bit of wrangling involved.

7. Stitch the gusset pinch in place:
This is optional, but it prevents the sides from poofing out and creates a nicer shape.

8. Personalize your finished project:
You might choose to sign and date your work, as I did. Yes, my embroidery skills have much room for improvement:

I think the only thing I'd add is little brass feet to keep the bag off the ground. I will have to figure out where to find and how to attach them. 

Here I am, back at Oakland Cemetery, carrying my completed bag to volunteer for their annual "Capturing the Spirit of Oakland" series of tours.

My thanks to Steve for his guidance, patience, and companionship. Can't wait for our next project!

¹ You could opt to leave the fringe in place, as it might look really cool. But for our purposes, to look more period-correct, we removed it.

² Unless your machine is very sturdy (or you are Hercules with needle and thread), you should sew just inside of the bulk of the doubled hems along the sides of the carpet. Yes, you could cut off the hems before sewing, but then you'd have to zig-zag or Fray-Check the whole thing to prevent unraveling.

³ You can wrap the flaps around the dowels and stitch them closed with the dowels in place, or stitch the flaps closed and then insert the dowels through the open ends before sewing the outer ends shut. I think the second way is easier. I did it the third way -- stitching the flaps and the ends, then wrangling the dowels into place. D'oh! 

You'd think a simple sash would take an hour or so, right? Well, I managed to make it take all day. I mean hours and hours. I started with more than enough fabric and screwed up so many times, I nearly ran out. Making a belt. A belt. 

I measured at least twice before cutting once. Yet, somehow it ended up too small to close. I had to perform surgery using the few remaining bits to lengthen it (note the odd seam hidden beneath the bow).

When at last it was long enough, I carefully (honest) measured and marked for the hooks and eyes before sewing them on. And... now the belt was about 4" too tight. WTH? Undo, redo, and finally -- finally -- done.

Not only was the dress's waist a bit too big, but because the seam hit me so high, the skirt's pleats were opening above my hips -- not good. The wide cummerbund-style belt reined all that in quite nicely, making the dress more flattering.

I tried the jacket on over the belted dress and discovered it was really quite large. Since my arms are nothing anyone needs to see, and the jacket looked awful, I had an idea. Why not remove its sleeves and add them to the dress? Sarah assured me I could do it, quick and easy, but after the belt fiasco, I was skeptical. A month later, I finally took the plunge.

I snipped the armscye seams and transplanted the sleeves. It's not a perfect job, but it's definitely passable. I did the whole thing by hand. The idea of manipulating all those layers of fabric in the small space of the machine was too daunting. I didn't even try. 

Here I am making absolutely sure I had the correct sleeve pinned in the correct armhole in the correct direction:

And here's the finished dress. Yes, the sleeve heads are a bit off. The left is good, but the right (which IRL is left -- mirrors are so confusing!) looks vaguely 80s. Maybe I'll tweak it in the future. But for now, it's good enough for my purposes. All in all, a satisfying little project. 

Before and after:

Have you ever transformed a vintage (or modern) garment to better suit your needs or fit your figure? I'd love to hear about it.

Did you know that most of them are made to fold up? Or, more accurately, sort of twist up? It takes patience and a certain finesse, grabbing and bending just so. If you do it right, it collapses on itself in a satisfying way. If you do it wrong, it gets bent out of shape (literally), smacks you in the face, and makes you curse. 

Most of the time, I avoid the drama and just throw mine, in all its ruffly gigantic glory, into the back of the minivan. Plenty of room in there.

But if space is at a premium, I take a few deep breaths, stare down the hoop, and then wrangle it -- using origami maneuvers and YouTube tutorial videos -- into a remarkably compact, manageable size.

Then, before it can pop back open and slug me, I stick it in my handy dandy carry bag! Here's how I made it:

1. I started with this standard-size vintage pillowcase (don't forget to wash your fabrics before you sew!):

 
The Southern Belle motif was perfect for this project, but any pillowcase will work. I'd stick to regular cotton or a cotton/poly blend and avoid anything stretchy. These were very popular in the 1960s and aren't difficult to find*, if you want one similar (or you can make your own using a readily available vintage pattern). Here's a close-up of the embroidered embellishment:

2. Create a handle from coordinating fabric, as follows:

i. Make a tube about 1-1/4" (3cm) wide and a little more than twice as long as the width of the pillowcase.

ii. Stitch the ends together and press it flat. 

iii. Place the flat tube a little less than halfway down the length of the pillowcase, on the back. For my project, the back was the side without the Southern Belle embellishment. If your pillowcase doesn't have an embellishment, just pick a side you like better and attach the strap to the other side. You want the strap slightly closer to the open end. Hide the join by placing it in the center.

iv. Pin the strap only to your chosen side. Double-check that when you flip the "right side" over, the embellishment will be face up. Stitch the strap to the chosen side. Don't sew through both sides!

3. That's it! Wrangle your hoop, stuff it into the opening, flip the end of the case over and you're done!

4. Slip it over your shoulder and go:

So simple, right? Here's my hoop outside of and inside of the bag (yes, really!):

 
Don't play dress-up in hoop skirts? Doesn't matter. You can carry just about anything in this simple-to-make, easy-to-clean bag.

*Look what I found at an antiques mall a couple of days after posting this. 

We never miss an opportunity to dress for an occasion and this one called for original 1910s garb, including my armistice blouse -- a type of pneumonia blouse ("so thin you'll catch your death") popular at the time the ceasefire agreement was signed.  

The loving wife and mother, below, served as our fashion inspiration for the outing. Her softly upswept hairstyle, slightly oversized elongated jacket, and white blouse typify the sartorial style of the WWI era.

Alfred Everett Orr, USA, 1918

But we were there to see the art (no, really), which did not disappoint. The posters on display included large and small examples by American (that's me), British (that's Sarah), French, German, Russian, Greek, and Italian illustrators.

These artworks were created for a purpose. They were propaganda -- a word often associated with negative intent, but in fact merely indicative of a purposeful effort to persuade. 

Harrison Fisher, USA, 1918

The images in these posters were meant to rouse the local populace to actively contribute to the war effort -- whether by enlisting, conserving supplies, aiding their allies, buying war bonds, or donating to relief organizations such as the Red Cross.

We found two aspects of the exhibit, taken collectively, particularly interesting:

First, it was surprisingly easy to guess the nationality of the art. Even from far enough away that we couldn't read the text, the country's "personality" always shone through. 

Compare the somewhat similar scenes depicted below. Is there any doubt which is American and which is French? Pretend you're across the large room and can't read the text. 

We easily tagged this lovely 1915 poster as British before we got close enough to see the thatched-roof cottages:

Likewise, could this pair of posters possibly look more German? The one at left resembles an advertisement for Fritz Lang's Metropolis, albeit 11 years early: 

L: Bruno Héroux, 1916   R: Ferdy Horrmeyer, 1918

 
The second interesting aspect was the juxtaposition of styles. Art Nouveau was still evident (take another look at that French poster, above), but Art Deco was clearly working its way in. Forget which style is which and when which was? Here's a handy reference guide, unrelated to the exhibit posters. The dates shown are not hard and fast, of course. All things tend to get fuzzy at the edges:

The largest of the posters, displayed in a horizontal case, was this one by French artist Robert De Coninck, from 1916. So interesting how each soldier's uniform reflects his nationality. You can see several versions online, with slight changes made for the intended audience:

My mom says, "Tell it to the Marines!" when she doesn't quite believe (or want to hear) what's being said. And the original British phrase, from the early 1800s -- "You may tell that to the marines, but the sailors will not believe it" -- had a similar connotation. This recruitment poster, on the other hand, implies that the U.S. Marine Corps will know exactly what to do about the murderous Hun.

We had the gallery (and nearly the entire museum) to ourselves and had to move to another part of the building to find someone to take our picture. A shame, as admission was free and the exhibit is well worth a bit of your time and attention. No, we didn't plan the purple.

It was very hot, and our antique clothes are delicate, so we changed before antiquing in and around the rural Georgia town of Monroe. Here we are in a charming pocket park downtown. I'm trying to break into the remains of an old bank safe. No luck. See more photos from various events and adventures on the BDV Instagram.

Immediately next to this was the first large display. 

The wool coat dress at far left is also from 1957, but shows signs of the design elements Cardin has repeated for decades. He definitely has a thing for circles. As we move to the right, the styles become decidedly more "mod" -- minimalist, geometric, devoid of pattern (all reasons I'm generally not a fan).

Here's a closer view of the pair at center:

We agreed that Cardin's designs for women tend to be wearable (not all, as you'll see, but most). But his menswear can be flat-out ridiculous. The thought of our husbands sauntering down the street in that faux-leather codpiece ensemble had us cry-laughing. The dress is from 1968, the man's ensemble from 1967. We noted how much the man's jumpsuit resembles a spacesuit sans helmet. 

I kind of like the green and cream number. I think Lizzie mentioned owning (and wearing) it or a facsimile back in the day, which was 1968. I'm guessing she didn't wear it with its coordinating straw hat. 

Even on Cardin's wool-jersey clothes the trim is vinyl, not leather. Perhaps the synthetic seemed a more modern choice? Lizzie told us the older vinyl is the bane of Cardin collectors, as it tends to disintegrate. It's the weighted silk of the space age, I said.

The black, yellow, and red dresses above are from 2013-2016. All with the mini-shift silhouette and the circles. You've got to admire the guy's consistency. This is nearly 50 years later and it's hard to tell the old from the new without close inspection and SCAD's online guide. The jumper dress on the right is made of neoprene. Yuck.

The diamond-shaped vinyl belt on the wool-jersey tunic dress and bodysuit set below, from Cardin's 1967 "Cosmocorps" collection, echoes the larger, vinyl diamond trimming the capelet of the red dress above. And, you can see a moth bite at the skirt's upper left. Makes you wonder about all those "museum quality" listings you see online. This is, after all, in a museum.

It's no coincidence that it looks like a crew uniform aboard the Starship Enterprise. I've never enjoyed Star Trek and other set-in-the-future programs because the clothing and interior spaces are so sterile. No art on the walls. No tablecloths. No framed photos. No stacks of books. It makes me sad to imagine a future free from wallpaper, florals, and houseplants. Is there no place in the future for lace? The occasional ruffle? Plaid?

Here's some pattern. This op-art inspired dress from 1968 is comprised of 128 plastic squares, each printed with a green circle and laced together with fishing line. Not sure who it would flatter, beyond a Twiggy-figured model. But it's kind of neat.

Next up was this collection of "carwash" dresses, all made of wool crepe and jersey. Note the spacesuit-inspired bubble helmet and more circles and vinyl on the first model. The one at center is especially collectible and hard to find. Don't worry, I won't be bidding against you. The one at right is interesting in that the strips of fabric loop up to connect at the waistband. There is something very "pre-disco" about this get-up, no? Like them or not, I'd bet they're lots of fun to wear, what with all the swishing and swaying.

I almost kind of like these wildly popular, iconic "op art shifts" from Cardin's 1966 collection. They'd definitely up my cool quotient but, being made of wool, would require Benadryl to avoid my breaking out in hives (decidedly uncool). I wonder if anyone was ever shot through with an arrow while wearing the one at right.

Made me think of this favorite The Far Side cartoon by Gary Larson:

Next came my favorite part of the exhibit -- the evening gowns. Here's a peek into the display area. Now we're talking. Color, pattern, texture!

Below you see someone revealing that yes, there's a way for the arms to escape the purple and gold satin dress and grab an hors d'oeuvre. The dress is not, in fact, a combination evening gown and diet aid and straitjacket. Let me state for the record that I do not condone this behavior (this was one of those very rare "do as I do, not as I say" situations): 

I didn't dislike this dress. It's interesting, vaguely Oriental, and made of real silk. Who could wear it without resembling a lumpy cocoon, I don't know. And must you spend the evening with your arms akimbo to maintain the shape? Regardless, I still kind of like it. It looks somehow comforting (as well as comfortable).

We all thought this gown from 2000 was gorgeous, even if it's made of stretch synthetic velvet. So often, the overall quality of an otherwise beautiful garment was compromised by less-than-luxurious fabrics. We wondered why this was. By the turn of the new millennium it wasn't a matter of being futuristic. So what, then? Note, too, the continued use of circles (ovals).

We also agreed that this silk strapless from 1990 was lovely, and practical for storing one's snacks (or perhaps flower petals for strewing about in one's wake). But why the tacky flowers in clashing colors? Ruined it for me. Also, more circles (ovals).

This 1977 gown was fun, but despite being made of wool and silk, it looked less-than-expensive up close. In fact, it's better in the picture than it was in person:

Here are two gown and jacket ensembles of silk with Swarovski crystals, from 2013. All three of us preferred the mauve. Mom and Lizzie really disliked the green color (I didn't). But we agreed the green ensemble was ongepochket -- overwrought, too much going on. The mauve has all the same elements -- draped gown, rhinestone straps, exuberant shrug -- but they come together in a tidier, more flattering way. The pretty color is a bonus.

The edge of the jacket reminded me of the brim of a hat I made for a recent movie shoot. Not surprisingly, my fledgling skills don't match those of Cardin's atelier:

Our #1 favorite evening look was this sophisticated, beautifully draped number, from 2017:

Here's the description provided at SCADFash's online guide (as usual, there was no printed/posted information; you had to refer to a website for details. SCAD will provide a tablet, but for the non-technologically inclined such as my mom, it's a drag):

What kind of tulle? Silk, cotton, or (most likely) nylon? What kind of satin? Cotton, polyester, or (most likely) silk? Weave and fiber aren't the same thing. But the information comes directly from Pierre Cardin, and I'd imagine SCADFash would hesitate to add or subtract information from that provided. 

We had another good laugh over the men's formalwear, although these examples, from 2010 and 2013, really weren't too bad. OK, maybe the sequined jumpsuit is a bit much. But I could see the purple synthetic, giant-cummerbund and rubber-chestplate number on a young, hip, Grammy-nominated artist.

And isn't it unfair that women have such a wide range of options while men have been stuck in the same black tuxedo for nearly two centuries, with little room for personal expression? I remind myself that 18th century menswear, with its frills and frippery, is my all-time favorite.

Still, there's a fine line between stylish and silly -- and Cardin's designs for men seem to cross it more often than not. Who wouldn't look like a goober in these outfits? I can't imagine walking unembarrassed, arm in arm with a guy dressed in any of these:

There was outerwear on display, including this wool "bubble coat" from 1968. I kind of like the fun design -- oh hey, a circle, whadya know -- and the neutral camel color. But maybe it looks a bit like a squished peanut?

These two, from Cardin's "Computers" collection, supposedly recall the sack-back design. All I could imagine was trying to ride the subway. Surely these are jackets intended for women who never sit down. Look at the construction. Fascinating! Both are wool and from 1980.

The last and largest display showcased three main groupings, each of which stylistically overlapped the next. I call them B&W, bouncy circles, and geometric metallics.

Here are most of the B&Ws. Lizzie and I particularly liked the longer dress with its nod to the 1920s. The harlequin dress is from 1981 and of silk, the rest are from 2017 and synthetic (ugh).

This swirling riot of circles is the bridge to the bouncy group. It reminds me a bit of Norma Kamali, and although it's from 2009 (and of "jersey" of unknown fiber) looks very 80s to me. The best part is the gigantic matching hat. 

My mom's favorite of the exhibit was the silver number from 2008, at right below. I have to say, it's pretty spectacular. A video showed how very bouncy these dresses are on the runway. I don't know if I'd want to be that jiggly at an event. I'd feel like a human mobile in a stiff wind. And can you sit down? I know it's easily done in hoop skirt or bustle, so perhaps this is similar? The red is silk jersey, from 2012. It has the same flower detail as the pink and green strapless, but here I think it works.

Mom's favorite silver dress serves as the bridge to the geometric metallics. Not my favorites, and home to winner of the most-ridiculous menswear outfit award. It's the one with shoulder wafers and a helmet, in the circular display. For a clearer view, see it on SCADFash's online guide (link provided below):

There was one dress in the metallics group that's worth sharing with you. This one, of sequined synthetic fabric, from 2016:

Attendez! Monsieur Cardin, aimez-vous les cercles?

If you'd like a more academic (i.e. more knowledgeable and less opinionated) take on the exhibit, here is Lizzie's review. For more background on Cardin's career, click here. To see professional images of all the items on display, click here for SCADFash's online guide.

This "mushroom dress" (my name), the very first we encountered, showcases Pei's innovative design, exquisite fabrics and craftsmanship, and her incorporation of traditional Chinese styles and themes. Most ensembles included matching shoes and jewelry:

Extreme self-control was required and exercised: I didn't touch (or eat) the luscious layers of silk.

For me, Pei's level of innovation compares only with that of Iris Van Herpen, whose fabulous and fanciful work tricks the eye, making natural materials look man-made and 3D-printed synthetic materials appear organic.

The difference was the unapologetic beauty of Pei's work: the cut of the garments, the lush, richly colored fabrics, the intricate embellishments and hand painting, and most of all, the breathtaking hand embroidery. 

SCADFash did a marvelous job mounting this exhibit. The cold, industrial space was transformed into a romantic, candle-lit ballroom. The charming student-docents told us they'd tried their best to replicate the look and feel of Pei's atelier.

The garments were displayed to be seen. No silly eyeball peepholes or view-thwarting cases. Several of the mannequins were set on slowly rotating platforms, and nearly every garment had 360-degree views. Mirrors along the walls enhanced the ambience and our ability to see the clothes from every angle.

I thank the folks at SCADFash for keeping the garments so visually accessible, which required trusting us exhibit-goers to resist the urge to touch and, in my case, eat the clothes. No small challenge.

This "flower hoop dress" (my name) is richly hand-embroidered with genuine gold and silver thread: 

 SCAD's thoughtful display enabled easy, 360-degree viewing. Bravo! 

Born in Beijing in 1967, Pei is the first Chinese national couturier, meaning she was invited to join France's Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture. 

Pei's early childhood was defined by China's Cultural Revolution, which strove to eliminate all capitalist and traditional influence in the pursuit of pure Communist ideals. Today, her work stands in direct defiance of those values, incorporating traditional Chinese silhouettes, symbolism, and techniques forbidden, but not forgotten, during that bleak period.

Docents explained that this garment's hundreds of lush peonies -- the national 
flower of China -- were found in a decommissioned factory and lovingly restored.

This "bubble dress and embroidered trousers" (my name) set was a personal favorite. A charming combination of sophistication and whimsy. It looks a bit vintage, thoroughly modern, and retains traditional Chinese design elements in both cut and embellishment. 

As you'd expect of haute couture, many of the designs are over-the-top, experimental, and would look odd anywhere but on the reddest of carpets.

Rihanna appropriately wore Pei's luxurious golden yellow coat to the 2015 Met Gala, themed "China: Through the Looking Glass," to rave reviews:


You know I love dressing up. But I can't imagine arriving as my ordinary self at any party, however grand, in this "Queen Ensemble" (my name):

And while Lady Gaga could pull off this "umbrella dress" (my name), I don't think I could (or would, it's not a favorite):

But many of the garments, while fanciful, were quite wearable. Here are views of two I really liked:

Even this exceptional, pearl-encrusted ensemble -- according to the student-docents the most valuable in the exhibit -- does not necessarily defy wearability:

Note the dragon motifs in the hand-beaded pearls. The student-docents said the pearls were genuine, but I'm skeptical.

I'd also argue that this "Ming Vase" dress (my name) could be worn by a fashion-forward "regular" person to a very formal event (if we still had those, sigh), although perhaps without the porcelain headpiece:

This highly-embroidered yellow dress with dramatic sleeves reminded another visitor of the one Nicole Kidman wore to the 1997 Academy Awards. I knew the dress she meant and remembered liking it at the time. But when I did a search and compared that Christian Dior by John Galliano design and Pei's dress side-by-side? In my opinion, there's no comparison. One is a beautiful dress, the other is a work of art:

Pei's other forays into real-world design include the opening ceremony costumes for the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing:

This "Dragon and Phoenix" dress (my name, but I think it's the correct one) was an exhibit highlight. The student-docent explained that Pei used the two ancient Chinese mythological beasts to represent contrasts, such as masculine and feminine. Once again, China's national flower, the peony, makes an appearance. This time in the most gorgeous shades of periwinkle blue.

This "short dress lineup," as I call it, features several of Pei's signature touches. Look at how many layers of tissue-thin silk she used to create the thick but weightless blue skirt. So hard not to touch:

You can see a host of references to historic styles in Pei's work, well beyond traditional Chinese elements. From the hoop skirt of the golden dress, to the leg o' mutton sleeves of the whimsical dress above, to the 1920s styling of the sleek "cocoon coat" (my name), below:

Most obvious (although only to me, apparently) was the similarity between Pei's shoes and the chopines of the 15th-17th centuries: 

Originally worn as over shoes to keep dainty silk slippers out of the mud, high-rise chopines enjoyed so much popularity, they eventually became shoes in their own right. Here are a few renaissance examples for comparison. No, platforms weren't a 1970s, or even a 1940s, innovation:

I'll admit I'm not a fan of clunky shoes, whether antique, vintage, or modern. I prefer more delicate footwear. But as it's unlikely I will ever own or wear one of Pei's masterpieces, I won't spend too much time fretting about it.

As long as we're discussing things I don't like, I have to say I was perplexed by this gown. It's from Pei's Spring 2017 Couture collection, but it's a dead ringer for my old boss Monica's wedding dress from the mid-1980s:

 I thought the headpiece was pretty. 

Last, but not least, I'll leave you with a few of my favorite designs. I especially liked the pants set, which reminds me of late 18th century menswear:

Here's a closer view of the matching accessories. I even kind of liked the chunky shoes, of clear material and decorated with more of the layered silk. So lovely:

 
At each mannequin I gasped anew and then laughed, hearing Sir John Gielgud (as Hobson) instructing Liza Minelli's character Linda to "Steal something casual" in the movie "Arthur." I texted a photo of one of Pei's magnificent creations, along with the movie line, to my bff. She understood.

From the October 2017 issue of The Atlantan magazine.

Atlanta offers few occasions to don rococo garb, so our group was excited about paying the Alan Avery Art Company a well-heeled visit. Then I read this informative review of the show.

Brooklyn artist Fabiola Jean-Louis's works juxtapose the brutality of slavery in the 16th-19th centuries with the grand trappings of the era's privileged class. She injects the familiar, gorgeous imagery  of Boucher and Fragonard with little jolts of truth -- revealing the painful oppression that was (and to some extent remains) a fact of life for so many. Showing up Caucasian in court dress would be insensitive at best. This was not a dress-up opportunity.

Still, I wanted to see the art. So over the holiday break, my family and I paid a visit.

Re-Writing History showcases several of Jean-Louis' incredible paper creations alongside images that mimic typically lush rococo scenes, but with disturbing, thought-provoking overtones. Look closely at what's going on behind the serenely poised woman in the striped gown. 

The framed print is titled, "They'll Say We Enjoyed It."

  "Rest in Peace" and "Madame Leroy" prints. The paper Robe a l'Anglaise
showcases a lynching victim in its ornate, roses-and-pearls-strewn bodice. 

The clash between the scrumptious clothing and aristocratic accoutrements of the meticulously crafted prints, and the horrors not-quite-hidden within each composition, had its intended effect -- to create discomfort and make me think. Even if I didn't want to.

I just wanted to swoon over the "clothes." But I couldn't. And I was very glad I wasn't dressed like this:

With Steve at AnachroCon 2017: The 60s Through the Ages

Re-Writing History reminded me of a recent experience I'd had. 

When I demonstrate or teach mid-Victorian dance, I wear period-correct hoop dresses. Lately, these opportunities have been few and far between. Wanting to put my beautiful costumes to consistent use, I volunteered to become a docent at a local plantation-home historic site. 

Reviewing the script all tour guides must follow, however, I had misgivings, and brought my concerns to the volunteer coordinator. I wasn't comfortable referring to enslaved people as "servants." She "understood, but that was what they called them." I tried, as politely as I could, which down here is never politely enough, to argue that what was ok then should not be ok now. It's irresponsible, and serves no good purpose.

Knowing I had no chance of changing policy or attitude, or getting the script updated, I withdrew from the program.* 

It's one thing to dress in 1860s clothing. It's quite another to perpetuate the glossing over and romanticizing of our most shameful and horrific history, just so no one is made to feel even marginally uncomfortable. A little discomfort might do us all some good. 

Just to be clear, my ancestors weren't around for or involved with this idiocy. They were busy fighting their own horrors in the original ghettos of Europe. Still, I wanted no part of this white-washed -- pun intended -- version of history at a "non-profit organization whose purpose is to preserve the past for the future." Whose future would that be, exactly? As a result, they wanted no part of me. So be it.

We are living in interesting times, to say the least. We're experiencing the painful death throes of systematic and systemic bigotry. No, we'll never get rid of racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, or misogyny. That's no more possible than getting rid of stupid.

What we can and must do is untangle, separate, and remove these evils from our institutions and our collective world view. It's already happening, and it's making a lot of people very nervous. Too bad. We have to continue to work to make inequity unacceptable. To push it, and those who cling to it, deep into the closet, sending everyone else out into the light-filled room in the process.

If you'd like to purchase one of Jean-Louis' creations, the dresses run about $24,000, the shoes about $900. The stays shown below, titled "Lady Plum," are $8,250. The prints, which are very limited editions, were labeled as "Price on Request." I'm sure the gallery, or Ms. Jean-Louis, would be happy to provide a quote. 

Cover image shows a partial view of Jean-Louis' archival pigment print Marie-Antoinette Is Dead. Compare with Boucher's 1756 work Madame de Pompadour -

UPDATED Oct. 13, 2019: Have just spoken with that same good friend, now in charge of volunteers at the historic site. He tells me they're in the process of rewriting the script and in the meantime, he just tells it like it was, ignoring the current script in favor of reality. I'm planning to volunteer.

"The arc bends toward justice, but it only bends toward justice because people pull it towards justice. It doesn’t happen on its own.” - Attorney General Eric Holder

Back I went this week to Emory’s Michael C. Carlos Museum to hear Curator of Greek and Roman Art Jasper Gaunt hold forth on the history of travel to Greece.

Gaunt, a British-accented, tweed-jacketed classics professor prototype whose necktie featured tiny amphorae, led about 40 of us art, history, and travel enthusiasts on a tour of In Search of Noble Marbles: Earliest Travelers to Greece. The exhibit runs through April 9th, 2017.

Gaunt explained that after the conquest of Constantinople by Sultan Mehmed II in 1453, hostile, intolerant government policy blocked access to Greece for hundreds of years. Only a privileged few outsiders ever visited.

One of the many antique books on display (photo: Emory University)

The books, maps, and early photographs on display document those rare visits. Intrepid travelers recorded their impressions, described in detail the man-made and natural scenery, and drew illustrations of ancient sites and monuments that, at the time, were impossibly remote.

These travelogues have served as invaluable guides in the creation of gorgeous neoclassical art and architecture around the world, as blueprints for reconstructing and repairing damaged or missing artifacts, and to help in identifying plundered antiquities.

On exhibit were not only several of these eye-witness testimonies, but also a few amusingly clueless depictions of the ancient sites as imagined by those who’d never been.

Gaunt told us that no 1596 audience member watching A Midsummer Night’s Dream had the vaguest idea what Athens really looked like. Shakespeare could just as well have set his play on the moon. And in the exhibit, a 1493 German book lay open to a drawing showing an artist’s rendering of Athens as a walled town of dark, low stone buildings -- a scene so Teutonic it easily could have included a pretzel shop and beer hall.

OK, so, that’s interesting enough. But take a look at this 1682 drawing:

Temple of Minerva (the Roman name for Athena) or, The Parthenon,
drawn by Vincenzo Coronelli in 1682.

When my friend Karima and I visited the Acropolis in 1986, we assumed that centuries of rain, wind, earthquakes, looting, and pollution had rendered the magnificent Parthenon -- named for the goddess Athena Parthenos, literally Athena the Virgin -- a ruin. There was no docent or informational sign to correct our misapprehension.

Built by Pericles in the mid 5th century BCE on the site of an earlier temple, the Temple of Athena the Virgin became the Church of Mary the Virgin (oh, those irksome patriarchs and their obsession with female virginity) in the 590s. It remained a church for nearly 1,000 years, until it became a mosque under Turkish rule. Each iteration involved decorative and structural changes to suit its current purpose. The Turks added a minaret, for example.

When English clergyman and travel writer George Wheler visited Greece in 1676, he saw the near-complete structure shown in the above illustration, from his book A Journey into Greece, published in 1682. The Parthenon had survived mostly intact for more than 2,000 years, and then, relatively recently, something terrible happened.

Under siege by Venetian Holy League forces, the Turks fortified the acropolis and stashed their gun powder, plus 300 women and children, in the Parthenon for safe-keeping. They figured no Christian army would attack a former church of such historical significance. They were wrong. More than 2,000 shells hit the Acropolis. Two hit the explosives, blowing the ancient Parthenon and everyone inside to bits. Not rain, not earthquakes. War and religion. Same as ever.

Venetian artist's take on the destruction of the Parthenon
by mortar shelling in 1687.

In reality there was no quaint, Phillip Johnson-esque* architectural detail created by the shelling. Sculptures not destroyed in the blast were eventually carted off to distant lands. The rubble was used to build an assortment of new structures in and around the ruined temple. The 1839 photo below shows what was actually left. This was before poorly conceived reconstruction efforts in the late 19th and early 20th centuries caused even more damage:

Earliest known photo of the Parthenon, taken in 1839.

When I was there, comprehensive restoration efforts had already begun. Gaunt mentioned the debate within academia about what and how much of the original structure and ornamentation should be restored. Will it still be the Parthenon if a considerable portion is reproduced with modern materials, using modern techniques and technology?

Somehow, I’d managed to visit the place, earn a bachelor’s degree in Philosophy, and live another 30 years under the naive delusion that natural forces and a few overzealous souvenir seekers had, over time, toppled the enormous temple.

Sure, I’d taken Latin (oh boy, did I ever), not Greek. And no, my studies didn’t focus on the Greek Philosophers. But still, isn’t this history I should have known? Some lousy liberal arts major I am. So embarrassing. This, like so many other things, makes me wonder what else I know incompletely, incorrectly, or not at all.

* Broken bonnets: 

This worked well on my long, very thick hair.

Preheat a small-diameter curling iron.

1. Color grays (oops, forgot this step).
2. Make center part.
3. Make shallow parts from center to front of each ear. Clip out of the way.
4. Comb the rest back.
5. Gather top half into pony at center back of head, secure, twist into bun, pin in place.
6. Gather remainder, twisting upward and around existing bun, pin in place*.
- note that I usually use an old-fashioned hairnet (the invisible sort) to cover the bun and that I do the bun in two parts to distribute the hair's weight a bit. -
7. Unclip one side of front.
8. Take a small section (I made about 5 sections per side), curl lower half.
9. Loop uncurled length back on itself against your head and pin flat, leaving curl dangling on your forehead at desired length. Gather up and temporarily clip the hot curl.
10. Repeat until entire front is curled, pinned to head to shorten, and curls clipped to cool.
11. Spray with hairspray. Not too much.
12. Unclip fully cooled curls (don’t lose patience and unclip too soon or your curls will drop).
13. Use gray-covering stuff where needed and applicable. Ugh.
14. Put on your crazy hat! (Don’t have one? Learn to make one, here.)

With and without my Regency Tam (aka Crazy Hat)

Hairstyle I wore to a mid-Victorian ball. Lots o' braids.

I actually loathe cooking. But I love pleasing people. And setting a pretty table. And dressing up. That last one you already knew.

Here I am in 1995, hosting a tea party for about 20 friends. I'm at the savories table. Scones and other baked treats are behind me. Lots more goodies are out of frame. It was all handmade by me, from scratch. I did this twice, then took a 20-year break. 

This recent tea party was far more modest, as the only guests were my husband, kids, and in-laws. This time, the sandwiches were simple and the scones made from a mix:

In between I hosted my share of family gatherings, Sunday brunches, wine-and-cheese evenings, and July 4th celebrations. A few were appropriately informal and at least two involved (gasp, horrors) paper plates. I've entertained 25 for dinner and two for cocktails. 

The look you give your father-in-law for picking at the picnic prematurely.

Many guests have asked, "What should I bring?" My answer was always, "Just yourself."

If they asked, "May I bring a bottle of wine?" or "Should I bring my squash casserole?" I'd say, "Sure, if you'd like to. But it's certainly not required."

Only Ellen's advance invitation might be: "You're coming for Thanksgiving and you're in charge of vegetables." You can do this after 37 years of best-friendship. 

But I'd argue it's really the only time you should, unless your invitation clearly specifies: "Potluck!"

People who've never been to your home or life-cycle event, haven't engaged you in lengthy private conversation, who've never seen you naked or crying or indisposed, should not be asked to "bring something for everyone to share" at your not-a-potluck gathering. 

Want to get together but just not up for all the effort and expense? Plan a group visit to a restaurant and make it a Dutch treat. Or just state clearly from the outset that your event is a potluck. Nothing wrong with that.

I'm not dictating what sort of event you should host. I'm merely pressing for clarity and cordiality.

These are examples of perfectly reasonable, unambiguous invitations for a potluck: 

In contrast, the invitations below constitute a bait and switch. At first glance it's a straightforward party invitation. But on closer inspection, no:

My goodness, hot and cold? And are the Walkers short on linens?

Things are no different if you opt for modern convenience. Old-fashioned manners still count. I'd argue that your Evite's "Message From Host" section should be reserved for helpful hints, not distribution of labor.

Showing up with a token for your host* is always appropriate (though I'd advise against live animals):

But a hostess gift is what it sounds like: a personal gift for an individual, given at the guest's discretion in appreciation of, not as payment for, inclusion. Not even a host raised by wolves would demand or request one. 

Simply put, if you can't afford (in any sense of the word) to host a party, don't. Throw a potluck, state so up front, and enjoy. If you invite me, I'll bring something suitable. 

I can't leave you with that array of ghastly images, so here's a two-bite palate cleanser to see you off:

Mustard company booklet, 1930.

50s Party

* A gift for your host is considerate. But bringing unrequested food intended to be shared, without consulting him beforehand, requires him to graciously set out something that may not comply with household dietary restrictions or, less important but undesirably awkward at formal gatherings, may detract from a carefully considered table arrangement. 

I've seen well-meaning guests bring meatballs to a vegetarian home, shrimp to a kosher home, and set a foil-topped Tupperware container with plastic serving tongs on a formal, candle-lit buffet.

guests at the venue's Gatsby-themed, black tie, New Year's Eve party. Sarah and I set about creating our outfits. 

I found this sparkly 1980s top at an estate sale. It looked like the beginning of something. I removed the shoulder pads and tags and it was ready to go.

It's 100% silk, beautifully beaded, and came from Neiman-Marcus. Not cheap. But I didn't want to use expensive fabric to cobble, as I wasn't sure I'd end up with anything wearable.

I scoured the web and my own library for inspiration that looked doable. I wanted my arms mostly covered. And my legs mostly covered. (OK, I wanted to wear a Snuggie.)

I searched for period-correct examples and found these from 1924, when skirts were at their longest. The last shows my scribbled ideas. Those oven mitts on the arms are my rendition of the burnt-orange split sleeves. 

(images from 1-Hour Dress pattern booklet, Witness2Fashion, GlamourDaze)

I thought repeating the skirt fabric at the bodice would create a more cohesive look, so I'd use it to extend the short sleeves and make a matching collar. A wide sash would cover the waist join.

At Jo-Ann's I chose the pinker of the two viable options, buying lining, chiffon, and satin all in "Rosewater," at left:

I folded the length of lining selvage to selvage, chopped off the selvage, and made a French seam. I finished the top and bottom by folding and pressing twice and machine stitching (not shown).

Next, I consulted my manual on how to use the gathering foot (making the Regency tams was enough hand-gathering for a while). I pinned the gathered chiffon to the lining, sewed them together, then made a side seam. 

I turned everything inside out and hand stitched the completed skirt to the top's interior waist. I didn't use the machine as I feared damaging and unraveling sequins and beads. It worked fine. Don't examine it too closely. 

Unfortunately, I was going to have to take up the lining, a lot. It nearly reached my feet! Here it's been taken up to (what I thought was) the proper length, while the outer skirt is still unhemmed:

Feeling lazy, I just flipped up and stitched the lining hem. I'll have to redo that down the road. To finish the skirt's hem, I made two folds and used the machine's clam-shell stitch to create a scalloped edge. I didn't get a close-up shot, but it worked nicely. Shell stitch was often used on vintage lingerie as it makes an attractive edge on lightweight, silky fabrics.

So now I had an unembellished dress of somewhat odd proportions. I hadn't realized the top was quite that long. Time to add embellishments.

I wanted to make ruffles that wouldn't fray, so I gathered long tubes of chiffon. It worked, but I wasn't thrilled with it. I tried it at the hem (looked cheap), in multi rows (too childish and frou-frou), at the waist (too skimpy).

One thing the ruffled tube did nicely was form roses. So I made a few. I later added nearly-matching sequins to the centers.

Next up, sleeves. I made a newspaper pattern to approximate those burnt orange split sleeves. Oops, I used obituaries.

Appropriate, though, as the result was not great. At mom's suggestion, I first used chiffon with lining fabric. Too stiff.  

So I tried again, using two layers of chiffon. Better! But still, I wasn't mad about the overall effect. Seemed to detract more than enhance. By this point I'd wrapped the satin around the join, although it wasn't yet stitched or finished. I was still experimenting:

I'd think I'd found the perfect combination, only to get a more 1980s mother-of-the-bride than mid-1920s reveler vibe on second look. I sent poor Sarah photos asking "how about this?" every time I made a minor change. There must have been at least 20 iterations, including a chiffon vs. satin collar comparison:

In the end, I went with narrow sleeve edging, pointed collar, and sequin-centered rose, all of chiffon. That seemed to best tie bodice to skirt and create a vaguely mid-1920s look. So that's what I did. 

I put the dress on and gathered the sash to fit. I cut off the excess length, finished the ends, and stitched the thing in place only along the lower edge, on the skirt. I then added hooks&eyes at the edges to keep it closed and upright, and to make the dress easier to take on and off as it slips over the head without any closure. The sash is not attached to the bodice at all.

I added another of the gathered-tube roses and a satin V at the join. Here's the finished dress. It's still a few inches longer than I'd like. I just didn't have it in me to shorten it in time for the event, but I eventually will:

And a detail of the collar and flower:

And here I am, with Mr. BDV, and people-watching and laughing with Sarah and her husband at the event. It was a lovely evening:

Update 4/20/19: I wore the dress to dance as an extra in the Lifetime movie "The Lover in the Attic." Here are screenshots:

I had plenty left over. When a winter Regency event came up, I had my favorite seamstress make me a 1797 dress from period-correct Nehelenia patterns. In trade for Beth's labor I shipped her nearly a dozen yards -- enough for my dress and at least another -- keeping only a scant yard for future repairs or projects.

Once I had my gown, and a bodiced petticoat (corset plus slip in one, also from Beth) to go underneath, I set about completing the outfit.

First up, some antique (I mean really old) pins to hold my dress closed. These aren't sewing pins. They're what people used to secure their clothes, even before buttons. The friendly, metal-detecting Dutch eBay seller sent them in "as dug" condition, but they polished up nicely with a whole lot of Brasso and elbow grease. I was surprised at how extremely sharp they are! The modern sewing pins at lower right are for comparison:

Next up, a purse. Below are before and after shots of a reticule I'd bought on clearance. I replaced its original tassel with a beefier one, replaced its ribbon ties with satin cord I'd braided to be more decorative and substantial, and stitched on some fancy ribbon from the local crafts store. But first I'd flipped it inside-out, so the cord openings were inside. I also stitched together and hid the cord joins. I just prefer it that way. 

Next, a hat. I'd already made a Regency bonnet, but that wouldn't work for a formal, indoor, cold-weather event. Perhaps a stylish turban? I did research, and went to the local bead shop for aigrette supplies -- glass beads, head pins, spacers, a cone-shaped metal doo-dad to hold everything. I already had ostrich plumes. I thought I'd wind up with something like this:

But with the clock ticking, and spooked by intimidating turban tutorials, I opted for a tam. It's basically a banded beret and seemed less complicated. An example, at left: 

The tam tutorial recommended creating a muslin. It's not something I'd normally do (impatient), but with no spare silk or experience, I heeded their advice.

All I had to do was cut and gather a circle of fabric and attach that to a band, then embellish. They said to begin with a 20" diameter circle, so I did.

I looked up how to cut a circle (I'm a novice, I have to look up everything). Easy cheesy. 

The resulting test tam was comfy and made me feel like a muppet. I took to wearing it around the house, muttering fake Swedish. Hurdy gurdy, bork bork bork.

Much bigger, I decided. You can always reduce, but you can't increase, and I had no fabric for a do-over. So I cut a 28" diameter circle. 

The photo below shows the basting stitches for gathering the circle into a poof and that poof attached to the band with machine hemstitch. The band is a simple tube pressed flat. I made it a bit narrower than the muslin's band, starting with about a 3" wide strip. To determine the length of the band, I'd put my hair up (it's thick enough to change my hat size), measured around my head where I wanted the hat to sit, and then added several inches. 

The black petersham ribbon I'd ordered to cover the raw interior edge never showed up (still lost in transit), so mom offered a length of mystery binding. I attached that, and the rest of the trim, by hand.

Here's the finished tam before adding any decorations. Hehe. Silly.

Next up, decorating. I sewed together at one end another flattened tube of the green silk plus two additional lengths of coordinating stash fabric. After loosely twisting them, pinning as I went, I tacked it all in place.

My kids voted to have the long tails remain hanging down. To me it looked a bit too Rembrandt/renaissance poet, and I couldn't work out a way to finish the fraying tail ends.

So off they came. I threaded a length of faux pearls through it all and tacked that on with a few more stitches. Here's the tidy interior and the completed, tail-less twist:

I made the aigrette as planned, but oops, no big white plume on hand, so I joined a few feather tops for a subtler approach. Finally, I watched several "how to make fabric flowers" tutorials, and created a simple, gathered blossom from burgundy chiffon. This embellishment covers the join where the pearl-and-fabric twist ends. Here's the completed tam:

Last up is what I call my "faux Spencer." Faux, because the back seams are all wrong. To be period-correct, it should look like these original examples. Nowadays, a regular, set-in shoulder seam rests right where your arm meets your body. But from about 1790 to 1820, this seam sat over the shoulder blade. Very strange. 

Fact is, period-correct construction, especially seams, changes how a garment feels, fits, and moves. Along with proper undergarments, and era-appropriate fabrics and fasteners, it's what makes a costume look like the real thing.

Alas, this verisimilitude is tough to achieve with only limited sewing skills and an epic, thrifted 1980s church-lady velvet suit. Wowza. Ain't that something?

When I realized I'd forgotten to take a "before" photo, I temporarily reconstructed. I'd already cut off the jacket's peplum and sleeve lace, removed monumental shoulder pads (not shown) and the two (gorgeous) rhinestone buttons that remained. I never got a photo of the skirt -- straight, below-knee, with bottom third in the dramatic, pointed lace. Quite the suit! But nicely made of good-quality velvet.

I used skirt fabric to create long sleeves, leaving a smidge of lace showing at the lower edge of the new "puffs." The jacket's sleeves weren't very full to begin with and my arms aren't slim, so the puffs underwhelm. Perhaps taking in the too-loose lower sleeve at some later date will create a comparatively puffier puff. 

I used more skirt fabric to make covered buttons and the shortened jacket's "belt" which I pinned in place before making the final cut to the jacket body, just in case. I then hand stitched the belt onto the jacket, from the inside, top and bottom, everywhere but at the center back.

After trimming off the folded-up hem and securing it in place, I created a smaller, ruffly new peplum from pieces of the old. Oddly enough, that was the hardest, most time-consuming piece to place. Possibly because it was now 2:30am. Here's the result:

And here's how the whole thing looked at the event the next day. I went with Steve, my friend and fellow member of Atlanta Time Travelers: Vintage and Historic Clothing Enthusiasts group:

If you're interested in learning how to create a reasonably historically accurate Regency hairstyle, click here.

I've already moved on to the next project, but when I trim down the sleeves, I'll add a few covered buttons above the ruffle peplum, as in this gorgeous original:

No one would accuse wealthy 18th century women of minimalism. 

I liken the era's fashion to that of the 1980s. The big hair, bold makeup, garish clothing, even the posture of both eras scream, "I'm here! Look at me!"

I wore this 18th century costume to perform with a baroque dance troupe. We entertained holiday shoppers at the local upscale mall. 

I'd bought the dress used and altered it to be a bit more period-correct, moving the stomacher (that center part of the bodice) down several inches, and tidying up and embellishing the eschelles (the bows, which form an échelle, or ladder).

My shoes came from England via Stella Rose Vintage, and my "clocked" (decorated at the ankles) stockings (similar to extra-tall knee socks) from eBay. The only antique item is the purse dangling from my wrist (you can read about its "rescue" here). My feathered hair decoration I purchased on eBay, then embellished to match the dress.

I created the neck ruff from bits and bobs I had on hand, copying one I'd seen in François Boucher's 1750 portrait of Madame de Pompadour. This shows the back:

Undergarments are essential for creating the right silhouette. My impressive hips are via pocket panniers from another Etsy shop, and my quilted petticoat and spiral-laced corset were both hand-made by Beth at Historical Designs.

Despite all this, my costume met with disapproval from the troupe leader.

Once I'd stopped feeling dejected, I decided that next time I wore it, I'd change things up with a coordinating hat. A grand, ridiculous, rococo-worthy hat that no one will look at and say, "Hmm, it's a bit wimpy." Here we go.

There was a surprisingly wide variety of hat styles to choose from:

My favorites were the bergères (French for shepherdess), with low crown and wide brim. Nearly all were made of straw, though sometimes completely wrapped in silk fabric. Some sat flat and straight on the head, others curved down around the face with wide ribbons fastened beneath the chin or behind the hair, others were impossibly enormous.

I preferred the big, swoopy, highly stylized ones best. What a hoot!

I started reading up on the proper way to trim such a hat. What I discovered was that just about anything goes. Ribbons, flowers, birds, feathers, fruit, wheat. You name it.

Until fairly recently, when we stopped caring about such things, women re-trimmed their hats regularly. As seasons, trends, or her wardrobe changed, a lady would remove and replace her hat's trimmings to suit.

So long as I wasn't sticking an anachronism on my head (no iPods, Pez dispensers, or toy airplanes), I could do as I pleased, just as they'd done back then.

I started with this reproduction pre-shaped straw form I found on eBay:

I inventoried my millinery, ribbon, "really good stuff," and "odds and ends" boxes.

This recently acquired vintage floral thingy looked great on the hat and coordinated beautifully with silk golden-taupe ribbon at the brim and crown:

The problem was that the colors were too deep and bright. It overpowered the dress.

So I tried a smaller, softer-hued vintage floral bunch, with and without a tiny vintage bird. No good. I had no plans to "underwhelm" again. And, yawn:

Temporarily without any suitable flowers, I set about making a big bow from leftover antique silk. I'd used it previously to reline the reticule and embellish the stomacher. The bow is just folded tubes, hand-stitched in place. Relatively quick and easy. Yes, the silk is a bit discolored. So am I at this point.

A trip to Goodwill netted me a potted fake-flower arrangement in just-right colors. I spent the better part of a weekend pulling it apart.

No, of course I didn't want to use cheap, fake flowers. I wanted to use gorgeous antique millinery flowers with zero plastic and lots of history. But that didn't work out. And these did coordinate beautifully. So I used what I had. Just like the author of one of my favorite blogs, I'm a pragmatic costumer.

Here's my work table after the floral disassembly:

I pinned on the bow and began arranging flowers. Adding the silk ribbon, I realized it wouldn't work. Yes, it's luscious. But it just didn't look right with the dress. What went better was the blueish-gray grosgrain at right:

But, it's modern grosgrain with a straight, woven edge. What I needed was petersham ribbon with a flexible, "sawtooth" edge. It bends easily on curves without buckling. It's harder to find. So I hit eBay. None of the grays available was the right shade. I ordered samples. I bought some off-white for future use. But I still needed blue-ish gray.

So I met Nicholas Kniel at his jaw-dropping millinery shop. He forbade me posting photos because he hadn't had time to tuck in every loose ribbon on every spool. Trust me, I didn't care. But he did. And now that we're friends, I'd like to keep it that way. The place is absolutely exquisite. I kept saying I wanted to eat everything. And he didn't throw me out!

There was no petersham in stock in the right shade of gray. But he did have gorgeous bias-cut silk ribbon. I bought that, along with a tiny, silk-velvet bird, because why not?

He suggested I first use a wide bias tape in a color close to the straw to create a smooth surface for the ribbon. I hunted it down on eBay, applied it, then carefully applied the silk bias ribbon on top, at both brim edge and crown:

Yes, I used hot glue. There is only so much hand-stitching on straw I can do without bleeding to death, and I didn't trust myself to machine sew it neatly enough. The straw texture still shows through, but not as much as it would without the bias-tape "lining."

I went very slowly. And when it was finished, the top looked pretty good! Not perfect, but pretty good. The problem was on the inside, which becomes the outside at the turned-up back. It looked rather sloppy, with the bias tape showing.

So I used some of my Gramma Bessie's antique cotton lace to tidy it up, hand-stitching it at top and bottom of its full length, with the help of thimble and pliers. That took a while. But it worked. Very tidy. And the tiny picot edge peaking out is my favorite part of the entire hat!

All that was left was sewing the bow in place and then glueing and/or sewing on the flowers. I'm considering adding a peach-satin ribbon along the interior of the crown to form ties. As you can see in this scene from the film "The Duchess," Keira Knightley's hat is held on with a hat pin, while her companion's has ties:

I'm pleased with the results, so may just leave well enough alone:



(My modern tank top doesn't create the right silhouette, but you get the idea.) 

The blouse had been listed as final sale. When I explained to the seller that it might not survive cleaning, she offered a small discount to help offset my risk.

It was the right size (length can be a challenge for my super-long torso) and the medium-blue corded trim would match my "orphan" antique wool skirt of the same era. So I bought it.

When it arrived it was darkened and a bit stiff from a century of collected dust and dirt, and it smelled old. There were no obvious stains and it wasn't mildewed, but the blouse was filthy.

The exterior fabrics appeared sound, but the silk lining was a different story. And because the collar lay against the skin, not protected by undergarments or loose fit, it was badly damaged. Its lining was shattering. You can see several holes in the bodice lining, as well, but it's not shattering so there was hope:

I didn't photograph the cleaning process, but I think I gave it a very gentle hand-washing in my favorite Dollar General liquid soap. Eventually the rinse water was clear and the blouse was clean enough.

And it had survived. Mostly.

The bodice and sleeve linings remained, but as expected, the collar lining was mostly gone.

A few seams had come apart when their cotton and silk threads, which degrade faster than fabrics of the same materials, disintegrated. One lower sleeve now dangled freely from where it had attached to its upper sleeve. But no big deal. 

It was the collar I worried about. The stitches attaching its satin-covered boning framework were mostly gone, leaving the whole thing collapsed and disheveled. I had to do something! So I put the clean blouse on a suitable hanger and stashed it in my cedar closet for a year and a half. Problem solved.

About 6 months ago I decided to stop procrastinating. I gathered all the "small projects" I'd stashed away, including antique underthings needing patches, mid-century dresses needing buttons or hemming, modern thrift-store finds needing work to become passable costume versions of earlier eras*, and the antique blouse.
  
I worked my way through the entire pile. The blouse made me nervous so I kept putting it off. Eventually the pile was gone, and only the blouse remained. It stared at me sadly for a few more months. Then I had an idea.

I'd acquired some seriously expensive and nearly edible tulle -- both genuine silk and super-fine synthetic. I use these to repair vintage hand fans. Maybe it would work as a collar lining?

I removed the rather revolting fabric dress shields from the underarms:

If you've ever wondered, "Should I use dress shields in my vintage, antique, and favorite modern clothes?" here's your answer. The lining beneath the shields is as bright, clean, and undamaged as can be after considerable wear and more than 100 years. They are the only unscathed areas of the entire lining:

Next came the easy part, reattaching the dangling sleeve. I just turned it inside out and stitched it back on with a basting stitch, same as on the intact sleeve. Both of these are "after" shots, but you can see how it attaches at a bit of silk stabilizer beneath the ruffle. Those aren't my stitches you see. Mine are on the inside:

I then stitched up or darned as best I could the largest holes in the lining. Next, it was on to the collar.

After removing any bits of silk lining still clinging to the satin-covered framework, I rearranged the stays so they were flat and evenly spaced. I then stitched all along the top, bottom, and each vertical, using cotton thread and biggish stitches, same as the originals:

The silk tulle was too white, so I used the synthetic, which is equally fine, if not finer. I didn't measure, just eyeballed it, cutting a piece a bit larger than the frame. I turned the edges under twice, pinned it in place, and stitched it to the frame, keeping the tulle as smooth and flat as I could, and using the original needle holes from the old lining whenever possible. I did the bottom edge last:

It wasn't difficult and I didn't have to undo or redo anything. How refreshing! Here's the result. Nearly invisible, which is the point:


And here's how it looks on me:

Please forgive that I'm modeling it over yet another modern tank top. When the weather cools and we Atlanta Time Travelers find or create a turn-of-the-century event, I will show you the blouse worn with period-correct undergarments, that antique blue skirt I mentioned, and all the late-Victorian/early Edwardian trimmings! 

* This is how I learned to make a belt using a vintage belt-making kit. I'll tell you about that process another time. It's fun!

UPDATE (12/7/2016): I finally wore the blouse (and coordinating skirt) to Historic Oakland Cemetery's "Victorian Holiday Festival" this past weekend. 

photo: (c) Philip Walker Photography

Despite my potentially offensive insistence that there's no point having a Jane Austen get-together without dressing the part, they were kind enough to invite me to their "Box Hill Picnic." The group was reading Emma, and the picnic on Box Hill is the story's pivotal scene. Here's the 2009 film version:

Yummy! And reason enough to cobble together an entire Regency outfit, no? Sarah (at left in cover photo) was game as always despite her strong preference for the Brontës.

We came up with dresses (mine custom by Fashions from the Past, Sarah's a 60s formal transformed with her customary creativity and skill). Of course we needed bonnets, too, and thought it might be fun to create our own. 

We followed this YouTube tutorial. I really like the presenter's* pleasant manner and non-judgmental approach ("Don't want to sew? Use a glue gun!").

Here's how it went --

First, I found an 18" wide straw hat for $3 (about as much as I was willing to risk) at a gift shop. Sarah found a slightly smaller, airier model for the same price at a thrift store. They're available at your big-box craft store, as well.

I folded the hat and cut it not-quite-in-half (I'd be using the bigger piece), trimmed the pointed edges into curves, then encased the perimeter in lace to prevent unraveling and give it a tidy finish. Sarah used ribbon for this step. The tutorial suggests folded bias tape. 

Lining your bonnet is optional but really adds a lot and is well worth the effort. I used a chiffon sleeve cut from one of Sarah's projects. It was conveniently gathered into a decorative narrow cuff, so opposite the tutorial's advice, I attached it at the bottom edge first. I then spread out the loose fabric, trimmed it, rolled the raw edge twice, and stitched it around the brim.

Next, I smoothed the upper portion a bit more taut, made a few stitches along the interior edge of the crown to secure it (these steps not shown, sorry), and stuffed the excess into the crown. 

Next came the "tea cozy" poof. Here are original and fashion-plate examples: 

I used more of Sarah's prime cast-offs -- silk damask from a thrifted dress. I neglected to take photos of this crucial part, so please refer to the video tutorial if in doubt. It's not at all difficult, but a bit hard to explain.

You'll need a rectangular piece of fabric that when folded in half along the long edge is about 9" high. After you've sewn the short ends together to create a cylinder, it should fit over the crown of your hat with, at minimum, enough extra room to contain your hair. 

Sew from the open end up toward the fold, leaving a little gap open at the top, into which you'll slip any slim ribbon or cord (it won't show). Tighten this drawstring completely so there's no opening at all, then flip your creation right side out.

Slip it over the crown of the hat and gather to fit, as shown. How dramatically poofy you want this element to be is up to you. Both sleek and extra-big are period-correct.

What probably isn't period-correct is the channeled elastic I added when I got fed up trying to gather it evenly around the crown. Feel free to send the historical-accuracy police, by horse and buggy. 

Oops, error #1, I had to snip my stitches at the bottom inch or two at either side, loosen the elastic, and spread the fabric flat to widen the open space at back. Only then did it fit my head and accommodate my big bun.

We found that tacking poof to bonnet with a stitch or two at the crown kept it from flopping about. 

Cover the join with a ribbon or coordinating fabric. Add long ribbon ties** to the sides. This was error #2 for me, as my original placement choked me a bit and didn't narrow the bonnet properly around my face.

Also, to help with shaping, you might want to mist your bonnet with water and clip it into a more-narrow shape, but don't make my mistake #3 and fold it too near the top or you'll wind up with a pointed brim. 

Time for the fun part, trim! Ladies back when regularly updated their hat trimmings to coordinate with a new dress, the season, or current fashion. Regency bonnets featured millinery flowers, dramatic feathers, and even faux fruit.

I found a box of very vintage floral trim at an antiques shop. For $1 I got two complete sprays plus additional bits and pieces. I removed, ironed, and replaced the rumpled ribbons, repaired or removed damaged parts, and added a few purple and mauve flowers to better coordinate with my dress. 

I attached the upgraded sprays, and that was that! I wanted to add a bit of trim along the inside edge of the brim (Sarah used some on her bonnet and it looks great), but I ran out of time before the event so it had to wait. 

All told, I probably spent more than 10 hours on my bonnet, although I really enjoyed it and was not watching the clock. Sarah and I were both pleased with our results.

Friend and fellow Atlanta Time Travelers group member Steve joined us for the picnic. We had a wonderful time. Here are some photos.

See more photos of this and other dress-up adventures on the BDV Instagram Feed and Facebook Page.

 
* Thanks to tutorial creator Stephanie Johanesen for responding to my random FB message in such a friendly and enthusiastic manner.

** Note the spot of blood on the ribbon tie, resulting from one of many self-stabbings along the way. I needed a transfusion by the time I'd finished. Not really, but I do recommend starting with a thinner, finer straw or fabric hat, or being more adroit with needle and thread than I.

I'll admit I was a bit nervous. Would the other attendees be friendly? I feared sitting alone and awkward all evening, my Yankee showing like an errant petticoat peeking from my hem. 

No need. It was wonderful! Organized by Holly Sheen of Southern Victorian Events, the ball was held in the beautiful hall of the town's visitor center:

I'd arrived too early to check in at the hotel and with over an hour before the pre-ball dance lessons began. So I took a stroll. I passed the Newberry Opera House, where the weekend farmer's market held in the square out front had just wrapped up:

I worked my way up Main Street, stopping in nearly every open shop and peeking in all the windows.

In Newberry's downtown you can still buy clothes and office supplies, visit the dentist, have a cup of coffee and a sandwich, see a show, or get your hair cut (or styled for that upcoming pageant): 

There's a community theater, a gym, a cigar bar, and several antiques stores. In one, specializing in ornately carved wooden furniture, I picked up a brochure about the Wells Japanese Garden. The proprietor told me it was just a short walk away and always open.

The next 2 hours were spent learning new dances and brushing up on ones I'd done before. The teacher/caller Raquelle Sheen was first-rate, and easily had absolute beginners and young kids doing fairly complex English country dances. I was happy to do (and hear) the lovely Duke of Kent's Waltz again.

After checking into the hotel and changing my blister-inducing shoes, I headed back out to find the Japanese garden. Given the extreme heat and not wanting to be exhausted for the ball, I drove the short distance to the entrance. The pocket park is an unexpected, beautifully maintained oasis in a town that hardly needs one. Such a pleasant surprise:

It was time to get ready. First up was the hair, as it's nearly impossible to do once dressed. I tried a new style. Top braids, four back braids. A central bun. I suspect the placement of the bun makes it a bit more Regency than mid-Victorian. Here it is before adding the last few bobby pins and the decorative comb:

Next came makeup, which to be period-correct must look invisible -- no bright colors, no glitter or shimmer, no liner or obvious mascara. Natural brows and only neutral colors. I add a touch of pink to lips and cheeks to brighten my sallow complexion. They'd have done the same.

It was already drizzling, extremely hot and humid, and I had no one to help me get dressed. I can't get into the green silk bodice on my own. Lacking a lady's maid, I had no choice but to wear the plaid cotton.

You get dressed in this order:
Stockings and shoes, split drawers, chemise, corset, under petticoat (not a necessity, but nice for extra modesty, just in case), hoop, over petticoat (I went without one this time), dress consisting of separate skirt and bodice, jewelry, hair ornament, reticule, fan, and gloves. Done!

Here's how I looked:

Here's how the ballroom looked: 

Attendees were elementary school kids to senior citizens, wearing outfits that spanned modern formal to 1980s-polyester-prom-dress to magnificently hand-sewn period-correct masterpiece.

Everyone was made welcome and, unlike my experience at some Atlanta-area events, there wasn't a hint of cliquish snobbery. Lovely decorations, delicious snacks and cold drinks, and the best part ... 

The live music. Here's a somewhat fuzzy image of the excellent band:

I made several new friends I look forward to seeing at the Olde South Ball in Spartanburg, SC, on Aug. 27, 2016. Mr. BDV will be with me for that event, which is bigger and includes a sit-down dinner. If you're in the Southeastern United States, you should consider attending. It's good, clean fun.

After the ball, lounging around the hotel room eating pretzels in my antique chemise:

 For additional images from the trip, check out BDV on Instagram.

I purchased it in 2014 from La Roux Vintage, and it makes me happy every time I look at it.

I've carried it with care to the Dressing Downton exhibit at Biltmore Estate and to a summer picnic hosted by alternate-history group AnachroCon (Sarah and I went Edwardian).

It's in great condition, although it probably started out a much lighter off-white shade than its current ecru. The only problem was that I couldn't fasten it shut. Not a big deal when it's upright. 

But long, sturdy, Edwardian parasols like this one are meant to serve as walking sticks as well as sun shades. Think Rose in Titanic or Violet Crawley in Downton Abbey.

None of the parasols belonging to these real Edwardian ladies flops partially open as much as mine did:

To prevent tearing the lace or having the tips of the ribs snag my dress, I used a wide ribbon, wrapped and tied in a bow, to hold it closed. All this wrapping and unwrapping was tedious. It required two hands and I couldn't do it with my gloves on. My fan or reticule would wind up tangled, or on the ground.

Perhaps my parasol had once had a gadget around the shaft or some other means of closure. But I could find no telltale bits of anything lingering anywhere.

My plan was to rig something similar to what you see on any modern umbrella. It would need to be attractive but inconspicuous, made of period-correct materials, and not hamper the mechanism or damage the lace. 

I bought luxurious silk ribbon that matched perfectly. Alas, it was too wide and didn't look right. Back to the fancy fabric store I went, but they had no narrower silk.

In the end I left with several narrower lengths of high-quality synthetic in promising shades. At home I did what you do with face makeup -- draped them all across the parasol and picked the one that blended in best. 

Today, with time and a plan, I picked a vintage button from my stash and stitched it to one end of the ribbon, which I'd folded over twice so there'd be no raw edges. I stitched that to the parasol, taking care not to interfere with the ribs.

I turned under the opposite end of the ribbon, and attached a length of narrow and too-white vintage cotton twill which I tea-dyed while I fixed all six of our dining room chairs -- entirely unrelated, but just so you know I stayed productive ; ).

I really must work on my horizontal stitches. Very sloppy. 

Still, I'm pleased with the result, which accomplished the goal: 

Have you made any tweaks or changes that let you better-enjoy your vintage or antique items? If so, what, and why? We'd love to hear about it! 

The upper lining where the drawstrings pull through was completely shattered. The seller was forthcoming. I knew what I was getting into. Here's another of Kelly's photos:

But you know me and potentially repairable old things. They are my version of lost puppies, continually following me home. 

The reticule went into the "big box of things to fix some day," and sat, occasionally glaring at me when I reached in for another puppy. I couldn't do anything until I had an appropriate lining fabric. I knew one would turn up eventually.

So remember this fantasy of an 1850s dress, which (for a time) I'd hoped to be able to wear? 

The idea was to bridge the very wide gap (on me) between bodice and skirt with a very wide belt. I bought a tall antique buckle on Etsy, and a "Delicious Antique Silk Satin Remnant in Baby Pink" on eBay.

Long story short, I couldn't make it work without harming the dress, which I sold. But I still had the silk. It hadn't really worked with the dress, but coordinated nicely with the reticule.

I tore away the shattered chiffon lining, wondering why someone would have used such sheer fabric to house drawstrings. I hesitated before snipping the original, tiny, hand stitches. But my mom warned it would be too bulky if I left them.

I liked how whoever made it had cleverly hidden the raw ends of the drawstrings behind ribbon bows at either side:

It took a long time to remove the stitches. At last I was ready to place the new lining. But I didn't have any matching thread. Isn't that always the case? Time out for a trip to my local quilt shop for 100% silk thread.

I tried to be neat, without making myself crazy. I worked from the exterior, trying to place the new stitches in the existing holes. It looks better on the outside, and it's not as lumpy as it looks here (fluffy blanket on my lap isn't helping). Here's the first side completed, with one drawstring in place:

 And the completed interior with both sides of the lining and both drawstrings in place: 

Finally, I ironed, trimmed, tied, and reattached the silk-ribbon bows that hide the drawstring ends. The silk is shattering, but since the bows are decorative and stitched in place, they should be fine for now.

Exterior view of the completed reticule, lying flat:

And hanging from my wrist. I can't wait to use it!

Could I do it? Could I resist the lure of the adorable, ridiculously cheap garment du jour at Target or on Pinterest? 

About half my closet is costumes (both vintage and new). And I don't pay much attention to what's trendy, except to notice it's been done before. But like most people, I enjoy a cute, affordable, new thing, whether I "need" it or not.

Fashion industry profit and production has exploded in the new millennium. It's now a $3 trillion industry. What's changed most is how much of that money goes into production and how much goes directly into the pockets of corporate executives.

We used to buy clothes the way we bought refrigerators -- to last. Well-made everyday garments could be handed down, reworked to the current silhouette, and worn for decades. Today, we're encouraged to buy clothes the way we buy paper towels -- to use quickly and throw away. They're far cheaper, so we can have a lot more of them. They fall apart, so we have to replace them.  

Until just a few decades ago, nearly all our garments were made right here in the U.S., under the watchful and protective eye of the ILGWU.

Now, although profits remain here, 97% of garment production is outsourced. To meet shareholder demand for rising profits and consumer demand for lower prices, "fast-fashion" requires its manufacturers to produce more for less. Factory bosses must cut corners. 

With no labor unions, no OSHA oversight, and no environmental protection laws, that means ever-worsening conditions for the 40 million garment workers in third-world countries who produce clothing for western markets. Most are women and children, earning less than $3 per day.

In 2013, more than 1,100 people died and 2,500 were injured when the Rana Plaza garment factory collapsed in Bangladesh. Earlier that day, workers had been forced to return to the building after reporting cracks in the walls.

We watched the carnage on TV, briefly horrified. Very sad, yes, but these people are not like us and they're so far away. Our fleeting guilt is assuaged when we're told that this sort of tragedy is just part of the "development" process. In fact, low-wage work in appallingly dangerous conditions are their "least-worst option" and "a necessary step on the road to becoming a first-world country."

Really? Isn't it actually a choice we make with every purchase? When we buy a $10 dress at H&M or a $5 t-shirt at Old Navy, we are voicing our approval. We know we may only wear the thing a couple of times, but at that price, who can resist, right? And why should we?

In 2015 we will buy 80 billion pieces of new clothing. That's 400% more than we bought in 1995. 

Producing and processing that staggering quantity of goods at ever-lower prices is having an unprecedented impact on the environment. Today, only the oil industry creates more pollution. 

Birth defects, mental retardation, and cancers all directly linked to pesticides are exponentially higher in areas where heavily treated cotton is grown. People living downstream from leather processing plants where unregulated runoff contaminates the drinking water and soil suffer from skin and digestive disorders.

The average American now discards 82 pounds of clothing a year, adding a staggering 11 million tons of textile waste (most of it non-biodegradable) to landfills. 

And giving your unwanted clothes to charity doesn’t help. It merely spreads the problem around. Just 10% of our donated clothes are sold in thrift shops. The rest arrive, by the ton, in enormous, shrink-wrapped parcels at the markets of poor Caribbean and African countries. Our endless stream of cast-offs, dubbed "dead white people's clothes" by locals, have generated an entire industry that is wreaking havoc on traditional manufacturing and threatening local cultures.

So, enough with the depressing statistics. Here's what happened during my year of "austerity." First of all, I spent some money. With a self-imposed ban on anything newly mass-produced, I gave myself free license to buy whatever vintage, antique, individually hand-made, and second-hand items I wanted. Here are a few of my acquisitions.

Not shown are the gorgeous 1920s tap pants, the original Civil War bonnet and 1910s dresses, and a knit jacket from the consignment store. 

It really wasn't a very trying or difficult experience. In fact, I was tempted off the wagon only twice. First, with the arrival of the Garnet Hill clearance catalog, and second, oddly enough, with the Chadwick's of Boston catalog. Those old-fashioned, slightly frumpy clothes really appeal. I can't deny my traditionalism. But I can find the same thing, better made, in vintage versions. A 50s pencil skirt, or even a union-made 80s version, will always outdo and outlast a modern made-elsewhere version. Plus, it'll have a hem to work with. I resisted.

It's now Sept. 7, 2015, and the challenge is over. I still haven't bought anything new. I need to restock my underwear drawer, and since I tend to wear everyday lingerie until it's unwearable, I suppose I can go ahead and click "buy." Still, I hesitate. It takes 3 weeks to create a new habit, and I've had 53.  

This experiment has definitely made me a more conscious and conscientious consumer. I'll never again say, "It's so cheap, it's silly not to buy it, even if I only wear it once." That's no longer the bargain it once seemed.

There's one question the original BBC documentary that inspired my plan, and the even more revealing "The True Cost" (which I watched more recently and highly recommend*), do not address. Namely, how does the production of insanely overpriced designer goods compare?

If I go to a high-end department store or boutique, and pay $175 for a pair of jeans or $75 for a t-shirt, where have all those extra dollars gone? Was it into advertising and merchandising, into the pocket of the designer or the corporation? Or did it go to the responsible production of the garment? I have my suspicions, and I'll need to do more research.

* Many of the statistics I've quoted come from this film. I've consulted various sources for corroboration.