I like the stripes on this one: the contrast between the vertical stripes on the bodice and skirt, the horizontal stripe on the skirt, and diagonal of the bias-cut sleeves. The maker even made the effort to align the stripes on the cape and bodice at the center front.
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| Dress, cotton, c.1825. From LACMA. |
Found this while working on a different research project, and fell in with love with the stripe fabric. It's described as a denim, which I need to look into further, as I haven't seen a two-color striped denim like this before. Anyway, I love how the striped fabric and darker (piped?) edging makes the bias-bands pop. It's very effective as trim, but subtle enough not to overwhelm the whole garment.
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| Dress, European, c.1890, in LACMA. |
Mostly Faire gear this month: I've fixed holes in my linen hose every weekend, and probably should just made new pairs for next summer. Also somehow managed to pull out both gusset seams on last year's smock and got to repair those felled seams. Awkward.
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| Bad enough felling the crossing seams once... |
Knit garters, based on the Typical Tudor recipe for...knit garters. Appropriately worked in garter stitch, with two strands of undyed wool singles.
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| Garters as knit. |
I made mine long enough for cross-gartering, only to find that my knees really aren't the right shape for it. Fortunately, the garters work just as well tied single.
I tried to dye the garters blue (messed up my indigo vat this time, got a pale yellow that dried to absolutely nothing), then red/orange/pink/brown (madder vat, any color would be fine, except that I got a shade I call "world's palest oatmeal"), and finally yellow/green (pomegranate...but instead ended up with darkest brown-black instead). Functionally, this was the only color I was not going for at any point, but they still work fine and it's not like my garters are ever visible under a kirtle.
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| And dyed brown. |
This month's fun antique garment is from LACMA:
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| Two-piece silk dress, c. 1853-5. LACMA. |
The color scheme of this dress is what caught my eye. To date, both original prints a la disposition that I've handled were purple motifs printed on a white-ground, with a purple-grounded border; both were also made up into flounced skirt dresses. This dress is silk rather than cotton, and seemingly used two fabrics rather than a border print, but follows the same color and design scheme. It's makes me wonder if this coincidence or evidence for a trend among mid-1850s flounced dresses.
The oddly flat point on this bodice's front waist also caught my eye. I've never seen one quite like it, and at first was inclined to assume a later remake. Or perhaps that I looking at the back of a postillion basque or a peplum (though the sleeves suggest that we're looking at the front of the bodice). I'd really like to see this garment in person and up close to figure out what's going on with it.
Busy month for repair work. I fixed the seams in both pairs of linen hose; put new ties on my plaid petticoat, Victorian nightcap, and plain coif; replaced the waistband on my white linen apron and reattached that of the green; put darts in my green kirtle to fix the neckline gap; and finally finished the buttonholes on my new(er) drawers.
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| Nearly emptied the workbasket. For now. |
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| Tea Cakes. |
TEA CAKE. Two cups of sugar, 1 cup of butter, 1 cup of milk, half a teaspoonful of pearlash, flour enough to make it stiff enough to roll out; add carraway seed or spice.I actually made a full batch this time, and even got to use the specified leavener, and I had some pearlash on hand. Huzzah for home-brew supply shops.
Two ingredients do not have specified quantities: flour and spice. I ended up using 3 cups of flour, then working in another 1-1.5 cups flour as I was preparing to roll it out. I found this still a still a bit too sticky to do so, but being pressed for time, I chose to roll it into balls rather than rolling out
and cutting. Next time I try this recipe, I think I would start with 4.5 or 5 cups flour, plus some for rolling. I'd also be tempted to chill the dough overnight before rolling it out--the sticky consistency of the dough reminded me of how my modern cutout cookie dough looks before it is allowed to rest.
For the spice I estimated about 1/2 tsp nutmeg and 1/4 tsp cloves. I found this adequately flavorful; my guests' initial feedback was positive, though there was one vote that it could have a bit more spice. Next time I might increase each by 1/4 tsp and see how that goes.
One batch made two very full pans of cakes; in less of a hurry, I'd probably divide it into 3 pans since they do spread out a bit. I baked them at 350F for about 10-12 minutes per pan; this saw the edges starting to darken noticeably while the centers were barely done, but I think that had more to do with the shape of the cakes than not.
Overall, this was a fairly easy and straightforward recipe, and I think it fits well into the tea cake/dessert biscuit niche.
Last Friday, I had the pleasure of serving as sous chef/research assistant for the Fort's second annual "Dine We Must" gala dinner. The main courses were catered, but our intrepid group of volunteers once again put on a full line-up of period desserts prepared in the historic kitchen.
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| Ready for Service: boiled puddings, baked puddings, cakes & every good thing. |
This year's bill of fare included boiled lemon pudding with a stiff sauce, spotted dick with brown sugar sauce, chocolate pudding, baked cherry pudding with cherry sauce, charlotte aux pommes, and cream cakes.
This year we had a team of five: Quin (cook), me (assistant), E. (bake oven/summer kitchen), M. (kitchen maid), and A. (scullery maid). Over eight hours we prepared six different dessert recipes and three sauces, using a wood-burning stove, clay bake oven, and open fires; by 8pm we'd plated 10 dishes and served three-dozen diners.
My main accomplishment for the evening was finding source citations for all the ingredients. Serving the public has a very stringent set of ingredient restrictions (and this is the only event were we do more than small samples) so finding an array of dishes with different flavor profiles that use the different available cooking surfaces, meet the health department requirements, and aren't a repeat of the previous year is quite the puzzle. This year, I was also able to document all of the ingredients to our location and mid-1850s time period (including chocolate, lemon juice, and cherries). Head-cook Quin not only did the bulk of the menu-planning, but also successfully made choux paste on a wood-burning stove.
From Maria Rundell's A New System of Domestic Cookery (1844):
Italian Salad.--E. R.--Pick the white portion of a cold fowl from the bones in small flakes, pile it in the centre of a dish, and pour a salad mixture over, enriched with cream; make a wall around with salad of any kind, laying the whites of the eggs cut into rings on the top in a chain.
The "salad of any kind" gives a lot of leeway there. Just on the same page, Mrs. Rundell mentions purslane, lettuces, mustard, cress, chives, "any kind of young herb in season," endive, celery, cabbage, as well as various other vegetables which can be included in salads (even if they don't meet the "salading" definition, which I tend to read as the leafy green portion). Over in The Domestic Oracle (1860), salads include various combinations of spinach, parsley, sorrel, lettuce, pennyroyal, mint tops, balm, endive, colewort, cabbage, tarragon, and nettle-tops. Soyer's A Shilling Cookery for the People (1855) includes salads based on lettuce, cabbage, endive, terragon, chervil, marsh mallow root, mustard, cress, chives, and observes that "beetroot, onions potatoes, celery, cucumbers, lentils, haricots, succory or barbe-de-capucin, winter cress, burnet, tansey, marigold, peas, French beans, radish, cauliflower... may be used judiciously in salad if properly seasoned." He also mentions using nasturtiums flowers as a garnish for salads, a practice which also appears in The Family Hand-book (1838). The Domestic Gardener's Manual (1830) also mentions as salad ingredients corn salad aka lamb lettuce; flowers and young leaves of nasturtium aka Indian cress; young artichoke bottoms; blanched celery; green onions; and mustard. It particularly discusses planting mustard and cress to be used in salads together. The Kitchen Garden (1855) mentions, in addition to the above, dandelion and rocket (arugula) being used in some French salads, though I've only otherwise seen those in English gardening books rather than cookery ones. Garden rocket is known in these books as a "salad herb", and was used by the English in salads during the early modern period, but appears to be out of favor by the 19th century-- which is unfortunate, as I have a great deal of it in my garden just now.
Anyway, taking all of that together, I decided to use my period "Tom Thumb" lettuce, supplemented with spinach, the first endive of the season, and the water cress that's just coming up in my container garden. It's tiny, but in need of thinning.
I started the evening before by by pre-cooking two chicken breasts (since I didn't have any convenient left-overs and was making Paprika Chicken anyway), picking my vegetables, and washing the leaves. In the morning, I boiled two eggs, sliced them, and removed the yolk for making the "salad mixture" or dressing.
Salad Mixture.--E. R.--Salad mixture is like punch, the greater the number of ingredients the better; it is rather difficult, however, to give the proportions, so much depending upon the strength of the vinegar and the preference given to oil. Boil two eggs hard, and beat the yolks very smoothly with the back of a spoon, with two small teaspoonfuls of salt and the same of made mustard; add two tablespoonfuls of sweet oil or two of cream, three of vinegar, a dessert-spoonful of essence of anchovies, one of mushroom ketchup, and one of walnut ditto; to this may be added a salt spoonful of cayenne pepper, while some persons think a teaspoonful of sugar an improvement.
The instruction go on to explain how a raw egg yolk should be added if no oil is used (and the next entry describes using mashed potato in place of either). I decided to simply use the oil, and made up the dressing as indicated: 2 boiled egg yolks mashed with 2 tsp salt and mustard, to which I then stirred in 2 tablespoons olive oil, 2 Tbsp cream, 3 Tbsp white wine vinegar, and 1/2 tsp cayenne. I omitted the anchovies (which I don't like) and the ketchups (which I did not have). As the Italian salad instructions specify cream, I added that to the recipe, but since I didn't want to mess around with raw egg or mashed potato, I chose to treat it as an addition rather than a substitution. I think "the greater number of ingredients the better" remark provides a reasonable basis for adding the cream.
Anyway, from there I built the salad as directed: piling the chicken in the center of the platter, making a "wall" of drained and mixed salad greens around it, pouring the dressing over the chicken, and garnishing with the egg whites. I tried to cut the eggs to get rings for the garnish, but instead ended up with a combination of solid circles and broken rings; I then went to plan B, and simply minced all the egg whites before adding it as a garnish.
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| Italian Salad. |
Reactions were generally favorable. I found the dressing way too salty on its own, but once it was spread over the meat and vegetables, it became quite palatable. I also need to remember a larger platter; although the proportions worked when served, on the platter the lettuce ended up mounded so tall that it concealed the chicken entirely. All in all, this receipt had a lot in common with other mid-19th century salads I've made, so it was quite tasty, but with the benefit of using the vegetables in season at this exact moment (unlike, say, Beeton's, which calls for cucumber, beets, etc., that I won't be harvesting until late summer).
I'm looking forward to experimenting more with this and other historic salad recipes over summer, as different plants mature in my garden. I have a steady line-up of events from different centuries over most of July, and into August/September, as well as a succession of lettuce, spinach, arugula, water cress, salad burnet, purslane, nasturtium, borage, and upland cress (not to mention the mint and other herbs).
While considering salad receipts for Sunday, I can across a handy marketing chart in The Cook's Oracle (1823) showing not only the expected dates when different vegetables would be in season, but also their earliest "forced" dates (when the item would be rare and commanding the highest price due to the extra effort needed to grow it out of season) and when each is at its cheapest price in London. Given an on-going frustration with my local food history research (specifically that non-staple "garden" produce is recorded only in general terms) and the climate similarities, I'm finding it a helpful supplement for deciding when to use which ingredients.
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| Marketing Guide for London, from The Cook's Oracle (5th ed, 1823) pages 412-413. |
Intriguingly, I can document the use of garden frames quite early in pre-Territorial Washington, so depending on the context, some of those "forced" dates could possible for local events. Looking over the chart, here in early June I might be choosing from the last Jerusalem artichokes [admittedly not a plant I've documented here], early French [green] or kidney beans, Windsor (fava) beans, red beets, carrots, cauliflower, maybe forced cucumbers, endive (which is just coming to useful size in my garden), lettuce (also in the garden), cabbage, parsley (doing very well in containers), potatoes, radishes, red & white turnips, small salad (micro-greens?), the last of the sea kale, spring spinach (abundant in my garden), turnips, and turnip greens for salad.
Found this intriguing piece in the Smithsonian (Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum to be specific). I wish their collection had more detailed descriptions: as at a first glance I took this for an embroidered silk apron, but the medium is listed as "cotton block print on plain weave." I'm now wondering whether it was printed in its final conformation, or if we're seeing motifs cut out and appliqued into position.
| Apron, Swiss, early 19th century. From Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum. |
I have a lot of spinach coming up in the garden just now, so the obvious solution is to find period recipes for cooking with it.
SPINACH AS IN FRANCE. When well picked and washed (which is most essential in dressing spinach), put it into a stewpan with a good bit of butter, a bunch of parsley, two shallots, a clove, salt and pepper; simmer over a slow fire, stirring occasionally; when ready, add a tea-spoonful of sugar and a bit of butter rolled on flour; well incorporate the whole. Fried bread as a garnish.
-Maria Rundell's The English Cookery Book (1856)
I tried this one last week at the fort. I started by picking a large double handful of parsley from my container garden and a full vegetable bag of spinach from my allotment. In the kitchen, I rinsed both plants twice, and set them to dry on a sieve. I chopped the shallot (just one since I miscounted) and the parsley, and put ~4 Tbsp of butter on the stove top to melt. I then added the shallot, parsley, clove, salt, pepper, and spinach. I was worried about the limited liquid (and the spinach more than filling the largest saucepan I could find), but the spinach cooked down in short order, and also released enough moisture to keep from burning. Once it had achieved a consistent texture, I added a small spoon of sugar and another ~2 Tbsp butter rolled in flour.
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| Draining spinach; chopped parsley & shallot. |
Meanwhile, with the spinach first cooking and then keeping warm on the back water-tank, Quin and I finally got to use the telescoping toasting forks. We experimented with a few options, but since the whole stove-top was in use, found that the best result involved opening the firebox front a little, and sticking the toast perpendicular on the forks. Unfortunately, this made the oven temperature go haywire, but it is a promising option for when the stove top is in use and the oven is not.
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| Spinach as in France (left), with bonus sausages and mashed potatoes (after Soyer). |
The spinach ended up being a hit with 3/4 historic interpreters, particularly spread over the toast. I found the flavor quite palatable (the shallots and parsley really added some nice depth and interest to the spinach), but alas did not enjoy the slimy texture of cooked-down leaves. Fortunately, we also had mashed potatoes going on that afternoon, and I found that they worked pretty well to disguise the texture while letting the flavor through.
All told, this dish was easy, cheap, and well-received. I'm not going to make it for myself, but I'd definitely consider it for any future living history events where I need a hot, savory side-dish while the spinach is in season.
Just dreaming about a possible summer project...
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| Girl's Boots, c.1850 from LACMA. |
The description says they're made of wool sateen, bound in cotton tape, with leather soles. I wish they had an image of the back heel area.
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| One of three sock darns, and evidence my corset is finally re-bound. |
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| Now every outfit has pockets. |
Mea culpa for falling behind on posts. Again. I finally made up my long-planned late 18th/early 19th century dettached pocket last month, and then proceeded to not photograph it for some seven weeks.
Anyway, the patchwork is based on this early 19th century pocket from the Met. It uses larger square patches for the bottom of the pocket, and smaller squares and rectangles where the pocket narrows around the opening. As the Met has not kindly provided useful dimensions in their catalog, I used the measurements from a c.1840 pocket in the Old Sturbridge Village collection. I was able to draw a trapezoid from the height and two widths given, round the corners, and add a slit of the specified length. Very handy. I thought that particular example would suit this project, since it incorporates prints c.1790-1835, and mine mixes scraps from my Williamsburg haul with leftovers from a Regency dress (and chintz from a closer--to-mid-century quilting project). I lined the front and cut the back from a cotton ticking; the binding is narrower strips of chintz cut on the straight. Per both originals, I did not bind the outside edges.
I'm quite content with the capacity of this pocket, and have already used that to humorous effect in two museum programs. No one seems to expect me to pull a miniature sword out of my pocket (following the undersleeves, kerchief, hairbrush, sewing kit, knitting project, card case, pocket book, toothbrush, folding parasol, &c. This pocket can hold a lot). I do think I'll switch out the 1/4" cotton tape for a stouter article; it just digs in too much when worn without a corset, and I keep thinking the tape is going to break under the weight of items-that-fit-in-this-pocket.
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| Cap, c.1840, in LACMA. |
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| Cloak! |
Based on an 18th century woman's cloak featured in Costume Close-Up. The original garment is in the collection of Colonial Williamsburg. As the garment was later altered, I used this similarly-dated (and similarly-constructed) cloak, also in the Williamsburg collection, for the facing width (2"), placement (on the outside, not the interior) and fastening information (ribbons).
I used 2 3/4 yards red broadcloth, per the original, though I didn't actually have to piece the hood (and the original was comprised of so many little strips that calculating out the sizes would have been more of a headache than actually sewing them together). The facing and hood lining are scrap silk from my collection. Due to the difficulties in finding silk ribbon of sufficient strength, I opted to use a stout replica hook-and-eye clasp on my cloak.
Overall, I'm pretty satisfied with the construction and fit of the cloak--all except the exterior silk facing, which looks rumbled no matter how much I iron it. And it was ironed at every stage of the process: after cutting, after the initial pass of sewing, and then as it was tacked down. I cut it along a pulled thread, so I know the silk's on-grain; at this point I'm pretty sure the problem is that I pulled the wool too tight relative to the silk as I was sewing the first seam. Alas.
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| Pocket, English, mid-18th century. LACMA. |
I've been reading a lot of Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's Good Wives, and selected this month's antique beauty in honor of this passage at the end of chapter 1:
"Much better than a spinning wheel, this homely object [the pocket] symbolizes the obscurity, the versatility, the personal nature of the housekeeping role. A woman sat at her wheel, but she carried her pocket with her from room to room, from house to yard, from yard to street...Whether it contained cellar keys or a paper of pins, a packet of seeds or a baby's bib, a hank of yarn or a Testament, it characterized the social complexity as well as the demanding diversity of women's work."Also, I really like the embroidery.
The Challenge: Party Time! Celebrate completing the challenge year by making a dish suitable for a party.
The Recipe: Lemon peel, to candy from The Cook's Own Book
Take some lemon peels, and clean them well from the pulp, and let them lay two days in salt and water; then scald and drain them dry; then boil them in a thin sirup till they look quite clear. After which take them out and have ready a thick sirup made with fine loaf sugar; put them into it and simmer them till the sugar-candies about the pan and peels. Then lay them separately on a hair sieve to drain strew sifted sugar over them and set them to dry in a slow oven.
[My favorite winter cakes all call for candied peel, so I'm counting it as a party recipe.]
How Accurate Is It? Better than most of my early attempts where I was zesting the peel, and getting really hard, thin pieces as a result. I ended up guessing a bit on the sugar:water proportions in the syrup (and lost my notes from when I made this back in January before the official challenge window), so I'm not certain about the proportions on the thin syrup, other than that I know it was less than the 1 water : 2 sugar in the thick. Rolling the pieces in loose sugar isn't in the instructions, exactly, but I've found it helpful for keeping the peel from sticking to the parchment paper (or whatever you're drying it on).
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| Yes, I didn't delete the photo on accident. Like I did with my first write-up. |
The Challenge: Looking Back. Revisit a dish you've made before, whether to correct a mistake, try an alternative variation, or just enjoy it again.
The Recipe: Dessert Biscuits from Beeton's Book of Household Management
I selected this receipt because, despite it being one of my first and most often repeated recipes, I've never written it up fully. Unfortunately, I can't find the photos this time around.
DESSERT BISCUITS, which may be flavoured with Ground Ginger, Cinnamon, &c &c INGREDIENTS--1 lb of flour, 1/2 lb of butter, 1/2 lb of sifted sugar, the yolks of 6 eggs, flavouring to taste. Mode--Put the butter into a basin, warm it but do not allow it to oil, then with the hand beat it to a cream. Add the flour by degrees, then the sugar and flavouring, and moisten the whole with the yolks of the eggs, which should previously be well-beaten. When all the ingredients are thoroughly incorporated, drop the mixture from a spoon on to a buttered paper, leaving a distance between each cake as they spread as soon as they begin to get warm. Bake in rather a slow oven from 12 to 18 minutes and do not let the biscuits acquire too much colour. In making the above quantity half may be flavoured with ground ginger and the other half with essence of lemon or currants to make a variety. With whatever the preparation is flavoured so are the biscuits called, and an endless variety may be made in this manner. Time--12 to 18 minutes or rather longer in a very slow oven. Average cost 1s 6d. Sufficient to make from 3 to 4 dozen cakes. Seasonable at any time.
How Accurate Is It? Revisiting the receipt again, I can see that I'm making my biscuits a little smaller than they are meant to be (almost half the size), but that's also just the size I like them. While I've made them before on a fire, all mixed by hand, this time I used my stand mixer and electric oven. It's easier, but not materially different in outcome--more important was probably the fact that I was working in a climate-controlled room; having made these biscuits in an unheated replica building during the winter, I will say that it is a lot harder to mix the dough when the butter won't warm up.
The Challenge: Beverages. Make something to drink.
The Recipe: Claret cup from Lady Elinor Fettisplace's Receipt Book
To Make Claret Wine Water
Take a Quarte of strong aquavitae, as much of goode Claret wine, a pound of the beste sugar, beat yr sugar small, then powre the wine and the aquavitae to the sugar and stir the sugar and the wine togather untill yr sugar be dissolved, then ad to it whigt pep, ginger, nuttmegg, large Mace, Red jylloflwers...put some bruised Cloves therein when you put in the other spices.
How Accurate Is It? I could have worked harder to find a bordeaux, but I think brandy was a reasonable approximation for aquavitae (which the editor's notes indicated to a "neat spirit" distilled from wine or beer). While I didn't notice any grittiness, I expect the texture could be improved by find whole mace and crushing rather than grating the nutmeg, but given the spices available to me, I don't expect I'll be able to try that.
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| Served in a cordial glass because that's fun. |
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| Yes, those are marzipan squirrels and flowers. |
Revisiting Elinor Fettisplace's Great Cake for Twelfth Night. In addition to actually baking it as one great cake, this time I made a double-batch of the dough (~1/4 the original scale), and finished it with the recommended sugar-rosewater glaze (actually from the marchpane recipe in the same book).
This time, I used the exact amount of liquid called for in the modern translation (12 oz each of ale and milk for a double-batch), and that was a mistake. The dough was very tough and I could not work it smooth, however much I kneaded it. Especially once I added in the currants, the dough tended to split and spew dried fruit instead of forming a smooth mass.
The spice flavor remains nice and not over-bearing, with the cinnamon predominating slightly over the nutmeg and ginger. The sugar glaze added a hint of sweetness and a light rose flavor to some of the cake, but the rest still tasted like unsweetened cinnamon-raisin bread. I would like to keep working on this recipe, but I think from here on out I definitely need to increase the liquids, and likely also the sugar content, in order to get something that will be accepted as 'cake.' For what it's worth, the original instructions call for using 'enough barm to make a light cake', so I think I'm on good historic footing to add more ale.
To make it more festive, I decorated the cake with subtleties; I used commercially-prepared almond paste, but did bake and glaze the figures as called for in Lady Fettisplace's marchpane recipe. I cut out the upper squirrel and the four-lobed flowers with cookie cutters, but used a candy molds to make the 3D squirrel at the center front. This went easier than I had feared, but it was good that I made two of them, since both fell apart a bit during the baking. I also found that even a few minutes at 350F was enough to start browning the paste, especially at the thinner points of the shapes, before the centers were cooked through; next time, I should use a cooling oven or else see if the bread-proofing setting is high enough to dry it out.
For the 1909 Suffrage event last summer, I decided to make a summer traveling suit. For inspiration, I trawled magazines c.1906-1910, and decided to base mine on this 1908 illustration from Harper's.
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| "Gray Linen Travelling Suit with bands of old green linen and scarf and tassels of the green." --Harper's Bazaar, June 1908 |
For the pattern, I opted to draft a single-breasted coat and 9-gored skirt from The "Standard" Work on Cutting Ladies' Tailor-made Garments: A
Complete Treatise on the Art and Science of Delineating All Garments for
Women Made by Tailors by S. Gordon (1908). While the whole suit is not easily visible in the illustration, the placement of the stripes indicate that we're seeing a 7 or 9 gore skirt, which I interpreted as a 9-gore so that I would have two plain panels rather than striped panels meeting in the center back.
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| Early steps in the drafting process. |
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| It looks a bit better when the dress form isn't stuck on a too-small setting. That's why the shoulders are falling back at that angle. |
My big goal for this year is not to be rushing projects at the last minute before an event. I either need to finish any new projects well in advance, or else I need to wear things I already have. For this purpose, I am going to plan that any new items are finished a month before the event I want it for, but will consider it a victory if nothing is finished less than a week before it is needed.
Fortunately, I believe I'm starting the year with a pretty good supply of basics, except that I still need to make/repair my 19th century cotton stockings and finish those chemises. Unfortunately, I have a Twelfth Night event this week for which I really want to make a new Tudor partlet and sleeves.
My other big goal is to finish up items in my WIP pile, especially the ones that are already draped, cut, or under construction:
In the same vein, let's see if I can whittle down the drafts folder here (maybe 80 is a more attainable goal?), and finish up the reviews I intended to write for books acquired in 2023.
Happy New Year!
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| Blouse, 1917-18 by Wiener Werkstätte. LACMA. |
I went looking for a 1924 dress to ring in the new year, but got distracted by how comfortable this WWI-era print blouse looks. I had pegged it for a much later design before realizing it was a Wiener Werkstätte piece. And the longer I look at it, the more I like the drape of the garment. Late 1910s styles may be the next era I need to experiment with.
