Guimpe, 1909

One project which did get finished this year was the proper guimpe or blouse for my suffrage train traveling suit.

I ended up using this diagram for a "tailor-made blouse" from The Elements of Dress Pattern-Making (1913) for the basic shape, including the open sides, three-piece construction, straight band collar, and use a waist-tie (fixed at center back) to hold the garment in place. The style inspiration was this illustration from the September 1908 issue of Good Housekeeping:  

 

I switched the sample pattern to a back-closure, giving a solid front for the vertical tucks. Estimating from the portions, I took the illustration tucks for ~1/4"-1/2", with one tuck width between each. Unfortunately, in the execution, I discovered that 1/2" tucks did not given the same fine effect, and I would have done better to use 1/4" tucks. The collar has three 3/8" tucks, backed with a flat piece of the same fabric.

Finished and newly-ironed guimpe.

My only other regret was not photographing the completed blouse before wearing it. Except for the twill tape tie, the blouse is fully made of a semi-sheer cotton batiste. It's lovely and light, and wears nicely, but it requires extensive ironing, and (even immediately after ironing it) photographs with all sorts of tiny wrinkles not evident to the unaided eye.

Original: Printed Silk Apron, Early 19th Century

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.

Early 19th Century Pocket

 

 

 

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.

Original: Net Cap, c1840

 

Cap, c.1840, in LACMA.

I really like how the texture of the different materials come through in this cap. But my count there's at least four different materials--scalloped lace, spotted net, striped ribbon, and a diagonal-striped fabric (bias strip?)--all in the same soft cream color. I think this adds a lot of visual interest to the cap, while keeping the overall effect light, airy, and subtle.

Original: Embroidered Pocket, 18th Century

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.

14th/15th Century Rosaries

Mostly, I made these because I wanted to do something with the wounds of Christ gauds that Billy & Charlie make. Nevermind that my main early modern impression is Elizabethan, a time and place in which owning rosaries was illegal and had been for two decades.

Anyway.

Related to that above factoid, I have so far found exactly three intact medieval or early modern rosaries in my usual British museum collections. The Museum of London has a very simple version, made as a small loop of wooden beads. This is by far the closest to the usual pictorial depictions (a very small string or loop of beads, usually held in a figure's hand). At the opposite end of the spectrum, the Victoria & Albert has a very elaborate gold rosary from the 16th century. And also this one:

Rosary/paternoster. German, 1475-1500. VAM

According to the museum's notes, this rosary has wooden beads, one large amber bead, and a set of silver gauds representing Christ's sufferings (nails, crown of thorns, etc). The pendant depicts Saints Barbara and Catherine.

Although the country of origin is given as Germany, I decided that this example would be a thematically suitable choice for using the gauds I had in mind (though they are only five in number, and are different shapes: hands, feet, and heart). So, for my first attempt, I tried to copy the original as closely as I could, using two sizes of dark brown wood beads, one larger amber-colored glass bead (the amber itself not being available), and a reproduction 15th century pewter badge of St. Barbara.

For the second--since I accidentally purchased two sets of the gauds--I decided to try a more goth version of the same design. When I was looking for examples of extant rosaries, I came across a number of individual beads, some plain amber or bone, others much more elaborate, including several which incorporate momento mori imagery such as skulls or even multifaceted deaths heads. The Met has a lovely example of momento mori beads in an extant paternoster. My version follows the same form as the first, using small bone beads with a skull-shaped bead half-way between each gaud; the pendant is an image of the crucifixion (based on 14th/15th century examples), with a large carved coral bead.

My replicas. Design from the 15th century VAM paternoster.
Components c. 14th-15th centuries.

For the stringing material, I plaited two linen cords, based on examples of fingerloop braid in Medieval Textiles. The book includes a few fragments identified as possible beading string, some narrow tablet-woven, others finger-looped (including a fragment with beads still on it, which is none other than the amber ones linked above). I couldn't get the woven version consistently round without the weft breaking on me, so I went with the fingerloop braids: one the usual 5-loop round I like for everything, but out of fine linen thread, the other a 3-loop variant of my own devising.

Silk beading cord, 3-loop linen braid, 5-loop braid.

 

Of course, when I went to string the beads, I found that neither braid was long enough for the wooden beads. Rather than making a 4th attempt, I simply strung those on my go-to size ff beading silk. The extra braid went into my stash of odd bits, and has already found a new use on my ear-scoop (which is really handy for cleaning one's nails of Faire dust).

All told, I like how both of these turned out. I wish I had had five more of the small wooden beads, as I ran out and ended up using a few large ones out of place. Proportionately, I think the bone version looks closer to the original, though the bone beads are almost too small to count by feel. If I was making a another one of these, I'd probably aim for the beads being a size larger than those small bone ones, with the mid-point beads closer to the size of the small wooden beads. Using smaller beads would also make the "amber" piece look larger by comparison, and thus closer to the original.

Medieval Drawstring Pouch

Continuing the catch-up posts, last spring I made some fingerloop braids at the Two Rivers Faire, with the intention of making a round purse based on some of the archeological examples from Amsterdam:

• Leather purse (c.1300-1700), 11" diameter, 64 punched holes (~1/2" for a hole plus its adjoining space, punch size probably ~1/8 inch with 3/8 gap judging by how large the punched holes appear relative to the space between)
• Another, 5.6" diameter, ~48 holes (~3/8" for hole plus space, holes probably ~1/8")
• And a third, 12.5" diameter, ~72-74 holes (~just over 1/2" per hole, hole size nearing 1/4")

Of course, since embarking on this endeavor, the database has been updated to indicate that the ties were likely leather. Despite the simple design, my leather-punching skills proved inadequate, and I ended up letting this simple item linger in the To Do pile all winter. It's just a 9.5" leather circle, with 40 holes punched around the perimeter, and the striped fingerloop braid threaded through.

The pouch, open almost flat.

Closed pouch. Holds my replica coins and dice very well.

Late 16th century Silk Codpiece (With Concealed Flask)

Remember those silk points from the lace bend round? Armed with those, a replica schnapps flask, a copy of The Typical Tudor, and a whole bunch of scrap fabric, I decided to embark on my most luridly-colored project of the year. So far.

Step 1) Tracing the Pattern. 

To fit the flask (and extra padding around it), I cut a muslin mock-up of the codpiece with very generous seam allowances, then pinned out the excess. The result was a that I ended up extending the side edges of the codpiece pieces by 1/4" (leaving the overall length the same).

With the new pattern, I then cut out all the requisite silk fabric, linen lining, and wool padding pieces called for in the pattern. Additional, I cut a linen interlining and gathered some smaller wool scraps for padding out the flask.

Materials all assembled.

 

Step 2) Initial construction.

 I didn't get a good picture of this step, but I started by decorating the outside silk piece with optional slashes, basting in the pull-throughs, and then joining the two silk halves along the center seam. The interlining also was also pieced at this time.

Step 3) Padding. 

To get the proper mid-16th century shape, the codpiece needs padding. To allow room for the flask, I made an abbreviated version of the prescribed pattern (using 2 thin and 1 thick piece layer of wool) to give a smooth line to the fabric. I set this into the fashion fabric, added the flask, then started cutting small pieces of wool to fill in the gaps.

Adding extra layers to surround the flask's neck and support the base.

Graduated circles to fill in the hollow under the flask.

Padding ready to be basted in place.

Step 4) Interlining.

With the wool padding in place, I attached the linen interlining. The idea was to give a smooth interior for the flask, so the interlining was cut to match the exterior; it's joined by stitching all around the outside edges, leaving the wool padding sandwiched between the silk and linen layers.

Flask in the finished interior.

 

Step 4) Lining and binding.

Next up, I need to add the final backing, which makes the other half of the actual pouch for the flask. It's also joined to the front along all three sides, those seams being then covered by a self-fabric bias binding. For the top, I hemmed the lining and bound the exterior separately, joining them with some blind stitching just near the corners.

 

Step 5) Eyelets.

To attach the points, I made a pair of eyelets in each of the upper two corners, going through all the silk and linen layers. This, of course, if how I discovered that the aiglets I used are a bit bigger than either of my fabric awls. Combined with the green silk having a non-woven backing (giving the fabric great body, but being bad for piercing), these four eyelets were basically the worst part of this project. Once done, the points were put through, and tied in jaunty half-bows.

Voila: one slashed silk codpiece with a hidden flask.

Conclusion: As a decorative gag gift, I'm quite happy with how this project turned out, and expect the recipient to come up with an amusing story about confiscating it from one of the Landsknechts (if not something more outlandish). I'm not certain this codpiece could actually work as worn, given the weight distribution and discomfort of the glass poking the wearer. If firming sewn along the side/bottom, I do think it could be attached to hose, though I would be concerned about the top gaping, possibly necessitating a third point at the center top. 

If making again, I'd add more padding to the back lining, possibly increasing the overall size of the item to ensure there's plenty of space to pad the back with enough material to get a smooth finish despite the rounded flask. If intended for wear, I'd want to both make up some regular codpieces for practice, and also test the aforementioned fit issues, with feedback from the wearer. 

 That being said, if any of my doublet-and-hose-wearing acquaintances are interested, I would like to experiment with making a comfortable, wearable, concealed flask codpiece.

Apron, c.1952

 I decided an apron would useful in my modern kitchen, and so decided to make vintage one. As you do.

Since it's not for living history use, I just pulled fabric scraps out of my stash rather than worrying about accurate prints.

Scrap fabric. Finding two that didn't clash horribly was a challenge.

 

The illustration.

For a pattern, I went with the apron from the Haslan Books of Drafts No. 8 Lingerie (c.1952) No actually pattern instructions are included, so I cut the fabric as indicated, and just sort of pieced it together. I opted to use double layers on the waistband, bib, and straps, which allows most of the raw edges to be encased. I felled the seam on the lower section which joins the blue trim to the print.  The back isn't show in the pattern, so I simply joined the straps to the waistband; I'm satisfied with how it's working so far.

Finished apron.

A Lace Bend Round, 15th Century

Braid and finished point.

Braid #25 from Tak V Bowes Departed. It's a two-color braid of 8 loops, in a spiral pattern which resembles a 2-ply cord. This braid wholly uses exchanges, which was good practice, since I've mostly done 5 strand braids where you pick up the active loops with an empty finger.

I worked it in gold and black beading silk (size FF), and fitted the ends with aglets to make a pair of points. I chose this braid as I wanted the cord to fit into the aglets, though it was almost too fine in this silk. However, the knotted ends of the braids fit the aglets easily and was able to I stitch them into place.

More Muffattees on CSM

It's the 9th day of Christmas, and time for more Christmas presents:

A Study in Gauge

When I was looking for muffattee patterns to adapt, the simplest was to simply knit a 3-3 rib to the desired length (either in the round or knit flat and then seamed). For examples, see "Lambs' Wool Muffatees" in Woman...An Epitome of Social Duties (1843) and "Plain Ribbed Muffatees" in My Knitting Book (1845) among others. 

Since I'm still not up to using the ribber on my Autoknitter, I decided to follow instructions from the 1868 Bickford Family Knitter instruction manual, which treats the mock-rib technique (removing needles) as equivalent to ribbing. However, I've found that 3-3 really doesn't looking like ribbing when worked this way. Fortunately, Mlle Riego's The Winter Knitting Book (1859) gives a "Simple Muffatee for a Gentleman" worked in 2-2 ribbing in the round, which I took as permission to do a 2-2 mock rib. Her version is doubled to create a lining and has no thumb gap, but considering the intended recipients, I decided to make those changes. [These are for my coworkers, who spend a lot of time typing in a cold building.]

The pink muffatees were knitted with a very light lace-weight wool from my stash, on a tension of 5L3 (if I recall correctly). I failed to note the tension on the green, which made with a heavier sport-weight wool from the stash). The pink ones ended up very lacy in their effect, particularly when worn, while the heavier yarn make the green look more like true ribbing.

Original: Muff and Collar

Warm accessories for a cold December day:

Lambswool muff and collar, 1850s. LACMA.

 

Straw Hat, Rustic Plait

I really needed a lightweight sunshade for Faire, and decided to sew another straw hat. The inspiration for this piece was a particular painting (more on that anon), in which a peasant woman in a market scene wears a wide-brimmed straw hat with no appreciable crown. The hat instead looks like a very shallow basket turned upside down.

 

Top view of the hat.

The hat I made is fully hand-sewn from 20 yards of (commercially-plaited) straw in a 4-strand whole-straw rustic plait. It was sewn freehand, though I blocked the crown flat repeatedly during the early stages of sewing. The sewing process took about 34 event-hours, during which this hat was my main project.

I had intended to block the whole hat over a large, shallow dough bowl of the desired shape, but found that the plait tended to curve downwards naturally as I sewed it. In fact, all of the shaping after the first seven rounds (which were blocked flat until the hat got bigger than a dinner plate) came from the natural curvature of the straw as I tried to sew it as flat as possible. I'm tempted to use it for rougher working impressions at the Fort, since I can document the idea of a flat, home-made, straw hat as a harvest-time sunshade in the 1850s--and 'make a flat hat without a block' is precisely what I was doing here.

 

 

Side view showing the epic shape.

Despite the shape, I found that the straw tends to cling to my hair/coif, and will generally stay put. It's not up to really brisk walks, wind gusts, or bending over to drive tent stakes, but I managed to wear it a whole weekend without any fasteners. I'm tempted to add some woven tapes to the underside (probably to tie under my hair), but the hat does work as is. The whole-straw is heaver than the last hat I made, but lighter than any other reproduction hats I've handled (or any material).

I do not have documentation for the origins of rustic plait. My spreadsheet of Victorian sources does not include any citations which mention rustic as being new or name a date of origin; these same sources claim that whole-straw plaits originated in the 16th century, while split and double plaits were more modern inventions.

*I had remembered this painting as a Bruegel, though I can't find the exact image online, and will need to borrow the book I saw it in to confirm. In my search, I did come across other depictions of straw hats which aren't wholly dissimilar.

Sloping hats from Bruegel's Charitas (1559)

Most of Bruegel's peasants, however, favor straw hats like those above, almost conical except for a small, flat crown. The Corn Harvest shows two women wearing wider, flatter versions of the conical hat, one being distinctly straw-colored and the other black.

Wide hats in Bruegel's The Corn Harvest (1565)

Aertsen's paintings, in contrast, show deeper crowns on the wide-brim straw hats worn by many of the women:

The Vegetable Seller (1567) by Pieter Aertsen

Plain Coif and Forehead Cloth

 

Plain coif and forehead cloth.

More faire-related wardrobe additions. Having decked one coif and forehead cloth in lace and (begun) embroidering the other, I found myself without any fitted headgear appropriate to my lowly social station. That is, it's too hot to wear a respectable late Elizabethan ensemble, so I need a plain coif  to go with my kirtle/smock/apron combo. I could just tie a rail over my hair...but coifs are more fun.

I used a light-weight white linen for both, with bleached 1/4" linen ties on the forehead cloth and a linen cord for the coif.

Original: Embroidered Collar, c.1850

Woman's collar, American, c.1850. From LACMA.

 This one is worth clicking through for the close-ups. This is one of the most densely embroidered collars I've ever seen: the semi-sheer fabric is barely visible around the thick (couched?) embroidery motif, with dozens of worked eyelets creating a net-like background to the scallops.

Apron (Workwoman's Guide)

Another recent project: a bib apron (fig 11 no 11) from The Workwoman's Guide (1838). This is is meant for a friend who has recently taken up tin-smithing, and wanted an extra layer to protect her dress from abrasion and snags. Therefore, I used a heavy cotton shirting fabric from Family Heirloom Weavers. The cotton tape shoulder straps are in the historic instructions, though the design is given as being for a girl or teen. I went this route since the intended wearer strongly dislikes pinner aprons, and it seemed a prudent compromise to get that upper protective layer without pins.

One apron with bib and shoulder straps.

The skirt is made from one panel (~54" after washing), which felt scant from my usual mid-century apron expectations. The instructions, however, insist that one breadth of fabric (as little as 36") is sufficient for working aprons.

Knit Wristlets

 Not really a historic design (though I've seen other wristlets in 19th century knitting books), but I'm pretty excited about these wristlets. 

They're brown wool (the yarn was somewhere between a fingering weight and sportweight), but the part I'm excited about is what I made them with: a c. 1920s Autoknitter circular sock machine.

 

I've mostly just been knitting tubes of scrap yarn (and a few flat webs), but the wristlet project allowed me to practice several important sock elements, such as hanging the hem and not dropping stitches.

Original: Silk Sash, 1830s

Woman's silk sash, 1830s, from LACMA.

I really love the multicolored pattern. It's a little jarring to my eye that slightly different shades of gold are dominant in the constructed bow, the tails, and the waistband. However, I think the overall effect is lovely, and is just the sort of jolly, colorful garment to brighten up early spring/late winter/whatever this time of year is trying to be.

 

Morning Cap, 1856

 Revisiting the 1856 cap pattern from Parisier Damenkleider Magazin. 

This time, I made the cap from a light-weight cotton batiste. It's more opaque than the lawn I used before, and also has more body. It's still light and airy, but sits a little more crisply.

Original: Child's Coat, 1850s

Child's Wool Coat, 1855-65

I love the faux-ermine trim on this tiny jacket.