Showing posts with label HSM. Show all posts
Showing posts with label HSM. Show all posts

Saturday, 1 April 2017

Hankasärk II - A Swedish Folk Costume Shift

Some years ago I made a hankasärk, a sleeveless shift from the very South of Sweden, to wear with my folk costume. Now I’m working on a Ca 1810 everyday version of that folk costume for an event I hope to attend in a few weeks, and need a new hankasärk. The old one is a bit too loosely woven for my taste, and a smidge tight. In the beginning of March I made a new one, but I never got round to blogging about it until now.


I had the cover of an old mattress, probably used in the early/mid 20th century in a military or hospital setting. It was made from a very sturdy, handwoven linen, and though it was stained here and there and had a few unsightly mends, I thought I could get a hankasärk from it. The densely woven fabric, with nice selvedges, was too good to pass up.


I had a 1:10 scale pattern, taken from an extant hankasärk, that I used as a guide when making my first one, so I knew what the pattern pieces should look like, and I looked at pictures of extant hankasärkar to see what similarities and variations there were. I then decided on the measurements for mine, measured on the fabric, and cut to a thread. All the pieces are rectangles of various sizes: one for the front and back (there are no shoulder seams), one in each side, two narrow ones to form the waistband, and four to make up the skirt. In the originals there are usually three skirt panels, but my fabric was a bit narrower than the ones originally used, so I chose to use four to get a similar width in the finished garment.


The bodice part is made up with back stitches, with all seams neatly felled to one side. I then hemmed the sides, that would be arm openings. After doing this I discovered that I’d sewn one side inside out – oops. Several friends advised me to let it be; similar mistakes are seen in extant shifts. I pondered what to do while working on the skirt part, and then unpicked the armhole hem that was inside out, and stitched it again, to the right side this time. I left the side seams be though: they were discreet enough not to bug me. All seams and hems were made as narrow as the fabric would allow.


The skirt panels had neat selvedges, so to make maximum use of the width, I whip stitched them together. This made almost completely flat seams when pressed. As I have upcycled the material, there are holes from the previous seams, but hopefully they’ll mostly go away in the wash. 


The skirt is attached to the waistband with stroked gathers. They turned out a bit less tight than I’d wanted (I might be  bit wider than the original wearers, or I didn't do the gathers fine enough), but it’s acceptable. 


The waistband and bodice (with all edges, including the bottom, hemmed) were then joined by whip stitching.


I managed to avoid the worst stains when cutting out the hankasärk, but there are still a few fainter ones. I decided not to let them bother me though. There were also the few holes that had been mended by machine. Though reasonably well done, machine mending on a shift I intend to be from well before a proper sewing machine was invented just wouldn’t do. I unpicked the mending, and redid it by mending a larger hole with a patch, and two smaller ones by sewing/weaving linen thread over them. These flaws make the shift look well worn and cared for, something I don’t mind at all. There’s no fun in looking all sparkling new, like you wore a fancy costume instead of proper clothes, especially not in a lower class living history setting.


For all sewing I used linen thread that I strengthened with bees wax. For the monogram – common in large households in a time were all linens looked more or less the same – I used cotton embroidery floss. Most people in early 19th century Sweden used patronymic surnames, so the first letter stood for the person’s first name, the second for their father’s first name, and the third for son/daughter. It’s a practice still used in folk costumes. You can also see the seam that ended up wrong side out.


This will be my first entry in this years’ Historical Sew Monthly. It could have fit under February’s 'Re-Make, Re-Use, Re-Fashion'but obviously it was too late for that, so instead I’ll put it under April’s ’Circles, Squares and Rectangles’.

The Challenge: #4 Circles, Squares and Rectangles.

Material: Handwoven linen.

Pattern: Based off of period examples.

Year: Ca 1800-1850.

Notions: Linen thread, bee's wax, cotton floss.

How historically accurate is it? Pretty close in both material,construction and sewing.

Hours to complete: No idea.

First worn: Hopefully at an event in a few weeks.

Total cost: About 50 SEK (5,25 Euro, £4,49, $5,6), not counting the work.

Friday, 8 July 2016

1840s Cap Lace Trimmed and Starched

Almost six years ago I experimented with making an 1840s woman’s cap, and the result turned out quite well. I’ve since used the same pattern as a base for a more posh cap. This is a picture of when I'd first made it - look how young I was.


A while ago I thought that I’d push that first one, which was very plain, up a notch, and started trimming it with narrow cotton lace, taken from a baby sheet and pillow case I picked up at the charity shop. I didn’t want it too fancy; think lower middle class wife and mother.Then, as so often happens, other things got in the way and it lay forgotten in the accessories box, but the other week I finally finished it. Actually it came about because I wanted to take sewing related baby announcement pictures, and needed a pretty project for it. Once I started attaching the lace, I thought I might just as well finish it :) Meanwhile, it took ages for people on Facebook to get the hint in the picture. EDIT: five days after publishing this post I miscarried :'( END OF EDIT


I then starched the cap. Starch does wonders to many historical items of clothing, making them look (and sound - starched petticoats rustle in a special way) much more like their very often starched original counterparts. It takes a bit of time and effort, but is worth it if you want to add that extra little something to your impression. Also, starched items get a protective surface that will make it more difficult for dirt and grime to get hold. Of course, if it’s too wet or humid when you venture outside, the starch will lose its oomph quickly. Here's what my cap looked like before and after starching: all limp before, and holding up well after.


This is how I did the starching:
I used 300 millilitres of water and 1 teaspoon of potato starch. This produce a light starch that I rather like. If you want a stronger starch, add more potato starch.
I put a little bit of the water aside, and brought the rest to the boil in a pot. I then poured the potato starch mixed with the water I’d saved into it, mixing hard to avoid the forming of jelly lumps. I let is boil for a couple of minutes, stirring all the time, and then set it aside to cool.
I took the cap and pot of starch out into the garden, and dunked the cap in the slippery goo until it was saturated.


I wringed it carefully and then smoothed it out as well as I could. I hung it on a line to dry in the wind.


When it began to dry it a slightly stiff, papery feel to it, holding up quite well on its own. 


 After it had dried I ironed it, and it looked beautiful. I look a bit tired though, having pregnancy related iron deficiency.


 While this is a totally lame entry, I treat it as a UFO and submit it just the same, as it will make me feel better – I’ve just managed one other challenge this year.

The Challenge: # 7 Monochrome

Fabric/Materials: Striped cotton (recycled from a worn out blouse) and cotton lace from an old set of baby sheets.

Pattern: My own

Year: 1840s

Notions: Cotton thread

How historically accurate is it? It looks all right, and the techniques I’ve used are documented, but I’ve never had the opportunity to look closer at an original, so… who knows?

Hours to complete: Originally – no idea. Trimming it – an hour or two.

First worn: For the pictures – I need a dress to go with it.

Total cost: The blouse the fabric came from was an old one of mine that wasn’t fit to use any more, so I’ll count that as free. The baby sheet and pillowcase where the lace came from was picked up in a charity shop, so not much. They will likely be used for a 19th century infant’s dress eventually.

Sunday, 26 June 2016

Historical Sew Monthly - Monochrome Inspiration

As an ex admin of the Historical Sew Fortnightly/Monthly Facebook group, and still somewhat in the loop as an alumni moderator, I got the opportunity to write this inspirational post. It feels a bit intimidating, as I’ve never tried to cover so much of history before, and some periods are decidedly out of my comfort zone. This will at best be a brief overview, and if I don’t touch on your period, I apologise.

So, monochrome. The white-grey-black scale may seem dull, but historically these shades could send all sorts of messages about the wearer, not to mention set off other colours worn with them. And as cut and detailing of a garment was often quite as important as its colour, many beautiful clothing articles have been made in the monochrome scale.

White has since ancient times been associated with purity, cleanliness and virtue. It was worn by the priestesses of the Roman goddess Vesta, but white was not reserved for religious purposes; there are lots of evidence of white linen being worn by the ancient Egyptians (of course, linen will turn white naturally when in the sun), and the Roman togas were white for several ceremonial and official functions.

 
During the Middle Ages white continued to be symbolic of purity, chastity and sacrifice. It was worn by priests during mass, by some of the religious orders, and was in some countries the colour of widows. White linen or hemp was used in shirts, shifts and braies, and white was often favoured in the veils and wimples of women. 

"Lancelot and the Seductive Damsel", Lancelot du Lac (BNF Fr. 118, fol. 299v), early 15th century.
 What with the difficulty to keep white linen spotless, it also became a status symbol, and was considered to reflect the moral quality of the wearer, something that would be true in the following centuries as well.

 
 
 During the end of the 15th/beginning of the 16th centuries, the wealthy often showed off the elaborately worked cuffs and collars of their fine linen shirts and shifts.


 Later in the 16th century and into the 17th, separate ruffs took over this role.


 During the 17th century crisp white collars, cuffs and caps continued to be status markers, often trimmed with elaborate lace. 

 During the 18th century white silk stockings became all the rage for men and women alike, and clean white frills and lace at neck and cuffs were worn by both sexes. 


 During the 1780s, white chemise dresses became fashionable, after a bit of royal scandal and a little hesitation because of their similarity with shifts - hence the name. 


White cotton dresses continued to be popular in the early 19th century, in an effort to look like the marble statues of ancient Greek and Roman times.


White cotton dresses were still worn by infants for the rest of the century, even when coloured dresses had long been the more common choice for older children and women. Adorable, radiating innocence, and easier to bleach in the wash.


 Clean, tidy white continued to be important in underwear, shirts, cuffs, collars and caps, their state of cleanliness still regarded as a reflection of the morality of the wearer – though in reality perhaps more often being a reflection of the wealth of the wearer, or, in ordinary families, the hard work of the wife and mother. 


Though white wedding dresses had made appearances among the wealthy through the centuries, they weren't common until the 19th century, first as a natural thing as white was the most modern colour anyway, and then became a special and much desired thing, when Queen Victoria married in white and looked so deliciously romantic - what girl who could afford it didn't want that for her wedding day?
"The Bride Adorned by Her Friend" by Henrik Olrik, Dansih, 1850.

In the Edwardian era white was very popular in ladies waists and summer dresses. For some sporting activities, like tennis, it was also favoured. 

Heavily starched shirt collars and false shirt fronts of gleaming white marked the gentleman. White or off white light suits were worn for less formal day wear in summer.

Grey was, because it’s a common colour of undyed sheep’s wool, for a long time the colour of ordinary people (or at last their everyday clothes), and certain religious orders that had humbleness and poverty among their vows. The 14th and 15th century garments from Herjolfsnes were made from undyed wool, in different shades of white, grey, brown and natural black.  


During the 17th century, when black was popular among the wealthy because of its soberness and association with humility, greys and browns were adopted by many people of Puritan leanings but lesser means, or by the well off for variety.


Well into the 18th century Swedish (possibly more generally Scandinavian) farmers were described as often wearing heavily fulled, home woven grey coats. But grey was not only used by the ordinary people, fine suits and dresses of grey silk were worn by wealthy people. And of course, the powdered wigs so typical of the time often looked grey.

In 1794 the Swedish king Gustav IV Adolf made a new, extensive sumptuary law, after his father, wanting more elegance around him, had made the previous sumptuary laws void. Amongst other things (like banning coffee) women were forbidden to wear dresses from silk or silk blends in any other colour than white, grey and black, and tailors were forbidden to make them up. Dresses never worn out of doors were exempt from this new law, that, as far as dress colours were concerned, actually seem to have been followed pretty well. The coffee ban seem to have caused more rebellious behaviour.

During the 19th century grey was used by women for half mourning, or just because it’s a nice colour and matches well with just about anything. In short, it’s a practical colour. 


 It’s also seen rather frequently in extant Quaker clothing.


For men grey was beginning to be more common in military uniforms, as they provided better camouflage than the colourful uniforms of previous eras. Grey was also rather popular in gentlemen’s leisure suits. 


 In the beginning of the 20th century, grey continued to be a sensible colour for ladies dresses and ensembles. 


Black was for a long time not what we’d consider true black. It was tricky and expensive to dye, and faded quickly to greys, greens and browns. In Medieval Europe bright colours were much favoured by everyone who could afford them, including the royalty and nobility, while black was mostly used by the Benedictine order. This did not go without censure: in the first half of the 12th century the Benedictine abbot Pierre the Venerable accused the Cistercians of pride for wearing gleaming, difficult to keep clean, white. The Cistercian founder, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, responded that black was the colour of the devil, hell, "of death and sin," while white represented "purity, innocence and all the virtues". Dear, dear.


By the end of the 14th century a change began in regards to the colour black. New, better dyes made for better quality black, and sombre black robes began to be worn by magistrate and government officials, as a sign of their dignity. When Italian sumptuary laws restricted what colours could be worn by those not of the nobility, the wealthy bourgeois began wearing clothes from very fine, black fabrics instead. The fashion soon spread to the local nobility and royalty, and then from court to court in Europe. 



In the 15th century black was no longer an unusual colour among the wealthy and noble, though colours were still common.


During the 16th century elegant, solemn black increased in popularity and had by the end of the century become the go-to colour of nearly every court in Europe.


During the 17th century black continued to be popular, particularly among the wealthy middle classes, worn as a reflection of one’s piety and humility – the 17th century was full of unrest, religious contention and war, and declaring what side you were on could be made through dress and, in some cases, even hairstyle. The Puritans for example, though by no means restricted to black, often did favour it if they could afford it, or kept to other sober colours for these reasons, but they were far from the only ones. Combined with the white collars and cuffs that were in fashion, they made very striking outfits. 


In the 18th century black went largely out of fashion, except for mourning. Light pastels and bright colours were favoured during most of the century, but the occasional black outfit was seen, and black could be used for accessories like hats, the neck stocks of British officers, and shoes. Black was also a common colour for clergymen and doctors, as a remnant of the piety, solemnity and respectability they represented in the previous century.


Black came back with vengeance in the 19th century as the ever more important must have colour of any woman’s mourning clothes. Fashionable mourning was so popular that many upper and middle class ladies in Stockholm wore it even for deaths that didn’t concern them personally, and wasn’t even subject to official national mourning, like when Crown Princess Josefina’s father, the Duke of Leuchtenberg (adopted stepson of Napoleon I), died in 1824. 

Evening wear for mourning, 1824.

 Proper and fashionable mourning was so important that it wasn’t uncommon for wealthy families to actually go into debt to keep up when many deaths happened in rapid succession. People of more limited means but more sense used the same ones for a long time, changed, up-cycled and added to them when needed. There are also examples of more local customs for mourning attire, as worn by the farming community.

Mourning in Torna härad, Skåne (Scania), south of Sweden. 
The skirt pulled over the head brings echoes of 17th century fashionable mourning wear.
 
Black dresses were by no means reserved for mourning, however – it was also fashionable, and proper for many occasions. 


For that reason many brides in smaller circumstances from the middle of the 19th century up until the 1920s often had black (or other colour) wedding dresses made, as they could easily be used for best dresses after the wedding. 


The gentleman or businessman in the black suit, so familiar to many of us today, was a product of the 19th century. As the century progressed the coats in green, brown and blue gave way to black, and at the middle of the century the waistcoat offered the main splash of colour to a gentleman. At the end of the century even that had largely become monochrome as well. 
The Gentleman's Magazine of Fashion, 1870.

As the 20th century rolled in black continued to be worn for mourning, and by working women for practical reasons. And of course, the little black dress was made a thing by Coco Chanel in the 1920s. Black was now for everyone, and no longer reserved for the elite.

 And there you have it! Hopefully you got some good ideas of what to make, if you didn't have one already. If not, one could always use more body linens. Now, go and sew, crochet, knit, weave and embroider all the monochrome things!