Coat Sew-Along: The Design Inspiration

Hello, readers! I am back home from a wonderful time at the American Sewing Expo. And now it's sew-along time! (Reminder: you can join the sew-along by joining this Flickr group.) Today, I wanted to write about my design inspiration for Butterick 5824, as I think it will give a better perspective on the intended fit of the coat.

The whole reason I wanted to do a line of patterns was to recreate vintage silhouettes that are hard to find for the home seamstress. You know that rare and iconic vintage pattern you've always wanted but costs $200 and is only for sale in a bust size 30"? That's what I'm talking about. For me, one of those designs was the 50s Princess Coat.

The Princess Coat is a direct descendent of Dior's 1947 New Look, which was marked by sloping shoulders, a dropped armscye, a nipped waist, and long full skirts.

In the early 50s, this style of coat became known as a Princess Coat. (Designer Lilli Ann made some of the most gorgeous styles, in my opinion.) If you look closely at the examples below, you'll see some of the design details I was most inspired by: very full skirts, dramatic collars, fitted waists, and loose kimono sleeves.

Lilli Ann coat

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I used photographs of coats like these as I was designing Butterick 5824 and also sewing the blue sample coat that you see in the pattern photo. So I'm hoping that these visuals will also help you as you're fitting your coat. As you can see, the sleeve and underarm area is not meant to be fitted at all. You will have folds of fabric in this area, which is intentional. I know that moden fitting techniques have us believe that all drapes of fabric are "drag lines" and therefore bad. But in this case, it's part of the design. Dior even brought back this fit in several recent couture collections!

So there you have it, readers. I hope this was helpful! More sew-along posts coming at you all this month.

Corsets as Outerwear?

Traditional undergarment corsetry

You know what's interesting? The role of corsets in the shifting role of underwear as outerwear. Every lingerie item you can think of has--at some point--taken a starring role in fashion, rather than being relegated to underneath clothing: bustiers, camisoles, slips, even panties. (Sorry, I can't stop saying the p word!)

But! Corsets are the only undergarment I can think of that are now thought of only as outerwear by the masses. They were originally worn exclusively underneath dresses, of course. While they may be an antiquated garment, there is a huge number of modern women--seamstresses and otherwise--fascinated by the corset. After making my first corset and spending much time on the various corsetry message boards and sites, I discovered something that surprised me: almost all these women are making or buying corsets to be worn almost exclusively as outerwear. (The exceptions to this are corsets worn in boudoir situations, fetish, and reenactments.)

In fact, the notion of a corset being underwear is now on the fringes. Corsetry as lingerie is usually mentioned only for those most extreme corset wearers: tightlacers--or people who wear their corsets for long periods of time (sometimes 23 hours a day) and lace very tightly, in an effort to modify their bodies. Accurately or not, this type of corset wear is associated with fetishism and BDSM lifestyles.

What a fascinating shift! If a Victorian woman showed her corset, it would be shocking, and I'm sure she would be thought of as a very loose woman (read: hooker). But now a woman showing her corset is in the mainstream, and a woman wearing her corset as underwear is the perverse one.

Worth gown

I'm interested in corsets pretty much only as foundation garments, in a historical sense. My further research (which I can share if you're interested!) has shown that traditional corsets were alive and well in the late 40s and early 50s. The silhouette of a Dior gown or a Jacques Fath suit would be impossible to achieve otherwise. And so, I find myself a bit in the fringes in the world of corsetry.

However, corsets were also making their way to outerwear status in the 50s, to the shock of some. This vintage pattern shows a corset-styled belt. (Though it's worth noting that, unless fully steel boned, this belt would be decorative rather than functional.)

Pattern from Mrs. Depew

Jacques Fath, one of my favorite designers of the New Look period, shocked the fashion world with his use of corset lacing on outerwear, as seen in this pink gown.

This gown is especially interesting in that it shows the foundations of a New Look dress--boning channels and all. The lacing is functional and adjustable.

But all this is still quite a shift from what we're seeing today: functional, steel-boned corsets worn with jeans as clubwear. This look can range from (sort of) elegant . . .

 . . . to downright gaudy.

Yikes!

Anyway, enough of my rambling. What do you think of this whole thing? Do you see corsets as underwear or outerwear?

The Style Dictionary: Raglan Sleeves

"The raglan, from which these sleeves get their name, is a loose overcoat named after an English general."—The Complete Book of Sewing, 1949

Is it just me, or are sleeves fascinating? They have to fit such an odd assemblage of curves and angles: the arm is essentially a jointed cylinder that attaches to the torso by way of the shoulder, a body part that creates such an extreme curve that you have to shape fabric deftly around it by way of gathering, easing, and steaming. Raglan sleeves are just another way of maneuvering this territory. They're attached to a bodice by a seam that runs diagonally from the neckline to the underarm, rather than being set in at the shoulder. This pretty dress pattern shows the raglan lines very clearly.

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The raglan sleeve usually requires some sort of extra fitting seam at the top to make them curve over the shoulder. In the case of the pattern above, that's taken care of with a dart. Here's the pattern piece:

Instead of a dart, you may also see a raglan sleeve in two pieces, with a seam that runs down the outside of the arm. In which case, the pattern pieces would look like this:

I especially love the raglan-sleeve swing coats of the 50s and 60s. See how this one has a seam on the upper side of the arm rather than a shaping dart?

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Raglan sleeves are unusual in the way they're constructed in that everything is kept flat rather than applied in the round, as with a set-in sleeve. Usually, the underarm sleeve seam and the side seams of the garment are left open, until after the diagonal raglan lines have been stitched to the bodice. Then, the underarm sleeve seam and the bodice side seams are stitched in one continuous line.

Raglan sleeves can take all sorts of shapes and styles. On this 40s nightgown, they appear very soft and feminine.

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On these coats, they're a little more structured. You can actually buy raglan-shaped shoulder pads if you want some extra shaping in a tailored garment.

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Like any other sleeve, raglan sleeves can be long or short, loose or fitted. They're adorable in a cap sleeve like this recent Vogue pattern.

Interestingly, the raglan sleeve shows up in every decade of patterns I researched, never going completely out of style. I would guess this is because it's such a versatile look and can shift from sophisticated to sporty (baseball tees, anyone?).

The Style Dictionary: Kimono Sleeves

I got an e-mail from a reader quite some time ago asking how I learned style terminology and whether there was a book that could point out the difference between a shift and a sheath, for instance. To be honest, I don't think I learned a lot of these terms until I got into vintage patterns. Vintage descriptions of clothing seem so much more detailed to me than our modern language. For a fun new feature, I thought I would do dedicated posts to various style terms. The posts will include examples from vintage patterns and vintage clothing. Let's jump in today with a simple but fascinating one: kimono sleeves!

Dior's "Ecarlate" Dress of 1955

Kimono sleeves are drafted in one with a bodice. They look very simple (and almost boxy) when you look at the pattern piece. But on the body, they create a lovely, soft effect.

Kimono sleeves are, in fact, modeled after the Japanese kimono and they gained popularity during World War II when Asian styles became more wide-spread. In the 1940s, kimono sleeves were still worn with shoulder pads, retaining that popular strong-shouldered look.

With the advent of Dior's New Look in 1947, with its softer silhouette, women favored more subtle shoulder pads--or none at all.

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As bodice styles became more fitted, designers would add an underarm gusset (a triangular pattern piece) to a kimono sleeve to keep a close fit while still retaining mobility for the wearer.

Underarm gusset

Pattern pieces for the style above

By the early 1960s, kimono sleeves were still in style, but bodices had gotten a little blousier, eliminating the need for gussets.

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There we have it, the amazing kimono sleeve! Please let me know if there are any particular entries you would like in this new series.

The Daily Dress: Marisa Tomei in Charles James

Wow, a Daily Dress appropriate for both Satin Week and our Charles James discussion today! I'll admit that I've actually been looking for an opportunity to discuss this gown here.

When I first saw Marisa Tomei on TV at the Oscars red carpet saying she was wearing a Charles James, I thought I must have misheard. Shouldn't that be in a museum somewhere? I thought. After all, these are the kinds of garments stored by the Met's Costume Institute in the exact right temperature and handled only with white cotton gloves. And, as mentioned in this morning's post, James's body of work was relatively small, so his pieces are rare and therefore even more prized.

But no, Marisa Tomei purchased this at the couture vintage shop Lily et Cie and wore it to the Oscars, the most glamorous of red carpet events.

The choice wasn't a slam-dunk. In fact, the look was widely criticized (and even declared one of the night's worst) and many felt the gown was not tailored properly to Tomei's figure.

The Parsons blog questioned the idea of wearing a museum-quality piece, asking "Sacrament or Sacrilege?" I think it's an interesting question, but unfortunately they ended on a rather bitchy note:

Tomei is both beautiful and stylish, but not even today’s runway models can pull off a James. At a reported 5 ft 4 to 5 ft 6 inches in height, with a bubbly smile and minimal looking make up on her face it was difficult, nay impossible, for her to channel the elegance of a Dovima or a Dorian Lee that is needed to make a Charles James truly flourish.

I will agree that I was disappointed in the look, though I don't think Tomei's looks are to blame. I actually think perhaps James's work is better suited as an art piece. His gowns are so artfully constructed that it somehow seems more fitting to admire them on a faceless mannequin. But I also think this particular gown wasn't one of this masterpieces, to be honest. It lacks the intricate details of his others, and in fact even appears a bit dull in some photographs. What do you think?

Charles James Was Apparently Rather Insufferable

I think I've made my love for the work of Charles James known around here. He created masterpieces during the heyday of glamorous design and set himself apart as the "greatest American couturier" (according to Balenciaga). I've always been fascinated by the elaborate architecture of James's gowns. With their padding, boning, and massive tulle underskirts, you'd think it would be any seamstress's dream to inspect their construction. So I was surprised to hear someone whose opinion I value greatly in these matters declare him to be a bit overrated. The issue? His small body of work. (That's not a euphemism, I swear.) James's productive years were pretty short, his output was perhaps a bit underwhelming in scope, and he's known as much for having been a terrible business man as he was for his gorgeous gowns.

Still, I was disappointed to read in this month's Vogue that he sounds like he was an all-around hideous person as well. The article, called "The Cutting Edge," is this month's Nostalgia column and was written by a former client of James's, M.E. Hecht. Hecht worked with James starting in 1955, saying without a discernible hint of irony that her "youth, money, and willingness to try anything once" made her the ideal James client. (Darling, your elitism is showing.)

There's very little actual nostalgia in the article, unless reminiscing about an obnoxious man's temper tantrums and arrogance counts as such. James loved to scream at his "beautiful, young, and male" assistants before firing them after a matter of days or weeks. But the real issue for me was the author's recounting of James's feelings on other designers:

Charlie considered many designers "dressmakers," amateurs, or, on very rare occasions, talented amateurs. He did consider Balenciaga a near-competitor.

How very generous of him!

Of Chanel: After her use of jersey, "What else has she produced?"

I don't know, just one of the most enduring and recognizable global brands? Oh, and tweed jackets.

Of Dior: "He appears to think lengthening and shortening hemlines constitutes as fashion."

BLASPHEMY. NOW YOU'VE CROSSED A LINE, SIR.

Though I did have to laugh at his Schiaperelli quip:

"Without Dali and a dead fur animal, where would she be?"

Overall, the author seems a bit oblivious that she's just painted a brutally ugly portrait of James, and ends on a wistful note: "For those of us who knew him, the world is grayer and poorer for his absence." (Even though the two had stopped speaking by 1960.) Mmm-kay.

I think, as a reader of this article, I was supposed to feel I was offered a rare glimpse into the private world of a colorful, madcap genius. But instead I just felt slightly offended and uncomfortable with the author's admissions and blithe romanticizing of an ugly personality. Sometimes reading Vogue makes me feel icky, and this was one of those times. Perhaps the combination of money, high society, "Life with Andre," and Plum Sykes is a little nauseating. Anyone else?

The Elusive 50s-Style Shoe

I've been thinking a lot about shoes lately. (Nothing new there, I guess.) It strikes me as interesting that when we talk about retro shoes, we often seem to mean those influenced by the 30s and 40s: t-straps, babydoll pumps, wedge sandals, etc.—even if we favor fashions of the 50s. I personally tend to pair 50s inspired clothes with 40s-style shoes, like platform pumps. But the most popular shoe of the early to mid 50s was the pointed-toe stiletto, a shape that strikes me as very modern. (And sometimes, unfortunately, very 80s.)

But the research I've been doing into 50s stilettos has turned up some real beauties, like the pink satin pair above. They were designed by Roger Vivier for Dior. According to the V&A and this excellent article, Vivier is credited with inventing both the stiletto and the comma heel, pictured below.

The comma heel is quite unusual even to the modern eye, but isn't it amazing that the stiletto heel didn't exist until the 50s? The silk pair below are from Herbert Levine, another classic and coveted brand of the 1950s.

The shape seems so timeless now. Interestingly, though, it's quite difficult to find shoes that emulate that curvy stiletto shape of the 50s (believe me, I've looked through pages and pages of shoes looking for something similar). Our heels are much more straight and columnar now. The closest I could find were these:

See the curvy shape of the heel?

I do love this look, though I can't say I see myself wearing something like this regularly. I love round-toe pumps with a bit of a platform for comfort. And if I'm doing a moderate amount of walking (which is pretty much everyday since I live in New York and don't have a car), I opt for flats to get me to and from the office.

What do you think of the 50s stiletto shape? Any recommendations for comfort and where to find a good modern equivalent? Please share!

The New Look, Deconstructed

Would you mind terribly if I continued to gloat about the awesome gifts Santa brought me this Christmas? After coveting a certain outrageously big and expensive book for years, it is finally mine all mine! I’m speaking of the book Dior, a massive hulk of a tome that could easily break several toes if dropped. It’s huge, glossy, and gorgeous. I’m seriously considering tracking down one of those book stands that huge dictionaries are situated on in libraries so that I have it available for my perusing pleasure at all times. (Okay, perhaps not all that seriously.)

Anyway, the point is, I am obsessed with this book. It celebrates 60 years of the famous couture house’s designs with huge, gorgeous photographs. I was not surprised to be drooling over the earliest New Look designs of 1947, but I was unexpectedly drawn to the Galliano years. Don’t get me wrong, Galliano is a genius, but the early years of Dior have always been my thing. Well, now I have discovered Galliano’s fall/winter 2005 couture collection, and I seem to have a new obsession. Galliano was brought to Dior in 1997 to design a 50th anniversary tribute to the seminal New Look collection. Well, the book posits that the designer didn’t actually truly achieve a tribute collection until 2005.

But the collection goes beyond being a tribute; it’s a brilliant deconstruction of the New Look. And more than that, it makes the New Look fabulously transparent, wrenching out the innards for all to see. Take this dress:

See how the organza bodice dispays the boning and padding underneath? And then there's the draped skirt, revealing hip pads underneath, which were an integral part of the New Look construct. (I blogged about hip padding here, if you're interested.) In the runway piece, you can even see a bit of bust padding slipping out.

Here's another example from the book, in a lovely blue-violet shade.

One of my favorite details from these dresses are the handwritten labels, which are displayed on the outside of the bodice. Early Dior pieces had these labels on the inside to identify the style names.

These dresses are, arguably, much more striking on the dress form than on a model. Perhaps the concept was taken too far with the styling (i.e. the wig caps and drawn-on eyebrows). It would be interesting to see these looks on a model made up with classic early 50s hair and make-up, allowing the deconstruction of the dresses to stand out in contrast.

This one takes it a step further by mimicking the look of a dress form underneath the draped skirt.

So why are these looks so invaluable to the modern retro seamstress? Well, there are few things I love more than finding a close-up shot of the interior of a vintage Dior gown. With their intricate corselets, bust and hip padding, waist stays, crinolines, handwritten labels, boning and taffeta linings, I’ll admit that I sometimes find them more lovely than the gown itself. I’ve always been intrigued by the architecture of complicated vintage clothing, and it doesn’t get much better than a New Look Dior. And photos of these interiors are, sadly, few and far between. I love that Galliano takes the artifice of the designs and makes that the focal point.

Do you find this collection inspiring or bizarre--or both? These looks have me dreaming of making a lingerie-inspired dress with lots of boning, tulle, organza, and peach satin!