GORGEOUS NOTHINGS: The Grave is the Ultimate Seal

I was recently invited to participate in a rather unique exhibit: The Gorgeous Nothings, based on the envelope poems of Emily Dickinson and held at Three Pines Studio in Cross Village, MI.

What's an "envelope poem"?

In the mid-1990s, while examining Dickinson material in the Amherst College Library, the literary historian Marta L. Werner came across a small, irregularly-shaped collage cut from recycled 19th-century envelopes and covered with writing in Dickinson’s unmistakably hieroglyphic script.

Enchanted, Ms. Werner started a search for similar items in other collections and found dozens, long familiar to Dickinson experts but never examined as a group. Most were less elaborate than the collage. Some consisted of semi-intact envelopes that had been gently pried apart at the seams and flattened out. Others were fragments: torn-off corners of envelopes, detached flaps.

Whatever their configurations, the pocket-size papers shared one feature: sentences, stanzas and entire roughed-out poems pencil-written by Dickinson herself.

Now all the known “envelope poems” — 52 — have been gathered into a book called “Emily Dickinson: The Gorgeous Nothings,” published by New Directions and the art dealer Christine Burgin. 

My chosen envelope poem was A842:

As there        are

Apartments        in our

own     Minds        that-

we      never      enter

without          Apology-

we    should       respect

the     seals    of    

others  -        

When I read the poems of Emily Dickinson, it's always through a 19th century filter - I've been involved in mid-19th century living history too long for it to be any other way.

My first inclination was to go in the direction of phrenology, especially the idea of apartments or compartments in the mind.

But I was really intrigued by the idea of envelopes and seals.

Clothing, of course, envelopes the body and I was relatively certain that no one else would use a period correct fan-front dress as the base of their work. Thus, "Emily dressed"!

        

There is symbolism in every aspect of this piece, some relating to the poem and some relating to Emily and her body of work.

I chose a fan-front dress, as that is the style Emily wears in the only authenticated image of her as an adult, albeit in an earlier style of fan-front. And it had to be in white, of course - it helped that I had a bolt of white lawn in my stash.

Adorning the front of the bodice is a winged death-head, an image from a very old Massachusetts grave stone, reference to death that so often is the focus of Emily's poetry.

Crossed bones, from the same stone, embellish the sleeve jockeys. You can also see the very fat piping I used, black wool yarn in the center. While I love the look it achieved, it was rather hard to force myself to use it - certainly not period correct!

Each flounce is centered with a large, ornate keyhole, a reference to seals. In addition, each flounce was hemmed using a feather stitch, an allusion to "Hope is a thing with feathers".

The top flounce also depicts a mid-19th century image of an apartment building, with people going about their daily routine.

The bottom flounce features a very appropriate quote, from Lydia Child's The Frugal Housewife, a book that Emily's mother was known to have owned:

“The true economy of housekeeping is simply the art of gathering up all the fragments, so that nothing be lost. I mean fragments of time as well as materials.”

The piece includes two final embellishments, a pair of chatelaines:

The first is a group of envelopes, translucent, allowing the contents to be glimpsed - an barium page, a bit of lace, some buttons, a tiny silhouette and ripped up printed pages. The envelopes are not addressed - who are the intended recipients?

The second is a trio of large over sized keys, keys allowing the opening of seals.

The other participating artists created equally thought provoking pieces, all on display until June 16th. Will you be in Northern Michigan? If so, do try to work in a visit to Three Pines Studio!

Whatsit Followup

Here's the "whatsit" that has generated so much conversation here, on the Civil War Needleworkers forum and on the Antique Pattern Library regarding what this object actually is.

My first thought, echoed by others,  was some type of lampshade cover, but the gas and kerosene lamps of the era required a central vent which this object does not accommodate.

Another suggestion was a skullcap:

Um, probably not!

A cover for a domed glass paperweight, again, probably not:

One plausible theory was a cover for wire food safe. I don't have an antique wire food safe, but I do have a rattan version:

My problem with this theory is the handle - like the lampshade cover there is no accommodation for the handle.

Other suggestions include workbasket cover, pillowcover, footstool cover and finally a piano stool cover:

And I do believe we have a winner!!!

Despite having a piano stool, it had not occurred to me to try it on there - but when I did, it was a perfect fit!

It's my opinion, based on materials, construction techniques, color and style, that this cover dates to the late 1870's - 1880's and reflects the Victorian craze for all things "Oriental".

I feel it was constructed, at home,  by a middle class lady, to ornament her parlor - which was probably not as ornate as the parlor seen above. She most likely used a published pattern for the crochet and then added the purchased chenille fringe.

A note on the fringe: It was suggested on one of the forums that the chenille "tails" had been knotted in place, not woven as I suggested. However, a closeup photo of one of the tassels clearly shows that it was woven in when the trim was constructed:

Wouldn't it be a wonder to have such trims available for purchase now!

Once I found the proper term - music stool, not piano stool - I found a number of patterns in the period magazines, using a variety of techniques:

This one in crochet even has a central diamond pattern similar to my example!

Thank you so much to everyone who offered suggestions - it's been so much fun exploring the possibilities

Natural Dyes - A Workshop

The earliest written description of the use of dyestuffs dates to 2600 BC and until the mid-19th century when William Henry Perkin invented the first synthetic dye, all dyes were derived from plants or animals.

I recently attended a workshop presented by Shanna Robinson, a professor at North Central Michigan College,  on natural dyeing. We left the two hour class with a silk scarf, naturally dyed.

Most natural dyes need a mordant to fix the color to the fiber and increase lightfastness. Mordant literally means "to bite". The mordant is the chemical link that fixes the dye to a substrate by combining with the dye pigment to form an insoluble compound. Our scarf was saturated with three different mordants - ferrous acetate, titanium oxalate and a chalk solution. Each mordant produces a variant of the single dye color and even more variants were the mordants overlap.

Due to time constraints (each mordant must dry completely before applying the next), Shanna had applied two of the mordants and we added the last.

We prepared the dyes while the final mordant dried. Two dye bathes were prepped, one using coreopsis which will give yellows, oranges and browns, depending on mordants and the pH of the dye bath.

And a second with weld, which gives yellows.
 

The plant materials were weighed, added to water and allowed to simmer.

The plant materials were strained out.

And the scarves went in!

A good rinse at home, to remove excess dye:

Here's my coreopsis dyed scarf - it's pretty obvious that mordants have a huge influence on the final color!

The workshop was intended to be a brief overview of natural dyeing, not an intensive, "now you're an expert" experience and that goal was well fulfilled. I learned enough to be intrigued about the potential for using the techniques in my own fiber work - it's always great to add new possibilities!

Taking to the Waters: Male Bathing Costume Construction Details

If you ask most reenactors what men wore to swim in during the mid-19th century, you would probably be told "nothing - men always swam in the nude."

Well, I'm sure there certainly were times when men swam in their skin, but a bit of research tells us that it was definitely not a case of "always". 

This scene, "The Bathe at Newport", by Winslow Homer circa 1858, shows a good reason why - in America, bathing was not gender segregated, as on the continent - and while the Victorians were not the prudes they are ever so frequently portrayed as, group nude bathing was definitely not a socially acceptable activity! 

Clues to what men actually did wear, are tantalizingly few. I choose to use this example in the collection of the McCord Museum as my inspiration. The original is wool, trimmed with braid.

The museum's description notes that men's swimming suits of the period were closely styled on underwear - and that's exactly what I used for the basic shapes when creating my custom pattern.

 

 

I took the pattern pieces for men's drawers and a square shirt and combined them into one piece. 



 

 

My initial "muslin" (actually an old flannel sheet) was a bit short in the torso, so I added an additional 3" - thus, the piecing you can see on the muslin.

 

When I first asked Robin if he would be willing to wear a period bathing costume, he readily agreed: if it was ORANGE, so if he ended up floundering in the waves, we could find him. As fate would have it, on our first attempt to find appropriate fabric, what did we find but bright orange wool! However, it was blanket weight and would have had him floundering in the waves for sure, so we settled on this color scheme instead

 



 

And behold, my version of an 1860's male bathing costume, which has come to be nicknamed the "Civil War Onsie"! It was never my intention to 100% replicate the McCord Museum piece, but to use it as reference. The basic shape is very close, but I used bands of red wool as my trimming and the mother of pearl buttons were great accents.

 

 

As the "test driver" so to speak, Robin reports that it is both functional and comfortable.

 



Just a Little Blue

You probably have indigo dyed garments in your wardrobe - over one billion pairs of jeans around the world are dyed blue with indigo.

I recently participated in an indigo dyeing workshop and it was fascinating and fun!

Our instructor was Joann Condino, of Three Pines Studio and she was a fabulous teacher - I know I'm considering future projects.

Indigofera tinctoria was originally domesticated in India, where it is mentioned in manuscripts dating from the 4th century BC. It was recognised as a valuable blue dye by most early explorers of that region. The Venetian explorer Marco Polo described in detail the Indian indigo industry and by the 11th century, Arab traders had introduced indigo to the Mediterranean region, where it replaced their native blue dye plant, woad (Isatis tinctoria).

The cultivation of indigo on a large scale started in the 16th century in India and this was documented by European visitors in the 16th and 17th centuries, particularly in the north of India.

The British established commercial cultivation and production of indigo. Initial plantations began in 1777, and by 1788 most of the production of indigo purchased by the East India Company originated from Bengal. The system became deeply exploitative from 1837 when 'planters' were accorded permission to own land. 

The East India Company imported massive volumes of Indian indigo in the mid 1600s. Its use in Europe was clearly a threat to native woad growers. Protests led to the ban of indigo in Britain and other European countries. Despite this, European woad plantations and factories rapidly disappeared.

                        

Processing the plant was a cumbersome process:

The cut plant is tied into bundles, which are then packed into the fermenting vats and covered with clear fresh water. The vats, which are usually made of brick lined with cement, have an area of about 400 square feet and are 3 feet deep, are arranged in two rows, the tops of the bottom or "beating vats" being generally on a level with the bottoms of the fermenting vats. The indigo plant is allowed to steep till the rapid fermentation, which quickly sets in, has almost ceased, the time required being from 10-15 hours. The liquor, which varies from a pale straw colour to a golden-yellow, is then run into the beaters, where it is agitated either by men entering the vats and beating with oars, or by machinery. The colour of the liquid becomes green, then blue, and, finally, the indigo separates out as flakes, and is precipitated to the bottom of the vats. The indigo is allowed to thoroughly settle, when the supernatant liquid is drawn off. The pulpy mass of indigo is then boiled with water for some hours to remove impurities, filtered through thick woollen or coarse canvas bags, then pressed to remove as much of the moisture as possible, after which it is cut into cubes and finally air-dried.

But in 1865 the German chemist Johann Friedrich Wilhelm Adolf von Baeyer began working with indigo.

His work culminated in the first synthesis of indigo in 1880 from o-nitrobenzaldehyde and acetone upon addition of dilute sodium hydroxide, barium hydroxide, or ammonia and the announcement of its chemical structure three years later.

BASF developed a commercially feasible manufacturing process that was in use by 1897, and by 1913 natural indigo had been almost entirely replaced by synthetic indigo. In 2002, 17,000 tons of synthetic indigo were produced worldwide.

Dyeing with indigo is unique compared to other dyes. Natural indigo takes a considerable amount of effort to get it into a working dye bath because it is insoluble in water. It must go through a process where it is ‘reduced’ and put into a liquid state with the oxygen removed. Although recipes for dye vats vary, all are based on reducing the indigo into a watersoluble form. 

However, Jacquard Products have come up with a clever way to make using natural indigo easy: Jacquard’s Indigo is pre-reduced by 60 % and easily mixes with water and therefore makes setting up an indigo vat practically effortless. 

In class, we created resist patterns using a variety of methods - rubber bands, clothes pins, rocks,  marbles, etc. on large squares of 100% cotton.

Here's our dye vat, a five gallon bucket; you can see the "flower" floating on top, a result of oxygen reacting with the dye:

The fabric needs to be wet when it goes in the vat

And it comes out green, not turning blue until the dye oxidizes when exposed to oxygen and reverts to its insoluble form.

That's my piece in the center of the clothesline:

And here's a much larger scale piece, created with rocks:

It was amazing how quickly and easily all of us were able to create beautiful and intricate patterns and, of course, I'm now contemplating how I can incorporate indigo into future projects, both for modern and living history purposes - more to come, I'm sure!