Dress Your Best, in Seersucker

I made this dress about a month ago, and it's taken me this long to get it photographed!  I thought it would be perfect for Dress Your Best, since it shows off all my favorite parts of my body.

Dress: Blue stripe seersucker.  The bodice fullness is taken out with four large darts at the front waist, and the back bodice has waistline and shoulder darts.  The skirt is gathered, dirndl-style.  It is mad comfortable.

Son of Bride of the Triumphant Victory of the Epic Tale of Pants, Redux

My biggest irritation with sewing manuals of the past is that they don't start telling you how to make pants until the seventies. There are loads of mid-century pants patterns (my favorites have a Rosie the Riveter utilitarian vibe, like these), but pick up a contemporary text for advice on how to assemble them and you'll get nothing. Now, most of the books I've read don't tell you how to sew men's or children's clothes, either, though surely women sewed for their families as much as they did for themselves. Am I missing something? Were these just supposed to be natural-born female abilities, like using those eyelash torture devices or not breaking your ankle in heels? It's not like pants are easy or obvious, either--they're a lot harder to construct and fit than the A-line four-gore skirts my 1940 sewing book loves to describe. Actually, pants suck, and putting them together requires mental gymnastics of the highest order.

This is all to say that I drafted the pattern for these slacks with just my own ingenuity (and Pamela Stringer, bless her, and the incomparable Reader's Digest guide) and I think they came out all right! I'm calling them Sailor Pants for no reason whatsoever, and I love them dearly. (I'm currently in the middle of constructing the sequel, Sailor Shorts, which I think sounds like an awfully dirty insult.)

I'm smiling in this picture because I have just crushed the mewling, lifeless corpse of pants beneath my conquering flat sneaker:

Pants: wide-legged linen trousers with a high waist, belt loops, and a side zip/hook and eye finish.

I Think I Bought a Sweater at Sears Once; It Was Not This Stylish

I discovered last week that my university's library includes a fair-sized collection of restricted access art books. I checked out the textiles and fashion section, on a hunch, and hit the goldmine--tons of books about vintage clothes! Interestingly, the most useful turned out to be Everyday Fashions of the Thirties As Pictured in Sears Catalogs (which is only ten bucks, and can't be checked out of the library for more than two hours, so I'm seriously considering just buying it). It's such a jackpot because it features A) actual outfits of the period, unfiltered by modern sensibilities, with B) vintage styling and C) fairly detailed descriptions of fabric, notions, and construction details, all topped off by D) the original pricing! I love being able to see how much the clothes I'm making would have been worth to the average middle-class woman of 1938.

The other super-fun thing about this book is the clear progression of the design; in 1930 or '31, it's all drawn in the Art Deco style of the twenties, but by 1939 the photography style dates the catalog very clearly to the WWII period. Some of the late-thirties outfits are even more "forties" than those from the sequel, Everyday Fashions of the Forties etc.

Some highlights:

The decade was full of these tea-length or slightly shorter skirts with the fullness controlled by several released pleats. I love them. So much. I have some wool/silk blend coming in the mail, so if it has the right hand for it I'm going to whip up something like the skirt on the right:

This sweater advertisement is very clearly competing with home knitters--it's interesting that by the mid-thirties, a mainstream mid-priced company like Sears could make this claim:

My grandfather lives in these all-in-one khaki work suits--I asked my grandmother why once, and she said his father wore them when he was a kid. My grandfather was born in 1931; this advertisement ran in 1939:

By the late thirties, pants were acceptable casual wear for women and many outfits are offered with skirt and trouser options. The two models, standing side by side, sometimes look a lot like a butch/femme couple. For example, these ladies:

By the way, the text at the top of the picture reads "Hollywood says: suit the woman in mannish flannels!" Girl on the left is rocking those mannish flannels and casually bumping elbows with girl on the right, who thinks her trouser creases are sexy.

I've got a whole sketch in my head for these two:

Jacket Girl: "Your hair looks really shiny today."

Blouse Girl: "Oh, really?"

Jacket Girl: "Yeah. And you're really pulling off those button-flap pants."

Blouse Girl: "Oh. Thanks!"

Jacket Girl: "Usually those are ugly and impractical, but they look kind of okay on you."

Blouse Girl: "Uh."

Jacket Girl: "As we seem to be on a boat, how would you like me to take you for a ride?"

(pause)

Jacket Girl: "I have a nautical-themed pashmina afghan."

Return of Pants

Belt loops: done. Hook and eye: done. I was going to make a joke here about R.O.U.S.'s and the Three Terrors of the Fire Swamp or something, I don't know, it just didn't pan out.

Pants are such an amazingly awful pain in the ass, but seeing them all made up and reasonably well-fitting is pretty satisfying, I guess. I've taken the slow way through finishing the inside seams; I'd never cut a waistband with this method before, so I made the self-facing a bit too short in places and had to either cover it with some hem lace (inspired by Gertie's ingenious cuff fix):

or do a sort of rough double-overcast stitch to keep the edges together (ugly and impossible to photograph clearly, so just be glad I didn't post a picture).

Most of this doesn't even show from the inside of the garment--it's hidden where the waistband laps over--but by this point the pants were beginning to look so much like real clothes that I couldn't bear to leave it raw. I feel very protective towards my finished projects, like a mother towards her tender, impressionable, rapidly fraying children.

Somebody on the internet (if it was you, let me know so I can credit you) once said that the fiddly handwork goes much faster when they think of it as "couturier details." It does feel special to know that even the invisible bits of your clothes have been lovingly constructed. And I do feel sort of badass--jabbing myself with pins and swearing a blue streak at the fabric, just like a real professional! I like to watch familiar old TV while I do handwork, too, so I'll admit I look forward to it. I've found that these two shows are perfect for hand sewing:

- QI, because I've seen most of the episodes already, and in any case you don't have to look at the screen much since it's all talking. That's the joy of panel shows. And I always learn something new! Or laugh. Or both.

- Doctor Who, because I've seen all of the episodes (of the new series) and can recite bits of most of them--so I know what's happening onscreen whether I can look up at the moment or not.

I'll get some more photos up in a bit. Consider this a sneak preview. Of trousers. I don't know, I'm tired. Pretend there's a good Princess Bride joke here.

---

One more thing I made recently--the Angus Barn Chocolate Chess Pie, from the eponymous cookbook:

It's almost too much. Doesn't look like much filling, right? I panicked at the last minute and threw in an extra egg and quarter cup of butter because I had a half inch layer of pie in this cavernous deep-dish pan, but now I realize that the filling is so intense, you can't eat more than half an inch at a time. It's sadist's pie: the first bite is amazing, the second satisfying, the third makes you want to throw up. I'm staring at a half-eaten slice right now and trying to summon the courage to take another bite. Hold me, Internet. I'm frightened.

Something Else I'm Apparently Doing

If you don't read Academichic, you probably should. Lady academics blogging about DIY maternity style, the long impossible road to tenure, political and historical fashion, bike-friendly outfits, and color blocking! It's pretty great. And every year they run something called Dress Your Best, which brings bloggers together in celebrating their hot bits instead of shamefully concealing their unacceptable bodies. I have a lot of time on my hands lately, so I'm going to do this too. Everybody should do it! It's really fun to brag on your own hotness.

The first thing you do is list five parts of your body that you're proud of. In no particular order:

1. My waist. It's a lot smaller than my hips--not to a New Look kind of extreme, but very shapely and proportional. I have a long torso, but my waist starts very high, so I can wear the hell out of a pencil skirt and look like I'm all leg.
2. My upper back. I have a tattoo of this cover art on my left shoulderblade, and I love to show it off. I think my back is strong, and it feels unexpected in a sexy way to show skin there.
3. The gray in my hair. I love it; it makes me feel grown-up and powerful. Even if no one else notices, it still gives me confidence and authority.
4. My biceps. I appreciate all the work they do for me, and their symbolic power as a critique of the "weak" feminine (sadly, their actual power isn't quite as impressive--I'm working on that!).
5. The hair under my arms. It's a reminder that I choose my own beauty--nobody gets to do it for me. I can wear lipstick and earrings and skirts that belt at the waist and I still don't have to shave because I'm not dressing for anybody else. I'm dressing for me.

Even if you don't have a blog, I'd recommend making a list like this. It feels good! I'll have more DYB posts up later--the challenge runs for two weeks.

---

P.S. Trousers are done, and they fit amazingly. I haven't had a chance to drag my dear love of a partner outside for a photo shoot yet, so pictures will come later. I feel like Katharine Hepburn in them, though. And that is a powerful feeling.

Hollywood Patterns: Home Sewing in the Thirties

Hollywood Patterns, marry me.

These lovely, quirky patterns are advertised with glamour photos of various starlets--for instance, "Linda Hayes of RKO-Radio." That's some terrible hair, honey.

They date from 1932 through the Second World War, which is a fascinating period of fashion history. Home sewing patterns as a commercial industry had been around since Ebenezer Butterick pioneered them in the 1860s, but the way they were marketed changed enormously from decade to decade; early patterns are often advertised as stylish, but rarely (as far as I can tell) with reference to any particular public figure or media representation of the style. But by the late twenties and early thirties, the movies had come in in a big way, and many patterns (not just Hollywood's!) are sold as direct copies of costumes from popular films. You can imagine the hope that Depression-era women must have felt, with a pattern in one hand and a few yards of rayon crepe in the other--with just a few hours of work, you too could slink around in bias-cut dinner pajamas just like Bette Davis!

It wasn't only movies that women aspired to copy, either; this mid-thirties pattern for a tennis outfit sells itself as "straight from the French resorts," and includes a cap which the lovely Andrea at Unsung Sewing Patterns has identified as a possible fad item among the rich and fashionable in the south of France. This was clearly a period in which home sewers were looking to the fabulously wealthy and the glamorously glitzy for inspiration. One of my favorite dressmaking texts, "Practical Dress Design," frequently breaks off to identify the most fashionable Paris silhouettes of 1937, 1938, and 1939--and occasionally predict what 1940 will look like.

Women of the thirties were sewing to get glamour on a budget--mass-produced clothing was still pricey enough, and fabric by the yard widely available enough, that you could save a dollar on an evening gown or fifty cents on a wool skirt by sewing at home. Essentially, sewing was at its trendiest during the Great Depression, and on into the Second World War. By the prosperous fifties, Hollywood Patterns was either a bust or a shell of its former popularity--I can't find any details on what happened to the company post-war--and home sewing manuals no longer directed their readers toward the latest fashions in Paris frocks.

I'll console myself with Anita Louise's bias-cut evening gown:

Katharine Hepburn's gorgeous, I-want-them-right-now trousers:

Dolores Del Rio's... whatever this is:

and Ginny Simms's smart little skirt suit:

I think we've all got fifteen cents on hand for a lovely pattern like that. And Dolores Del Rio of Warner Brothers, I would very much like to know what that thing on the front of your dress blouse is. Not the scarf, the other thing. The whatever that is.

The Dread Scourge of Pants

I am making pants. Pants are really damn hard. I'm using "Pattern Drafting for Dressmaking," by Pamela Stringer, which is a truly excellent book but still cannot make pants easy. I drafted a very loose-fitting pair of high-waisted, Forties-inspired pants that I am calling "sailor pants" for lack of a better name. Any ideas? I'm notoriously awful at naming garments.

Can you believe that these shapeless scraps of newspaper are going to become pants?:

(Note the brand-new dressmaker's shears. Half-off notions day at Joann's is a good day.)

Anyway, so I made some minor alterations around the crotch--or, as Natalie Bray would (priggishly and hilariously) have it, the "crutch"--and the fit is okay though not perfect. I basted and re-basted the stupid thing about fourteen times, making it worse in a different way every single time, before I finally just gave up and returned to my original pattern. Which is fine if not spectacular. When I get around to making some more fitted pants, I'm going to start fresh, I think.

One thing I've learned from sewing is that it's better to take measurements to the millimeter, mark the shit out of my pattern getting the curves perfect, and cut clean garment pieces than go through fitting hell. I never had the patience until this last year or so, and everything I made suffered for it (the reason why I don't wear any of that stuff now!). Maybe it's age? You're supposed to get more patient with age, I've heard. At this rate I'll be doing couturier-quality work by the time I'm twenty-five. Or maybe just spacing my backstitch evenly. Baby steps.

---

I'll post some pictures once I've defeated my arch-nemesis, Belt Loops. I've got enough fabric for patch pockets, but I'm afraid I'll put too much strain on them with my mandatory sexual-orientation-specific body language. Pants are so complicated.