Inspired by History: Designer Todd Oldham

Isabella reporting,

While Loretta and I are self-proclaimed history nerds, we're not historians. Instead we're fiction writers whose books are inspired by history (and, of course, we share more of that history as bloggers, too.) I'm always interested to see how other people are inspired by history. Fashion designers in particular often dip into the past to make something new from something old. The late Alexander McQueen was a master of this, and thanks to a recent exhibition at the RISDMuseum, I have another favorite: designer Todd Oldham.

I visited All of Everything: Todd Oldham Fashion last month, shortly before it closed, and I'm so glad I did. The show focused on the couture fashion created by Oldham in the 1990s. For those of us who lived through it, the decade was an exuberant era for fashion, with bright colors, short skirts, and lots of sparkle, but Oldham took that exuberance to an entirely different level.

The exhibition featured 65 full ensembles, displayed in a runway-style setting that made it possible to see the clothes from all angles. And such amazing clothes! True, these aren't everyday clothes, but they are true works of art, featuring exquisite embroidery, luxurious textiles, and embellishment that included crystals and metallic threads. According to the exhibition notes, Oldham sought out master craftspeople from around the world to bring his designs to life, taking a special interest in encouraging and preserving artisan industries, and it showed in the exquisite details.

But what I enjoyed the best was seeing how he "quoted" and incorporated elements from the past into his clothes. The dress, above left, (as always, please click on the images to enlarge them) from 1992 was inspired by Byzantine jewelry Oldham had seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. According to the placard, he replicated that jewelry "by embellishing four-ply silk crepe with 18-karat gold bullion, faceted glass, and semiprecious stones. This was the most expensive dress [Oldham] ever made, and it now lives permanently in the Met, which makes sense."

More gold bullion turned up unexpectedly in a pair of shorts, upper right, from 1994. Swirling old bullion embroidery like this is more usually seen decorating the formal uniforms and epaulets of Napoleonic-era officers, who'd probably be shocked (or titillated, depending on the officer!) to see so much gold on shorts for women. I'd guess that they were quite heavy, too; admitted Oldham, "the shorts are completely embroidered with real 18-karat gold bullion, making them stiff and scratchy - but oh so very beautiful."

The art historian in me loved the outfit, lower right, inspired by one of my favorite 18thc artists, Jean-Honore Fragonard. Noted Oldham: "The skirt is based on Fragonard paintings, as seen through the filter of the Indian embroiderers. It's still very refined, but I love how the rough work and sequins look with the classic motifs." So did I.

There was one piece created for the exhibition, an ensemble that Oldham made in collaboration with students from the Rhode Island School of Design's textile department. The students created the gorgeous printed textile that was not only used in the skirt, but also cut into thin strips and knitted to make the top. The bell-shaped skirt, worn over a hoop, was the same shape as a crinoline-supported dresses from the 1850s. I also appreciated the time and effort that Oldham employed with the students to create a truly one-of-a-kind couture garment in the face of modern mass-produced fast-fashion. Noted Oldham:

"There is a staggering number of people involved in producing couture. More than 35 students participated in creating the print on 25 yards of truly beautiful, insanely detailed fabric that we then embroidered with custom-made sequins and paillettes in my New York studio. By the time the embroidery was finished, more than 60 people will have collaborated on this dress."

All of which reminded me of this earlier blog post, which described all the tradespeople who contributed to creating the clothes of an 18thc lady. Sometimes slow fashion can be a very beautiful thing.

I've posted a few more photographs from the exhibition over on my Instagram account:
Back view of the RISD student collaboration dress
Persian Carpet Dress, 1997
Byzantine Jewelry dress, 1992.
Klimt ensemble, 1997.
Crewelwork-inspired ensemble, 1997, and detail
Skirt with Chinese-inspired embroidery, 1994.
Love Ball dress, 1991.
Garage Sale ensemble, 1992.

Upper left: Byzantine Jewelry Dress, Spring1992, by Todd Oldham. Metropolitan Museum of Art
Upper right: Embroidered shorts from the Blue Sky Ensemble, Spring 1994, by Todd Oldham. Todd Oldham Studio.
Lower right: Fragonard Meets African Trinkets Ensemble, 1993, by Todd Oldham. Todd Oldham Studio.
Lower left: RISD Ensemble, 2015/2016, RISDMuseum.
All photographs ©2016 by Susan Holloway Scott.

A Delicate Pair of Wedding Oversleeves, c1830

Isabella reporting,

Thanks to her current series of books, Loretta is the queen of the over-the-top fashions from the 1820s-1830s (see examples in her posts here, here, and here), but she's won me over to extreme hair, huge sleeves, and bell-shaped skirts.

So when I spotted these ghostly oversleeves recently in the costume & textile study drawers at the RISDMuseum, I recognized them for what they were: delicate and rare survivors from the Romantic Era of fashion. (Although another gallery-goer standing beside me had the more normal 21stc reaction: "What the heck are those things?")

While the rest of the original dress is no longer with these oversleeves and may not even still exist, it is possible to guess what it may have looked like. Sheer oversleeves were a major fashion trend in the late 1820s-early 1830s. Always made from a sheer fabric like silk gauze or voile, they added a delicate, feminine transparency to dresses that were almost architecturally structured with pleats, wide collars, and stiff belts. Some oversleeves were embroidered with overall patterns, some were not. You can see how elegant the style could be in the portrait, right.

The oversleeves from the RISDMuseum are labeled as having been worn as part of a wedding dress. Loretta shared this fashion plate of a wedding dress, lower left, from 1828 which is probably a bit early for the RISDMuseum's sleeves (they have more volume at the top, which would make them later), but you can still get an idea of the general effect. The fortunate American bride who wore such an ensemble in the 1830s must have been on the cutting edge of bridal fashion.

What I found particularly intriguing about the RISDMuseum's oversleeves is that the label says they were created of silk that was possibly made in China for export. Then as now, China was known for its exceptionally fine silk, and for its embroidery, too. Of course there's no way now of knowing for certain, but I found myself wondering if this beautiful silk was brought to New England in a China-trade ship, chosen by a mariner for his bride-to-be waiting back home. Could that be why they were set aside and carefully saved - a very special wedding memento?

Upper left: Oversleeves from a Wedding Dress, American, c1830, RISDMuseum. Photo via RISDMuseum.
Right: Detail, "Théodore Joseph Jonet and His Two Daughters" by François-Joseph Navez, 1832, photo via Christie's.
Lower left: Bridal Costume from La Belle Assemblee, June, 1828.

An 18thc Dress Becomes a 19thc Costume for Charades

Isabella reporting,

For people like me who love 18thc clothing, the 19thc can be a very dark period. For an era that has a reputation for being grim and dour, the Victorians seized any excuse to dress up in fancy dress. Costume balls, masquerades, pageants, amateur charades and pantomimes after supper were all the rage, and they loved, loved, loved the gorgeous silks and velvets of the Georgians.

While some of the most elaborate fancy-dress outfits worn by the upper classes were created to order by designers like Charles Frederick Worth, the majority of Englishmen and women would simply ransack the attic for a good costume. If great-grandmother's dress or great-grandfather's coat wasn't considered worthy of remaking into something modern, it became fair game for dress-up.

Nor were the clothes treated with much respect. The idea of preserving the past through the material culture of clothing is a relatively new idea. Old clothes were simply old clothes, and it was more important - and fun - to let everyone amuse themselves with makeshift fancy dress, from adults to children. Some 18thc clothes, too, were donated to theatrical companies, where they suffered the additional indignities of being smeared with stage make-up and worn under hot lights. Still other clothes wound up in the wardrobes of artist's studios, ready to dress a model for a painting with an historical theme.

Modern costume curators all have horror stories of how once-glorious Georgian dresses and suits in their collections were battered and stained and remade until they became only faded, tattered shades of their former selves: a scrap of embroidered silk here, or a jewel-studded button there. But until I saw this painting last month while visiting the RISDMuseum, I'd never witnessed the very act of Victorian costume-crime.

A Game of Charades, above (click on the image to enlarge), was painted by the popular historical and genre artist Edward Matthew Ward. A lively family group is amusing itself with charades in the parlor, and the improvised costumes include a sailor, some sort of rough frontiersman, and a gypsy. Of course there's a guy in drag, too, with a cap and kerchief on his head, because there always is.

I'm not quite sure about the clothes of the two young women dancing together, and the two women musicians. The museum dates the painting at c1840, which would make their dresses with the enormous sleeves about ten or fifteen years out of date. Are those sleeves far enough from current fashion that the dresses would have already become ripe for ridicule and costume - much the way today that people invited to parties with a 1980s theme will wear huge shoulder pads? The yellow dress seems to be worn with some ankle-length bloomers plus "exotic" slippers, which makes me think it's become a costume. Or are the young women not wearing costumes at all, but are simply a bit behind the current trends?

But it's the woman in the painting's foreground (and right) who really breaks my heart. She's wearing a gorgeous gown, petticoat, and apron from around 1775, complete with a ruffled cap that she likely found in the same trunk. The pale blue silk in that apron shimmers richly, and the petticoat that peeks out from beneath the gown looks like it might have gold threads. The rose silk of the gown is either a damask weave, or perhaps embroidered with flowers. This is still-beautiful clothing that must have been the height of fashion when new, and costly, too, yet by 1840 it's been relegated to charades, or perhaps to the artist's costume collection. What became of it all since then, I wonder?

Above: A Game of Charades, by Edward Matthew Ward, c1840, RISDMuseum.

Inspired by an 18thc Dancing Dandy

Isabella reporting,

One of the questions most asked of writers is "where do you get your ideas?" Usually I don't have the answer, since ideas just...appear. 

But in the case of my newest book, A Reckless Desire, I know the idea for the story came to me when I first saw this portrait on display in the Artist/Rebel/Dandy: Men of Fashion exhibition at the RISD Museum in 2013. His name is Auguste Vestris (1760-1842), and he was (obviously) included in the exhibition for his remarkably stylish appearance – clearly a born dandy. But he was also a celebrated dancer who, with his family's ballet troupe, became the toast of 1780s London.

I wrote the following blog post about Auguste Vestris and his family at that time, but I couldn't put the flamboyant, talented Vestris family from my head.  I found myself wondering what would become of the hapless child who didn't possess the talent for dancing but was born into such a family. 

That child became Lucia di Rossi, the heroine of A Reckless Desire, who can't dance, but still has the desire to perform and move an audience to tears. She became the spark that started the rest of the story, inspired by the Vestris family and their life in the 18thc theater. My thanks to Monsieur Vestris himself....

In this portrait, Auguste reflects the dramatic change in men's clothing that would be embraced by gentlemen like Beau Brummell. Gone are the bright colors, extravagant wigs, embroidered waistcoats, and full-skirted coats of earlier 18th c. gentlemen. Stylish young men like Vestris now preferred a more subdued effect overall, with a new emphasis on the finer details of fit and fabric. His high-collared grey broadcloth coat is closely tailored to display his lean and athletic body. His waistcoat is pale yellow silk, barely containing his voluminous cravat of immaculate white linen. His shaggy fur hat is tipped at a jaunty angle, and he wears yellow gloves with a bamboo walking stick tucked beneath his arm. He wears his own hair, not an old-fashioned wig, and for extra dash, gold hoop earrings.

But as wonderful as this portrait is as a fashion statement, I was still curious to learn more about the sitter. Turns out Auguste Vestris was an acclaimed professional dancer and teacher with a colorful history to match his wardrobe. He was born into a dancing family: his Italian father was Gaëtan Apolline Balthazar Vestris, the most celebrated dancer of his generation in Europe and Louis XVI's ballet-master, and his mother was a much-younger French dancer, Marie Allard. Auguste followed his parents to the stage, making his dancing debut at aged 12.

By the time he followed his father to London in 1780, young Auguste had become the kind of celebrity that's usually associated with modern singers named Justin. He was called "le Dieu de la Danse" - "the God of the Dance." His performances were packed, and the ladies in particular found him and his dancing irresistible. The buzz around him was so great that on the night of a special benefit performance in 1781, the House of Commons adjourned early so the members would be able to attend; Vestris himself earned over fourteen hundred pounds that evening, an astounding amount for any 18th c. performer.

 Here's Horace Walpole's droll description of Auguste-Vestris-mania:

"The theatre was brimful in expectation of Vestris. At the end of the second act [of the ballet Ricimero] he appeared; but with so much grace, agility and strength, that the whole audience fell into convulsions of applause: the men thundered, the ladies forgetting their delicacy and weakness, clapped with such vehemence, that seventeen broke their arms, sixty-nine sprained their wrists, and three cried bravo! bravissimo! so rashly, that they have not been able to utter so much as a no since, any more than both Houses of Parliament."

The satiric print of a performance, right, seems to focus on Auguste's very tight breeches as well as his success. In his right hand he holds his hat, filled with bank-notes, and in the other is a full purse. The print's title Oh qui goose-toe [O che gusto] is an unsubtle allusion to Vestris's Italian heritage, while the caption below is equally mocking:  "He Danc'd like a Monkey, his Pockets well-crammed,/Capered off with a Grin, 'Kiss my A--- & be D–––d.'"

Still, he who laughs last, laughs best. It's no wonder Auguste Vestris projects such attitude in his portrait – he obviously earned it.

For comparison - here's another, earlier portrait of Auguste, painted when he was twenty-ish, by Thomas Gainsborough c. 1780. And for a suggestion of how he might have appeared on stage, see this video of the great Michail Baryshnikov dancing the title role in Vestris, a ballet inspired by his 18thc predecessor.

Above: Portrait of Auguste Vestris, by Adèle Romany, 1793. RISD Museum. 
Below: Oh qui goose-toe! (Auguste Vestris Dancing), print made by Francesco Bartolozzi, after Nathaniel Dance; published in London by W. Humphrey, 1781.

An Intricate 17thc. Woman's Knitted Jacket

Isabella reporting,

Last week I shared several fans that I discovered in the study drawers of the Donghia Costume & Textiles Study Center at the RISD Museum in Providence, RI. Today I'm featuring another piece from the drawers that completely captivated me: a women's knitted jacket dated from 1630-50.

As a long-time knitter myself, this jacket immediately caught my eye. It's knit of silk in a beautiful green and metal-wrapped thread, with the elaborate floral pattern knitted in, and modern knitters will recognize some of the familiar patterns still worked today. The gauge is very fine by today's standards, probably about 15-17 stitches to the inch. For comparison's sake, the finest modern hand-knitting is worked with lace-weight cotton thread on 000 needles at a gauge of 8-10 stitches to the inch.

The construction of the jacket is simple: knitted rectangles form the sleeves, fronts, and back, and were sewn together, and despite the skill of the knitting, that somewhat clumsy construction probably means it wasn't a luxury garment. There aren't any buttons or other closings, and it's likely that the jacket were pinned together like many other garments of the time. The jacket was likely made in Italy, possibly for import to other countries like England, and was probably hand knit by professional knitters. From the size, it was probably made for a woman.

I know that's a lot of "probably" and "likely", but the jacket's exact provenance isn't known. There are several others similar to it in other collections, but many questions remain for scholars about who wore such jackets and who made them, their purpose and roles as garments (fashion? warmth? masquerade?)

Here are a few notes about the jacket, generously provided by Laurie Brewer, Associate Curator of Costume and Textiles, RISD Museum:

"This jacket is knitted in stocking stitch, a combination of knit and purl stitches using green and gold silk thread, with some of the outlines floral motifs in reverse stocking stitch. The floral motifs were skillfully made, with the gold thread only loosely stranded across the back of the stitches. The basketwork around the hem is in alternate blocks of stocking and purl stitch, and the front edge is in garter stitch. 

"We know of two other related works: one at the Cleveland Museum and the other at the V&A....The Cleveland Museum has the most closely related example, in both construction and patterning. Of special note, all three examples employ the basket stitch at the hem of the jackets, and all embrace the Italian design impulse of the meandering, meandro floral motif. The floral motif that decorates the RISD Museum's garment is influenced by contemporary woven silk designs, which nearly always featured flowers."

If you're feeling really adventurous, you can knit yourself a similar jacket with the pattern derived from the V&A jacket in Seventeenth-Century Women's Dress Patterns by Jenny Tiramani & Susan North. (Thanks to Samantha McCarty for reminding me of this!)

Many thanks to Lani Stack of the RISD Museum for her assistance with this post. 

Top: Woman's knitted jacket, 1630-50, Italian, artist unknown. RISD Museum. Photograph ©RISD Museum.
Bottom: Detail, Woman's knitted jacket, RISD Museum. Photograph ©2015 Susan Holloway Scott.

We're Back - with a Trio of Lovely 19thc. Fans

Isabella reporting,

We're back! Loretta and I hope you enjoyed your break as much as we did, though we know that you didn't neglect us entirely while we'd gone fishin'.

How do we know? Because according to our stats, last month you continued to visit this blog even while we were away, making us pass the amazing (at least we are amazed!) milestone of three MILLION page views since our launch five years ago. As we've often said, we began this blog to amuse one another, never dreaming that there'd be so many of you willing to come along for our meandering ride. We're so glad you did, and thank every one of you for your continuing support.

While I was away, I visited one of my favorite small museums, the RISD Museum in Providence, RI. As part of the Rhode Island School of Design, the museum was founded in 1877. At the time, Rhode Island was one of the most heavily industrialized regions in the country, and the museum's founders hoped to inspire better design in manufacturing in general as well as inspiring their students. As the liberal arts in modern colleges and universities are facing charges of irrelevancy in a high-tech world, it's ironic that these 19th c. New Englanders understood that even the manufacturers of humble screws and files would benefit from viewing the finest examples of painting, sculpture, and decorative arts. (Read more about the museum's mission and history here.)

One of my favorite galleries in this favorite museum is the Donghia Study Center. Here pieces from the sizable Costumes and Textiles collection are rotated through the large, flat glass-topped drawers. I never know what I'll find when I roll out a drawer: a 17thc. knitted waistcoat from Italy, a length of a 20thc. African textile, high-button shoes or beaded flapper hats. For someone like me who's fascinated by the history of clothing, it's one discovery after another, and it's probably just as well I was the only one there that day so that I could ooh and ahh without disturbing anyone else.

Among the treasures this visit were an assortment of 19thc. fans. Readers who follow my Instagram account - which can be found here - will recognize this trio, since I already shared my own pictures the day I saw them. These photos of the fans are from the museum's web site, without the necessary protective glass over them. They seem like both the perfect way to wave good-bye to summer's heat, and as elegant examples of transforming a mundane necessity in pre-air-conditioning days into a beautiful fashion accessory.

Top left: Brisé fan, George Keiswetter for the Allen Fan Company, American, c. 1890. Painted feathers, wood sticks, silk ribbon. 
Right: Nosegay fan, Marie Vincent for S.Levy, manufacturer, French, c. 1898. Silk with wooden sticks.
Lower left: Folding fan, unknown artist, Japanese, 19thc. Painted paper, wood sticks.
All fans from collection of RISD Museum; all photographs via RISD Museum.

From the Archives: For Royal Relaxing: The Prince of Wales Banyan, c. 1785

Isabella reporting,

Because today is a travel day for me, I'm sharing one of my favorite posts from our archives, featuring a banyan, or dressing gown, worn by a stylish English prince.

In 2013, I had the great good fortune to see the exhibition Artist/Rebel/Dandy: Men of Fashion at the RISD Museum in Providence, RI.

Men's wear is often sadly under-represented in fashion collections, making this exhibition of historical and contemporary male clothing that made a bold personal statement for the wearer even more exciting (at least for Nerdy History People, anyway.) There was one room after another of fantastic clothes, from the beautiful linen shirts favored by Beau Brummell to Fred Astaire's tuxedo to Andy Warhol's paint-splattered Ferragamo oxfords.

While the exhibition has long since closed, highlights are still on line here, and the splendid hardcover companion book is available here.

One of the special pieces for me was this 18th c. banyan once worn by George IV (1762-1830) while he was Prince of Wales. (The banyan was making a rare appearance state-side, on loan from the Brighton Museum & Art Gallery.) Banyans were a kind of dressing-gown or robe worn by Georgian gentlemen as informal attire (for more information and other examples, see our blogs here, here, and here.) The elaborately patterned cotton chintz would not only have been comfortable - a welcome break from the formal silks of court life - but as a costly textile imported from India, the cotton would also have made a luxurious statement fit for a royal prince.

This banyan was quilted for extra warmth, and the braided closures and high collar, left, add to its exotic appeal. We tend to think of George IV in his later portly days as the Prince Regent, but this banyan, made between 1780-1790, proves that he cut a much less substantial figure as a young man in his twenties – although apparently there are interior panels that prove that the banyan was let out over time to accommodate his growing girth.

I particularly liked the quote that accompanied the banyan. Attributed to George "Beau" Brummell, it perfectly sums up the life around the Prince of Wales and his circle in late 18th c. Brighton, with young gentlemen elegantly lounging in banyans like this one: "Come to Brighton, my dear fellow. Let us be off tomorrow; we'll eat currant-tart, and live in chintz and salt-water."

Banyan, maker unrecorded, c. 1780-90. From the collection of Brighton Museum & Art Gallery. Top photo: RISD Museum. Lower photo: Brighton & Hove Museum.

The Daring French Ladies of the Chariots, c. 1883

Isabella reporting,

In these days of blockbuster movies exploding with the latest special effects, it's easy to forget the live blockbuster performances that delighted audiences of the past. A wonderful small exhibition at the RISDMuseum (now through February 22, 2015), Circus, captures the golden age of circuses from 1850-1950, both in America and in Europe.

I loved this painting, which was new to me. It's by the French painter James Tissot (1836-1902), who more usually painted lovely, languid ladies in beautiful dresses much like the one Loretta shared yesterday. Here, however, Tissot has captured one of the more celebrated circus-style acts of 1880s Paris: Ces Dames des Chars, or the Ladies of the Chariots.

The painting shows one of the performances that took place inside the Hippodrome de l'Alma, right, an enormous indoor arena of iron and glass that in itself was an engineering marvel of the time. Built in 1877 at the corner of Avenues Josephine and Alma, the Hippodrome hosted extravagant entertainments with horses and other circus animals, performances that were a combination of circus, rodeo, and music hall. The Hippodrome featured lavish appointments and paintings, and had a glass ceiling with sections that could be opened to the night sky on warm evenings. Shows could include special effects like drifting mists and indoor fireworks, all beneath electric lighting that was still a new-fangled novelty.

The Hippodrome's performances were also famous for their beautiful performers in daring costumes, and from some of the posters, lower left, it's obvious why so much of the audience appears to be male. Tissot's painting is less titillating, but still emphasises the glamor and daring of the women, who, with long hair flying, raced their chariots at top speed around the indoor track. As the museum card notes:

"Known as Amazons, the charioteers wore costumes of shimmering scales. Their diadems resembled the crown on Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi's new statue, Liberty Illuminating the World, completed in Paris in 1884 and soon to be installed in New York's harbor. Like actresses, dancers, and models, the Amazons belonged to the social class known as the demi-monde, available women whose society enlivened Parisian nightlife."

Ces Dames des Chars was an ambitious painting for Tissot. Returning to Paris after living and working in London for eleven years, Tissot had created a grand series of fifteen paintings (including this one) celebrating the modern women of Paris. He had not only planned to use the paintings to re-establish his reputation among French artists, but also to offer prints of the paintings to collectors with matching stories written by prominent authors. But he was unable to interest the writers, and with only a few of the etchings complete, he abandoned the project.

Even more discouraging was the reception of the paintings when exhibited. Critics found them awkward and unappealing, and worse yet, complained how all the women appeared to have the same face – which does seem true. When Tissot left London for Paris, he was also mourning the loss of his long-time mistress Kathleen Newton, who had recently died of consumption. Compare these paintings of Mrs. Newton with the Amazons, and the likeness is sadly unmistakable.

Upper left: Ces Dames des Chars, by James Tissot, 1883-1885. RISDMuseum.
Right: Poster of the Hippodrome de l'Alma, French school, 19th century. Musee de la Ville de Paris.
Lower left: Front cover of La Caricature featuring the Hippodrome de l'Alma. Bibliotheque nationale de France.

A 1790 Gown with a Rare Seaweed Calico by William Kilburn

Isabella reporting,

While my vacation did include beach-time with my family, it also (as usual!) featured lots of nerdy-history junkets along the way. Among these was a trip to one of my fav small museums, the RISD Museum in Providence, RI, where I saw this wonderful dress made from a very rare printed calico. The dress is currently on display in the museum's Angelo Donghia Costumes & Textile Study Gallery. The white petticoat and neckerchief are modern reproductions; and the dress would most likely have originally had a matching petticoat.

While today we tend to think of printed cotton calico as a humble fabric for patchwork quilts, in late 18th c. England it was considered a luxury fabric, used for high-fashion clothing. Technological advances in cotton manufacture (the heart of the British Industrial Revolution) combined with a new taste for lighter fabrics with designs inspired by nature to create a very different "look" in women's fashions as the 18th c. ended.

Some of the most popular calicos featured designs by botanical illustrator, calico designer, and printer William Kilburn (1745-1818). This is from the Museum's description for this dress:

William Kilburn trained in Dublin as a textile printer. His primary talent lay in drawing patterns for block printing, and once he arrived in London his designs were immediately successful. The seaweed-patterned fabric used for this dress was expensive: a guinea per yard. Kilburn gave a similar length for a gown to Queen Charlotte, wife of England's George III. No actual textiles by Kilburn were previously believed to have survived, but just before RISD purchased this dress in 1987 the printed design was found in an album of Kilburn watercolor drawings in the Victoria & Albert Museum, London. The dress's style indicates that it was probably made when the textile was brand new and at its most fashionable, about 1790.

A close-up of the printed fabric is left; compare it to Kilburn's original design in the V&A's collection here.

But as far too many creative people learn to their sorrow, popularity brings imitation. Although Kilburn was renowned as one of the best and most successful calico printers in Britain – he owned his own calico-printing factory in Surrey – he was still dismayed by how fast his original designs were copied and printed by other factories. Pirated versions of his work, printed in fewer colors on coarser fabric, appeared for sale less than a week after he introduced a new design, and at two-thirds of his price.

In 1787, Kilburn decided to fight back. He was named the chief petitioner in a request to Parliament for design copyright protection in the textile trades. Although his rivals were furious, one of the first bills protecting artistic work was passed in May, 1787: "An Act for the Encouragement of the Arts of designing and printing Linens, Cottons, Callicoes and Muslins by vesting the Properties thereof in the Designers, Printers, and Proprietors for a limited Time." The "limited Time" gave exclusive rights to the designer for two months after publication.

But it wasn't enough to protect Kilburn. Despite the popularity of his work, the cheaper imitations ruined him, and he went bankrupt in April, 1802.

Above right: Dress, textile designed by William Kilburn, c. 1790. RISD Museum. Photograph by Susan Holloway Scott.
Below left: Detail of the dress. Photograph courtesy of RISD Museum.