Posted on

The Creole Origins of the Chemise de la Reine

Written by: Phoebe Clayton

If you’ve spent enough time around me, you will have heard about the infamous 18th century dress, the so called ‘Chemise de la Reine’. To explain, a ‘chemise’ was a women’s undergarment, worn directly against the skin under a set of stays or as a nightgown, and usually made of fine white material. In 1783, Marie Antoinette (the ‘reine’ at that time) was painted wearing a dress which loosely resembled a ‘chemise’, displayed at the Salon de Paris in the Louvre. The gown sparked outrage due to its perceived informality and nonconformity with the highly structured aesthetic of traditional court gowns. It was unlike anything worn by French aristocracy before. But although named after the queen, the ‘Chemise de la Reine’ was not invented by Marie Antoinette. So, where did it come from?


 Marie Antoinette en gaulle, Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun, 1783

The dress itself was made by her tailor, Rose Bertin, who adapted it based on clothes of white women in the West Indies, who had themselves appropriated the style from women of colour. The gown first came Paris in the form of a fashion plate published in 1779 depicting a women dressed ‘in the Creole style’. In fact, Antoinette herself refers to the gown as ‘Le Robe a la Creole’ in her diaries, suggesting a direct awareness of the colonial cultural origins of the dress.

The term ‘creole’ refers to ‘a person of mixed European and black descent, especially in the Caribbean’, implying the inherently multi-racial context of the dress’ origins. Thus, the dress was likely first worn by women of colour, made of undyed madras material – which already widely imported to both West Africa and the Caribbean at this time, as it was light and well-suited to hot or tropical climates. Two black women wearing similar white, flouncy gowns strikingly reminiscent of Antoinette’s ‘chemise’ are featured in a Brunias painting from 1770, and two other women of colour wearing the style are featured in similar painting of his from c.1780. Agostino Brunias, who was active in documenting colonial life in the Caribbean in his art, later depicts white, black and creole women all wearing similar loose, white, chemise-type dresses in his ‘Linen Market’, 1780.


Free West Indian Dominicans, Agostino Brunias, c.1770

It is clear from this series of visual evidence the gradual appropriation of ‘chemise’ style dresses by white women – likely for reasons of practicality as well as a more hostile jealousy towards black beauty and style. One can ascertain the latter from the increasing sumptuary laws (legislation controlling what certain demographics can or can’t wear) that enslaved and formerly enslaved people were subject to during this period in the Caribbean, suggesting that white colonist elites felt threatened by the fashion and expression of black communities and thus restricted it to the best of their ability.

However, while the adoption of ‘chemise’-type gowns by white women in the West Indies is a clear appropriation and attempt at mimicry of black fashion, Marie Antoinette’s motivations in donning the style are harder to discern. Although she shows clear awareness of the apparent ‘creole’ origins of the dress, general contemporary and modern census is that the queen was instead imitating a romanticised, pastoral, ‘shepherdess’ style, trying to emulate the perceived idyllic simplicity of a rural lifestyle. For reasons obvious to anyone with a passing awareness of 18th century France (think: economic crisis, famine and widespread destitution), such an imitation was met with decidedly ill reception and offence caused at the queen’s ignorant naiveté and apathy to the struggles of her own subjects.

After Antoinette was painted in her controversial rendition of the gown, it immediately became known as the ‘Chemise de la Reine’ and quickly caught on, gaining popularity amongst upper class women in France, England and wider Europe. The style caused a seismic shift in 18th century women’s clothing and, as the 1790’s dawned, sent fashion careening straight into the regency period. The white, gauzy fabric finely gathered beneath the bust, puffed sleeves, square neckline and simple skirt all became foundational staples of women’s fashion for the next 40 years. It had a truly transformative impact. And, although the gown travelled far from its birthplace of the Caribbean, it is important to acknowledge the black and Creole origins of the Chemise de la Reine and recognise their monumental influence on an entire century of Western women’s fashion.

Bibliography

DuPlessis, R. (2019). Sartorial Sorting In The Colonial Caribbean And North America. The Right To Dress: Sumptuary Laws In A Global Perspective, c.1200–1800,

[online]

pp.346–372. doi:https://doi.org/10.1017/9781108567541.014.

Halbert, P. (2018). Creole Comforts and French Connections: A Case Study in Caribbean Dress. [online] The Junto. Available at: https://earlyamericanists.com/2018/09/11/creole-comforts-and-french-connections-a-case-study-in-caribbean-dress/#_ftn1.

Peterson, J. (2020). Robe en Chemise or Chemise a la Reine – Pattern 133. [online] Laughing Moon Merc. Available at: https://www.laughingmoonmercantile.com/post/robe-en-chemise-or-chemise-a-la-reine.

Square, J.M. (2021). Culture, Power, and the Appropriation of Creolized Aesthetics in the Revolutionary French Atlantic | Small Axe Project. [online] smallaxe.net. Available at: https://smallaxe.net/sxsalon/discussions/culture-power-and-appropriation-creolized-aesthetics-revolutionary-french.

Van Cleave, K. (2021). On the Origins of the Chemise à la Reine. [online] Démodé Couture. Available at: http://demodecouture.com/on-the-origins-of-the-chemise-a-la-reine/.

Whitehead, S. (2021). À la Creole, en chemise, en gaulle: Marie Antoinette and the dress that sparked a revolution.

[online]

Retrospect Journal. Available at: https://retrospectjournal.com/2021/05/09/a-la-creole-en-chemise-en-gaulle-marie-antoinette-and-the-dress-that-sparked-a-revolution/.

Posted on

The Kirtle: The Original Dress

[Early 17th century kirtle, ‘the lute player’, Orazio Gentileschi]

Pheoebe C in Year 12 explores the evolution of the kirtle, from its origins to its more modern form, the dress.

A kirtle is a one-piece garment that was popular in Western Europe from the early Middle Ages up into the 17th century. Mentions of the kirtle date back to as early as the 10th century[1], and painted depictions survive from throughout the 17th century[2]. Initially worn by both men and women (although men’s kirtles are often referred to as ‘cotehardies’ in modern scholarship, they are fundamentally the same[3]), men’s fashion gradually shifted away, towards the shirts and trousers we see in menswear today. However, the basic concept of the kirtle still survives in modern-day dresses, making it perhaps the most influential garment in the entire history of Western fashion.

[Kirtle from 15th century manuscript]

The kirtle was the first western ‘dress’, so to speak. Although clothing had also previously consisted of one long garment draped over the whole body, the kirtle was made to fit around the human body, rather than be wrapped and manipulated with folds and belts until it fit. Additionally, it needed no extra closures such as pins or brooches, as previous garments had done. Examples of the kirtle’s predecessor include Roman togas (and other robes), as well the Anglo-Saxon peplos[4]. These garments were loose-fitting and tended to be made of just a large rectangle (or two) of fabric, pinned or tied around the body, and often sleeveless. The kirtle was also one of the first Western garments which required no extra undergarments (although they were often worn in combination with other garments for warmth or practicality anyway). They had sleeves and were long enough to also cover the legs, circumventing the need for several additional items of clothing, and instead combining them all into one.

[Peplos]

Kirtles started off as both under and outerwear, and it wasn’t uncommon to wear both an under-kirtle and an over-kirtle. The under-kirtle would have been made from a cheaper fabric that could survive frequent washing, whereas the outer-kirtle would be finer or decorated in some way. Kirtles were usually woollen, however, linen was sometimes used depending on environment and availability[5]. As time went on, the upper classes progressed to only wearing kirtles as undergarments, whereas the lower classes used them as main outer-garments for much longer[6].

Of course, since the popularity of the kirtle lasted over half a millennium, some evolution and change in style was inevitable. Early kirtles were loose-fitting and didn’t have waist-seams. However, by the 15th century they were skin-tight and then evolved to consist of separate skirts that were pleated or gathered before being attached to the bodice[7]. Kirtles were closed using lacing along the front, sides or back of the garment, although earlier examples of kirtles have no lacing at all. Since early kirtles were loose-fitting and had relatively wide necklines, lacing was unnecessary as they could just be put on over the head. Later, tighter kirtles also acted as a kind of prototype for the corset; they provided the kind of support we now receive from a modern bra.

[Kirtle with front lacing]

For example, here is a reconstruction of a 14th-century kirtle that I made a few years ago, versus the 17th-century one I made this summer.

[self-made 14th century kirtle & self-made 17th century kirtle]

Notice the stark difference in styles. Although, visually, they appear more different than similar, the fundamental and defining feature of the kirtle remains: a one-piece skirted garment.

Eventually, the kirtle fell out of fashion in favour of separate skirts and bodices among all classes. By the 18th century, there are barely any depictions of kirtles in art, even among lower-class and rural communities. While this development was inevitable since aristocratic fashion had long abandoned the kirtle in favour separate skirts, and working-class fashion has always followed upper class fashion- just at a delay of several decades- practicality was likely a major factor in this evolution. Combining a skirt with a separate jacket or bodice (still over the top of a shift) allowed the wearer to have more freedom in what they wore and saved unnecessary washing. It reduced the total number of garments someone needed to have a varied and adaptable wardrobe. It was also cheaper and quicker to make smaller individual pieces as required, rather than entire dresses. Additionally, as structural undergarments became more commonplace (providing bra-like support and shaping the torso, either in the form of early stays, as a pair of jumps, or as boning sewn directly into the bodice), the need for tight-fitting kirtles as supportive garments declined.

[example of separate skirt/jacket outfits worn by women of different classes. Woman reading a letter, Gabriel Metsu, c.1665-67]

The dress did come back into mainstream fashion eventually (after over a century- and even later in upper-class fashion). Although it looks unrecognisable from its medieval ancestor, the concept of the dress as a one-piece flowing garment originated with the kirtle in European fashion. Modern dresses also share this heritage, although construction techniques and style conventions have progressed significantly. In fact, the closest modern-day equivalents to the kirtle are various forms of European folk dress. The legacy of the kirtle lives on through garments such as the German Dirndl, a type of folk dress based off rural Alpine clothing in the 16th-18th centuries[8]. The modern Dirndl bares striking resemblance to the 17th century kirtle, and it is fair to presume that this is because one was based off the other, seeing as the kirtle was a very common working-class garment throughout Western Europe (including the Alpine region) at the time. Although it seems modern society has largely forgotten about the kirtle, its lasting impact is undeniably still evident in fashion today.

[modern dirndl example]

[1] Anglo-Saxon Female Clothing: Old English Cyrtel and Tunece, Donata Bulotta (https://www.jstor.org/stable/23966300#metadata_info_tab_contents )

[2] ’A Peasant Family at Meal-time’, c1665, Jan Steen

[3]  https://rosaliegilbert.com/kirtles.html

[4] Dress In Anglo-Saxon England, Gale R. Owen-Crocker (https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=45RJYhTGZiUC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false )

[5] https://ateliernostalgia.wordpress.com/2017/03/24/medieval-kirtle/

[6] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kirtle

[7] https://medievalbritain.com/type/medieval-life/clothing/medieval-dress/

[8] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dirndl

Posted on

How far can fashion trends be considered to be dictated by the social and political climate?

Alice Lavelle (Y13) looks into how fashion taste can be shaped by different trends in social and political thinking.

In this February’s Vogue there was an article written by Ellie Pithers ascribing the sudden popularity of the jagged hemline among both designers and consumers, to the current uncertain political climate, post Brexit and post Trump. Pithers claimed, with support from the Preen designer Thea Bregazzi, that the sudden interest in the more bohemian, asymmetrical hem was a representation of people’s confusion and uncertainty following both Britain leaving the EU and Trump being elected president. Pithers further highlighted how this trend of rollercoaster hemlines can be linked to the fluctuating value of the pound, and more generally the uncertain economic climate, citing the climbing hemlines of the prosperous twenties and sixties, and ankle grazing skirts of the poorer thirties as her evidence. How far this can be considered true, or rather an overzealous journalist reading too far into an otherwise trivial catwalk trend is of course debatable.

However I would argue that this link between fashion and politics is not only accurate in today’s changing social climate, but one that can be seen throughout history – and, when considering this idea, one name immediately springs to mind – Jackie Kennedy. The first lady was a style icon within the United States throughout her husband’s presidency, with the clothes and styles she wore immediately being copied by designers up and down the country. However, what the women of the time who looked to the first lady as means of inspiration were not aware of, was that her beautifully designed gowns and brightly coloured skirt suits were in fact designed in response to the changing US political policies. Following the McCarthyist era of the 1950s, the Unites States was pushing to reinvent itself as progressive, self-believing nation, and Jackie’s traditional, yet simultaneously cosmopolitan ensembles, with a hint of European influence at the hands of Hollywood designer Oleg Cassini, were essentially a well-crafted response to the country’s growing global presence.

Looking further back at iconic moments in the history of fashion it becomes more and more evident that the garments which have shaped the way we dress today were in fact themselves shaped by the political climate they were created within. Take Christian Dior’s ‘New Look’, the long skirted, cinched waisted silhouette that reinvented feminine dress, created in 1947 in response to the more liberal society emerging following the second world war. Or Paco Rabanne’s metal disc dress of 1966 – favouring experimentation over practicality, this design embodied the hopes of the emerging European society.

In terms of designers creating garments as a response to the social climate, you have Rudy Gernreich’s topless dress in the early 70’s, showing the still persistent objectification of the female form, rapidly followed by Bill Gibb’s eclectic, romantic collection in 1972 that paved the way for the ‘hippie movement’ within design, and the debut of Diane Von Furstenberg’s iconic wrap dress in 1973 – a garment that became synonymous with female empowerment within the workplace, a statement of society’s changing attitude towards women. The speed with which these popular styles changed and evolved is just a further representation of how the fashion industry responded to the changes of attitudes towards women in the workplace for example, again showing how intrinsically linked both fashion and political trends are.

And this concept, as explained by Pithers, is relevant today beyond the sudden popularity of rollercoaster hemlines. The spring shows in September all indicated that the previous androgynous styles of autumn/winter were out, and feminine florals and chiffon were back, this time with an edge of female empowerment. Models walked the dior catwalk in white t shirts emblazoned with the slogan ‘We should all be feminists’ taken from the title of an essay written by the Nigerian born Chimamanda Adichie – a bold statement from the newly appointed, first female head of the iconic fashion house, Maria Grazia Chiuri. This surge of feminism across the spring/summer shows again was more than just a trivial fashion trend, it was an embodiment of the rising power of women in the workplace, and within politics – with Hillary at that time still being the potential president of the US.

And it is these trends, the jagged hemlines and cinched waists that eventually get filtered down through the high-street stores and into our wardrobes – meaning the clothes that we wear, either to make a statement or purely because they are comfortable, are essentially just a physical representation of our current uncertainty towards our political climate in a post Brexit post Trump universe.

Follow the WHS DT department on Twitter.