#embroidery and lace making are such labours of love

[lethargicluv]

Astarion with a reader that weaves lace as a pastime while travelling.

[havenofcybele]

The Gender Identity Model

So many discussions around trans people revolve around ‘identity’, whether it’s cis allies or transphobes speaking. I’ve seen a significant number of transphobes assert, sometimes to me personally, that they don’t believe in ‘gender identity’, as if ‘gender identity’ is the fundamental aspect of being trans, and that the whole thing just falls apart like a house of cards if you reject the notion of an immutable, internal ‘gender identity’ from birth.

This is odd, because among the trans women I regularly talk to at least, there is little discussion surrounding a notion of internal identity, at least in the sense these people mean it. The most intimate discussions are of shared experiences, internal and external, shared feelings, shared desires, wants, yearnings. The notion of identity mainly appears when discussing external factors, how others perceive us, treat us, recognise us, etc. This is what identity really is, it’s a social tool, a means of achieving social recognition from others; it is not a magic essence that floats beyond one’s social context within one’s consciousness, immutable and present from birth. Identity relies on the existence of others–identity is used to gain social recognition of something other than the identity.

Here is an excerpt from a poem from a 14th century Rabbi, Kalonymus ben Kalonymus:

Oh, but had the artisan who made me created me instead – a worthy woman.

Today I would be wise and insightful.

We would weave, my friends and I

and in the moonlight spin our yarn

and tell our stories to one another

from dusk till midnight

we’d tell of the events of our day, silly things

matters of no consequence.

But also I would grow very wise from the spinning

and I would say, “How lucky am I” to know how to make linen,

how to comb [wool], and weave lace;

[to design] cup-like buds, open flowers, cherubim, palm trees,

and all sorts of other fine things,

colorful embroideries and furrow-like stitches.

Is she expressing an internal immutable identity here? I’d argue no. This isn’t to say that Kalonymus ben Kalonymus wouldn’t have desired to be recognised as a woman (that desire is obvious from the poem), but rather that this desire for recognition is coming from something deeper, which is displayed in her poem with heartwrenching emotion: yearning. Kalonymus ben Kalonymus is yearning to be a woman, to be a woman physically (she makes reference to menstruation in another part of the poem), to be a woman socially, to dress like a woman, to socialise as a woman, to make love as a woman. External identity is the social recognition of an internal longing, not an internal identity. The poem ends like so:

What shall I say?

why cry or be bitter?

If my father in heaven has decreed upon me

and has maimed me with an immutable deformity

then I do not wish to remove it.

the sorrow of the impossible is a human pain that nothing will cure

and for which no comfort can be found.

So, I will bear and suffer until I die and wither in the ground.

Since I have learned from our tradition

that we bless both, the good and the bitter

I will bless in a voice hushed and weak:

blessed are you YHVH who has not made me a woman.

Kalonymus ben Kalonymus is not lamenting because she has an internal female identity, she is lamenting due to her lacking the markers of womanhood, the physical, biological markers and the social markers in dress, gendered division of labour, socialising, marriage, etc. This isn’t to say no trans woman has ever conceptualised herself as a ‘woman on the inside’–this used to be a very common narrative. But, I’d argue, it is just that, a narrative, a particular means of understanding the feeling of gender dysphoria, the yearning to be a particular gender that brings such agony to the heart, as such a strong, all-consuming feeling demands an explanation from the self in order to cope with it. Kalonymus ben Kalonymus frames her experience through her religion, while others may frame it through other means. This isn’t to downplay the significance of such narratives, I don’t wish to condescendingly presume that Kalonymus ben Kalonymus’ religion was fundamentally unimportant to her experiences. My point is that any particular narrative framing isn’t necessarily getting to the heart of the matter as trans people can express what is so obviously a similar feeling through such different means, and so tearing down particular framings, such as the ‘born in the wrong body’ notion or 'immutable gender identity at birth' notion, doesn’t even begin to tear down the notion of transness in general.

It is clear to me that desire, yearning, longing, is the fundamental aspect as to what makes someone trans. A yearning to change one’s body and in most cases one’s social role to something else. This yearning shouldn’t demand any kind of explanation from others, at least no more than any other kind of yearning should. If someone finds their calling as a writer and another as a painter, am I expected to meet their desires with suspicion, to interrogate where their yearning comes from? No, of course not. The beautiful thing about humanity is how diverse in our desires we are, and criticial interrogation of desire is ultimately a deadend anyway, for one cannot unbind oneself from the environment one was created in.

So, it’s curious that dysphoria, which in my opinion, is the medical term for this yearning (and note that medicalisation is a narrative of understanding this yearning, not the yearning in of itself), has become more and more peripheral in discourse around transgender people, with this shift in focus towards ‘identity’, despite dysphoria being the core of the trans experience. I personally think this is a product of academia–humanities academia is absolutely obsessed with notions of identity, and so much academic work is done through the lens of identity. The internal experience of dysphoria is not particularly relevant to academics, for two reasons. One is that internal experience in general is not of particular interest to academics, probably due to the difficulty of studying it, and two because the internal experience of dysphoria does not serve any kind of progressive goal. The notion of a transgender gender identity can be and is used to problematise notions of gender in general–in other words, a transgender framework which emphasises identity is useful for feminist and gender abolitionist academics. Transgender people are just a useful tool to these people, nothing more, and our internal experiences are worthless, because, if anything, they would serve to reinforce the importance of gender in society and reverse the decades-long attempt by feminist academics to trivialise it.

Why would this lead to a notion of internal gender identity? Well, because so many progressive activists regurgitate what they read in academia, even when it’s wrong, even when it’s in an inappropriate context. They engage with academic analyses of gender and trans people (or engage with people who have engaged with them) and regurgitate them to other progressives and those sympathetic to them. This causes a problem, because many progressive activists want to legitimise trans people, but the framework they’re using serves to do anything but, and so with the focus on identity, they fashion the notion of an immutable, internal gender identity. Many transgender people, who naturally gravitate towards spaces that are at least slightly more accepting of them than anywhere else, will then internalise these ideas and regurgitate them themselves.

At the risk of sounding condescending, I don’t think many of these people give what they’re saying much thought. When they do, I think they inevitably end up trivialising transness, by either staying nominally pro-trans while framing it as something fundamentally absurd, implying that trans people are victims of a gendered system and that we would be ‘cured’ if gender didn’t exist, or by becoming TERFs, who in trivialising trans experiences see trans people as enemies of their dystopian gender abolitionist vision for the world. Most won’t remain fervently pro-trans when thinking further about the subject, because they won’t think to leave the confines of the internal gender identity model, because there is little to no intellectual interest in dysphoria–in yearning–as a lived experience of trans people.

However, this isn’t to say identity–external identity, in which one receives recognition of one’s internal experiences and desires from others–is unimportant. We are social beings, who crave recognition from those around us. I am certainly not arguing that trans men are not men and trans women are not women, and you’ll note that I referred to Kalonymus ben Kalonymus as ‘she’ even as I said I don’t think she had some internal gender identity. Rather, as I said earlier, identity is a tool of social recognition. This heartwrenching yearning, which leaves the deepest imprint on the mind and colours every single experience one has from birth, which when repressed hollows out the soul to its very core, which drives people to upturn their entire lives and radically alter their bodies (bringing their sex closer to the sex they long to be) is self-evidently socially significant and worthy of recognition, and any just society would do all it can to help ease such yearning, especially as it comes at such a trivial cost.

(I apologise for this post not being very well-formed, I wrote it mainly to get some thoughts out that have been bouncing around in my head for a while. I might return to this subject and write a better structure essay about it in the future.)

[yeojaa]

GIRL we need a devil in a new suit drabble where jungkook gets jealous pls bless us😭😭❤️

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  kook being hilarious and naive, reader being a little frustrated but head over heels, smut in the form of:  titty sucking (kook is a big boob guy in this), cunnilingus, kook wanting to love you forever.  wc.  2.1k.  author note.  i am... so in love with this couple so what was meant to be a “kook gets jealous and breaks reader’s back” turned into... this.

Jeon Jungkook doesn’t get jealous.  Not because he doesn’t care, or he’s unaffected, or any other negative connotation under the sun.  He doesn’t because he’s him, too soft and sweet and silly to believe the worst in people.  (This, coming from the man who’d steered clear of dating apps and blind dates because he was worried he’d be hurt.)

Once, you’d been waiting for him to pick you - he’d been running late, dinner with his parents and younger sister - and he’d found you chatting politely to an old fling of yours.  Well, maybe not so old.  A recent fling, a friend of sorts.  Someone who’d swanned into your life during your college years and had remained there ever since, popping his head in from time to time. 

You’d always been on good terms, caught up for lunch every six months or so when he’d return home from his overseas job.  In the past, you’d found familiarity in the shape of his hands, the neon outline of his almond eyes and pouting lips.  He was good in bed, as charming between the sheets as he was on the street.

But your heart belonged to Jungkook now - had, before you’d even realised it - and Taewoo was just another guy.  Another face in a crowd.

Still, you’d thought your beloved boyfriend would have some sort of reaction.  Maybe a quirk of his perfectly groomed brows, a certain tightness belying his displeasure in the softly peaked bow of his mouth.  You’d spied neither after extracting yourself from the hug and waving goodbye.  Jungkook had been sunshine and sweetness, opening your door for you and stamping a kiss to your cheek.  

That night, he’d loved you how he always had, with you crying his name and making a mess of his sheets.

Another time, you’d been at a work function.  One of those ridiculous galas you loved, full of women in their highest heels and men in their swankiest watches.  (You’d worn Aquazzura that night, Jungkook with an Audemars Piguet loose around his wrist.)  

He’d stuck close to your side, far more interested in the way your dress hugged your figure, cut intimidatingly high over your thigh and revealed the swell of your ass at juuuust the right angle.  Yejin had been the only one to tear him away, insisting on shots that you knew she couldn’t handle.  Anything went if free booze was involved.

Thirty minutes later - give or take, since you hadn’t had a watch of your own on - your boyfriend had returned, flushed and adorable.  There’d been a garden of colour creeping over the expanse of his chest, peeking around the collar of his shirt and disappearing into his neatly tousled strands.  He’d giggled his way back to you, somehow completely oblivious to the man that’d found you at your table and settled himself into the spot labelled Jeon Jungkook.

The imposter had been affronted, gaze narrowed at the younger man who was a little too loose, a little too smiley.  Wholly out of place at an event like this, where people spent too much time up their own asses, noses held aloft and business cards exchanged.  

(One of the reasons you loved Jungkook so much.  He was a breath of fresh air in a world you thrived in - found humour in, at the very least - carrying you high above the clouds with the sound of his laughter.)

“Hi, baby.”  Your darling boy smothered you in kisses, traced them up and over the exposed expanse of your shoulder, nosing against your skin, utterly unbothered by the man shooting him daggers, wishing him ill from the spot he’d wrongly claimed.  

Of course, he’d thought Jungkook was making a point - claiming what was his - but that was so far from the truth you’d almost laughed when he’d spoken, voice carrying above the slightly laboured breaths of your lover.  “I guess that’s my cue to leave, huh?”

You’d smiled, nodded with a hand threaded into cornsilk curling over Jungkook’s nape.  “Looks like it.”

(Then your idiot love - your big-hearted moron, your doe-eyed baby - had come up for air, cheek resting in the palm of his hand.  “Where’s your friend?”  He’d asked, eyes so wide you couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his question.)

Such was the kind of person Jungkook was, with an unwavering belief in the goodness of others, a silver thread outlining everyone’s silhouette.  You sometimes wondered what it would take to drive him to any sort of displeasure, any sort of emotion beyond quiet melancholy (seldom seen but heavily felt, when the rare occasions rose) or easygoing amicability (his default setting).  Not that you’d ever push to see that, of course.

You were happy.  Hopelessly in love.  You wouldn’t have traded him for the world - couldn’t even fathom doing anything to hurt him.  

And yet, you discover albeit by accident - it’s really not that hard.  All it takes is a pretty girl.

“This looks incredible,”  she says, standing close, long dark hair falling in a fluid curtain down the line of her back.  It’s the loveliest shade, cool-toned beneath the boutique lights, and reflects colour like a waterfall.  You’d complimented her on it when you’d stepped into the fitting area, a handful of hangers set across the rolling rack.

Fingers smooth over embroidery, revelling in the feeling of it over your skin.  It’s a beautiful thing, black tulle that hangs to your fingertips.  Not Jungkook’s preferred style - he much prefers harnesses and so many straps it might as well be a cat’s cradle - but you think he loves it nonetheless. 

(You’d confirm, but he’s been stoically silent, seated in the plush chair tucked beside the privacy partition, normally soft gaze hard and trained on his phone.  He doesn’t seem very much in the mood to talk, hardly reacting with each outfit change.  A nod here, a smile there.  Not even the most scandalous of the options - a black corset decorated in Leavers lace - had elicited his usual enthusiasm.)  

“You think so?”  You’re not insecure about your body - know what it looks best in, which assets to play up.  Still, it’s nice to hear from someone other than your doting boyfriend, the people caught in your orbit.  

The sales associate nods, beams at you in the multiple mirrors.  A hand of her own drifts over the thin strap of the slip - an innocent gesture that dislodges wayward strands of hair from beneath.  “Of course— and I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to sell it.” 

You nod, satisfied.  Even if Jungkook doesn’t seem ecstatic, your own joy makes up for it, buyer’s delight spilling over.  “I’ll take the satin robe, the blush silk set, and this in the violet.”  

“Great choices,”  she hums, pulling back the curtain to the adjoining change room to allow you privacy.  Silence follows as you slip the delicate number off, returning it to its hanger.  You don’t expect when the brunette continues speaking - presumably to your surprisingly surly boyfriend.  “Don’t you agree?” 

“Yep.”  He’s never been a man of few words, usually so full of excitement that he rambles when he doesn’t mean to.  

It’s a dead giveaway - a confirmation that something’s wrong.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have time to broach the subject, your purchases already paid for and a firm hand on the small of your back the moment you’ve stepped out of the dressing stall.  “Jungkookie?”  You mean it quietly, just for the two of you, but falter when he slots his fingers between yours and all but tugs you out of the boutique.  You hardly even have a chance to toss the helpful girl an apologetic smile, imposing glass swinging shut behind you.

“Men—men are fine.  I don’t have to worry about them.”  There’s a confidence you’re so proud to see, turning his words as solid as the weight that rests against your hip, sears burning heat into your bared skin.  “No other man is going to love you better than me.  But women?”  A shudder runs the length of his imposing frame, tugs his shoulders up to his ears and tingles the small of his back.  “Women are scary.”  (It’s a sentiment he’s echoed in the past.  In particular, months ago when you’d insisted he dive into the dating scene.)

Hands thread through his too-soft strands, twirl the ends around your fingers as he speaks, nearly muffled into the crook of your shoulder.  He’s being so tender, giving you all the love he has to offer as he writes his insecurities into your skin, offers them with the wet of his tongue.

“A woman might sweep you off your feet and steal you away.”

You laugh then - sound snapping past your teeth before you can tuck it away.  It filters loudly into the baies scented candle you’d lit when you’d gotten into his apartment.  

Jungkook whines in response - a terribly endearing sound that makes you roll your eyes but only with affection (always with that) - and buries his face into your tits, sucking your nipple into his mouth with complete disregard for the tulle that acts as a barrier.  Saliva stains the material, makes it stick to your hardened bud as he laves over it with his tongue - bites surprisingly gently - and tugs it just hard enough to have you keening.

“S-s’not funny,”  he huffs, palming your other breast in his broad tattooed palm.  When he continues, he bites into you like he’s got a personal vendetta against whatever lies beneath your flesh.  “She was flirting with you.”  

It’s less of a sigh of annoyance - more sensual, drowning in need.  “She was not.”

He nips at the delicate flesh again, spreads crimson marks all across the sensitive skin until it’s a mosaic beneath the fabric, his finest work painted by his second favourite brush.  “That’s what you think but she was.”  The hand previously kneading your skin drops, flat of his palm sliding easily over your bare pussy.  

There’s zero hesitation when he slots his fingers on either side of your clit, catches the delicate pearl against the webbing of his hand and applies pressure that has you bucking beneath him.  It’s not nearly as aggressive as he normally is but it’s just as good, paired with the sinful motions of his tongue and teeth. 

“She wants to be the one doing this,”  he continues, saliva pooling across your chest, slipping into the valley of your breasts only to be licked up by the flat of his tongue.  He continues even once you’re clean, skin sticky and a little gross but so erotic it makes you quiver.  Then he descends, pushes the hem of your new slip higher, and licks another stripe from the joint of your thigh up to your belly button.  Repeats it again, moving lower with each pass until he’s sucking your clit into his mouth.  “She wants to be the one tasting this pretty, pretty pussy.”

You reach for his hand - the one somewhere near your ribs, side of his wrist soothing against the ladder of bones - and tangle your fingers together as he drives you mad, tip of his tongue switching between sweet kitten licks and tantalising figure eights.

“Baby,”  you coax, reprimand almost.  Jungkook’s never this lenient, never this sweet on you (not inside the bedroom, at least).  It brings you to a different high, his love folded into lovely origami cranes you tuck into your pockets and the spot you’ve carved out for him within your chest.

“Sing for me, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t mean literally - refers instead to the sound of your voice when it leaps three octaves, bounces between sultry and singed, burnt at the edges by the fire he brings to life. 

“Tell me you’ll never leave me.”  Despite how the words muffle, come broken between the glide of his tongue within your fluttering walls, you can hear the sincerity in them.  The earnestness that begs you to promise him this simple thing.  “Not for her.  Not for anyone.”  

“I won’t leave you,”  you answer, threading the vow between your fingers as if they’re the thread binding your love story together.  “Not for her - not for anyone.”

[boneandlace]

For #SecretlyHistoryBound hosted by @designed_by_desiree - Day 11 #Love and Day 13 #Favourite rolled into one. This is one of my favourite things I've ever knitted - a combination of wedding shawl, infinity scarf, veil and lasso (love a good multipurpose garment!), using cobweb and lace yarn from two places close to my heart (the white from Jamieson & Smith in Shetland and the handyed rainbow from Touch Yarns in New Zealand), combining my favourite knitting techniques (colourwork, laceknitting and winging it), in a labour of love for my lockdown wedding (!) last year, a celebration of my relationship with the love of my life and of the other people I love who couldn't be there, who I thought about a lot when choosing the design elements and knitting it. I haven't posted about that here as I don't normally put my face up on this page (it's supposed to be about my handiwork after all), but I might put a picture of us wearing it in my stories later on if you'd like to see how this multifaceted garment worked. The designs are mostly traditional Shetland lace patterns (including some recorded as far back as the 16th century!), along with some traditional Estonian lace motifs, birds inspired by ravens in Migration Era and Viking Era metalwork, and fitted together as the whim took me with freestyled lace patterns to link all the parts together. What I did with the loose ends of coloured yarn was inspired by the use of thread behind the work in shadow embroidery/blackwork, except worked at the same time as the base fabric. The general design aesthetic/balance of line and space was heavily influenced by the years I spent working as a henna artist, drawing lacelike lines onto skin to celebrate similarly important occasions. I even accidentally included the Rebel Alliance badge when attempting to freestyle some flowers 😂 (last image). I loved making it, and I love wearing it (perfect for feeling dressed up for walks on the crisp sunny winter days after our wedding in the autumn). It was very meditative and contemplative to make, and I still find it comforting to look at the different parts of the patterns and think about what and who they represent to me. https://www.instagram.com/p/CNplrscnbOx/?igshid=hdyp25f7083z

[kimamanitranslatesnovels]

Explain This Situation c6

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Chapter 6: How a Wife Kills Time

I verify how I'll take my meals from now on with Lotus.

Afterwards, I somehow manage to finish breakfast then have tea or something. Now, I have nothing to do, to put it bluntly. Back home, there were so many things that needed to be done I didn't even have the time to say "nothing to do". But this is a prestigious Duke's house. There's more than enough people to help out with work. Rather, it would be utterly unthinkable for the "mistress" to do manual labour.

"Mistress?" Dahlia says.

Perhaps she saw me rolling around on the sofa by myself, groaning.

"Yes, what is it?"

"If it would please you, you could embroider?"

So I see. The mistresses of prestigious houses kill tim- I mean, elegantly spend their time doing activities like that... Since at any rate I'm a young celebrity now, I didn't even think of doing something like that.

But for me, needlework is...

"Embroidery, I see. I can embroider, but my speciality is darning and patching."

Oops, ended up talking like a peasant seamstress.

"..."

It can't be helped, back home there was obviously a lot more clothing that needed to be patched up than time to do something unproductive like embroidery. It's a bit embarrassing to admit this myself, but I'm pretty good with my hands and am good at anything from patchwork to re-attachment. Oh, Dahlia's looking at me in pity. Don't wipe away a tear with your handkerchief!

But it's not like I can't embroider, you know? Since it doesn't have any use, I didn't ever just embroider, but I often embroidered flowers and birds and such on my little sister's clothing.

Let's take back everything I just said.

"... Ahem. Well then, what would be good to embroider?" I smile again at Dahlia.

She pulls herself together too and suggests, "How about a pocket handkerchief for your husband to begin with?"

"My, what a lovely idea," I say flatly.

"It would have been lovelier if you hadn't said that in a monotone."

"O ho ho ho."

Please ignore my monotone.

Though I'm simply his wife for appearances, if he keeps something I made close to him, we'll look as if we're a lovey-dovey couple from the outside, after all! As expected from the head maid, nice idea.

With an embroidery set that Mimosa nimbly prepared for me, I begin embroidering a handkerchief to be given to my husband.

Carefully, carefully, carefully.

"I'm already done..."

I ended up finishing the handkerchief before even an hour had passed.

"Mistress, you're very clever with your hands!" praises Mimosa in astonishment.

But I can sew something as small as this in moments. I have enough skill to sew bigger things, like my little siblings' clothing or even my own clothing.

"You're really very skilled," Dahlia praises as well.

No, seriously, it was done quickly because it's small.

All I needed to do was carefully embroider Chinese lantern plants (the crest of the House of Physalis) and my husband's initials, CTF, around the edge of the handkerchief.

"But you really finished so quickly."

"That's because she's dexterous."

"Mm, should I make a more daring design next time? Perhaps cover the handkerchief with crests? Or maybe make the initials fancier?"

"..."

The two maids watch me with lukewarm gazes as my motivation to design rises ☆.

I sewed all sorts of things, changing up the design, but in the end, I could only kill time until the afternoon.

I'm kind of resentful that I'm so good with my hands!

--

I finish my lunch, which was made from my breakfast as I ordered. Now then, what should I do in the afternoon? They're going to make me make lace or something next, aren't they? As I fold my arms and cock my head to the side, Lotus comes to see me next.

"You could write thank you letters for your wedding gifts," he says, bringing me an inventory that listed all the different gifts we received.

It listed who brought what, and what they brought.

Oh, I'll need to look at these items too. It's a pain, but I skim through the inventory.

Hey now, who's the one who sent us a figurehead of a bear with a salmon in its mouth? Perhaps I'll have it decorate a detached building.

No, but, I need to thank someone for something they gave us. Person to person. And thank you letters like this are usually all due to the wife's efforts, so it's the wife's job.

"That's right. Things like this should be done quickly."

I accept writing utensils and a letter set (one that contains the House of Physalis' seal ☆) from Lotus.

You don't have any regrets before something happens.

You can't ignore your regrets after something happens.

So there had been a fair number of gifts sent to us. I didn't know. As expected from a Duke's house. Good quality stuff is good quality, no matter how rotten it may be, as they say. No wait, this house isn't rotten, I'm sorry. 

We received gifts from almost every influential person in the country. It was pretty hard work verifying what each person sent and carefully crafting out a response that wouldn't be rude.

Though I'm good at manual labour since I'm used to it, I don't have any experience with this kind of desk work - no, work that requires mental power - so it tired me out a lot.

Aside from when I took a break to drink some tea and eat some sweets Mimosa prepared for me, I worked at my desk writing thank you letters with barely any rest.

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[resurrectionertugrul]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.

[mirelaloveworld]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.

[mirelanast]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.

[emilyashome]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.

[alllifebg]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.

[paradisesc]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.

[hasyes]

IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

FAMILIARITY has bred respect, even affection, for the typical costume of Charles I.’s reign, and that unfortunate monarch himself, depicted by Van Dyck in sombre coat and lace collar, is amongst the dear intimacies of our daily life. Sir Peter Lely, who followed on the footsteps of Van Dyck, left many modish records of his time, and though he has been rated for dressing his nymphs in inappropriate extravagances of fringes and embroidery, he undoubtedly clothed lovely woman with an excellent fantasy, bestowing height and grace by the length and simple disposition of his drapery. Mignard, the French artist, also wrote a page in fashion’s history in his paintings of the Court ladies as Madonnas ; covering the vanities of the sinner with the mantle of the saint, he was much sought after for his pains.

The main features of feminine costume in Charles I.’s reign may be realised in recalling the dresses which have so often appeared to delight us in the various presentations of stage plays of his period ; the bodice is tight, the basque square and tabbed, and round the waist are a few folds of silk fastened into a rosette in the front ; the 66 lace collar falls from the neck to the shoulders in deep points, and the ringleted hair bears a ribbon rosette, or is surmounted by a plumed hat.

Henrietta, Queen of Charles I., is accredited with the introduction of female labour for clothing the outer woman, and from her day mantle-making ranked among female occupations. But the tailor still ruled supreme, and though the sex of the milliner was the more sympathetic, it was left to the next century to popularise feminine services.

The farthingale extended its circumference

The farthingale extended its circumference in the reign of James I., when much effort was taken to suppress it, for the King declared it occupied more room at his court than he himself. The ruff flourished, but less obtrusively than in the preceding reigns, and in its place was adopted what was known as a fall, a loose band overhanging the top of a wide collar starched and frilled at the base—a fancy some merry writer of the period noted with the epigram :

A question ’tis why women wear a fall ?

The truth on’t is, to pride they’re given all,

And pride, the proverb says, will have a fall.