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Bourdereau Veron et Cie dress ca. 1893

From the Kent State University Museum Pinterest

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Dress, 1910-15

From the Amsterdam Museum

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Vionnet evening dress, 1929

From Les Arts Décoratifs via Europeana Fashion

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Dress

c. 1908-1909

Silk trimmed with silk tassels, embroidered with silk.

Label: ‘Manton Patrick Court Dressmaker 44 Baker St. W.’

The John Bright Collection

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“Happiness” dinner dress by Lucile, 1916. Philadelphia Museum of Art.

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Redingote

1815

Doyle Auctions

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Vibrant silk brocade dress, c. 1850. © Philadelphia Museum of Art

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get loved some more, nerd

signed, get-loved-nerd’s apprentice :3

Soooo, this is my first of these asks and I have Questions, but as you are an apprentice, I'll leave them aside and just say thank you for thinking of me. :)

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• Afternoon Dress.

Date: ca. 1905

Dezigner/Maker: Jacques Doucet

Medium: Cotton (lace), silk (chiffon, twill, ribbon).

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"The Ungentleman"

Here's a little excerpt from my old wip, The Brilliant Hour. In this scene, young Noemie has had the strangest day of her life after doing a good turn for a stranger. A stranger who seems to have a ridiculous amount of money on him - just the thing she desperately needs to pay off her father's debt before tomorrow's deadline. She's determined to get that money out of him. This determination has so far involved giving him an alibi by pretending he is her juggling partner, going down a chimney in his shirt so she won't spoil her own festival clothes, and getting caught up in a not-technically-breaking-and-entering situation. They've had enough narrow escapes that he is desperate to just sit down and drink some coffee, and steers them in the direction of one of the best places this end of the city: The Ungentleman.

Illustration drawn for me by Laura Hollingsworth, @drawingsworth, 2020

---

The interior of The Ungentleman was rather like a cup of coffee itself. The plaster walls were stained with a deep brown wash, and the roundabout tiled floor was cut from the same warm stone as the city ramparts. The tenor of the room felt just like coffee too – warm and cozy, if a bit too full and sloshing over the edges, perhaps a little bitter with students and amateur politicians clattering the tables with their fists and the rafters with their voices. Noemie surveyed the crowd glumly. She doubted there was a free seat in the place.

But the Blue One was already halfway across the room, swiveling his way between chairs to a table for two near the kitchen door, still wet with rings from someone else’s order. A pudgy man in a professorial gown reached the table at the same moment. He dropped a stack of books on the table territorially. But quick as a child playing musical chairs, the Blue One spun the nearer seat round and leapt into it. He flashed a boyish grin at the professor, who harrumphed, swept the books back into his arm, and departed to search for another place.

Noemie waded to the opposite chair. “Trying to cure my claustrophobia, are you? This place - oof!” 

The kitchen door had nearly slammed her in the shoulder. She veered wildly, then yelped again when she accidentally tilted the chair onto two legs.

The roll-sleeved landlord (was it still a landlord in a coffee house?) hastily apologized and wiped up their spot with a rag. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered. “Place always fills up during the Night Market week. Folks don’t usually sit at this table.”

The Blue One snapped his fingers airily. “Coffee for two, please.”

“On the double, sir. Oy, Myrtille! Can you go any slower?” He bustled back into the kitchen.

Noemie widened her eyes. “Really?”

The Blue One cocked his head in confusion. “Really? What really?”

“Are you having two cups of coffee?” She hoped not, but it seemed politer to ask.

His eyes danced, and he bullied a laugh into becoming a cough. “You take me for a peculiar chap, don’t you?”

“Hm, I wonder why?”

“Granted. No, of course not. The second cup’s for you. You’re my guest.” Something seemed to strike him. “Have you never tasted coffee?”

Noemie tried not to sound as eager as she felt. “I once drank the cold bottom of a cup somebody had left. Someone else told me later that it’s not the same. I didn’t like it much.”

The Blue One leaned forward seriously, mirroring her crossed arms. “I should jolly well hope you didn’t and no, it isn’t the same thing at all. I apologize, Mademoiselle Eve, but like the serpent, I am about to corrupt you.”

She smiled. “Is that what you’re going to call me? Should I call you Lucifer, then?”

He grinned, and then grimaced, rubbing his split lip. “Well, I should think I look the very devil right now, so you wouldn’t be far wrong. But come on. After what happened back there, we’d best get onto proper names.”

“It’s Noemie Gardeine.”

“Enchanted.”

“And what about you?”

Just then the landlord returned with a tray. Noemie’s eyes shone, reflected in the ceramic sheen of the tapering coffee pot with a curving spout, and reflected again in the twin tin cups. Alongside the coffee tray he also laid a platter of cakes, pastries, and bonbons. Noemie seized the pot and poured immediately. She sighed and wrapped her fingers round the cup. Then she squeaked as they burned. 

 “Don’t take it like that, little greedy-guts!” the Blue One cried. “It’s metal! Wait a minute or two.”

 Noemie crammed her fingertips in her mouth to suck them. “Maybe you should drink it right away.”

He hesitated,  unsure of the joke. “Come again?”

“Should think a devil would prefer it hot. Now, out with it. You were going to tell me your name.”

“Well, technically I wasn’t. I thought you might have forgotten about that. I’m not going to lie about my name  to you, but I’m also not really able to tell you. But as I don’t fancy going by Lucifer, so I’ll give you something to work with. Hm. Alain? That’s the name I’ve been giving at most places on the road here. Would that suit? Even though you know it’s sham?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything about you, Alain, except that you’re rotten at juggling.”

“For all you know I could have had a real knock on the head. I might be the greatest juggler in Morceaux.” Alain popped two bonbons in his mouth, pink and white. He closed his eyes and nearly crumpled  with delight. “Mm! Ah, now that’s the advantage of taking a lady to coffee. They bring these automatically,” he said with his mouth full like a schoolboy. Which she supposed he might be, still. He dressed like a prentice, but he didn’t talk like one, and the fancy classes usually kept their sons in school longer.

“Can you pay for all of these?” Noemie asked, and then, blushing, corrected herself. “I mean, do you want to pay for -”

Alain patted the air dismissively. “Think nothing of it. They’re disgracefully good at counting, these bean grinding publicans. Sharp-eyed too. The law only lets them charge for everything you’ve touched, so mind where you put your fingers. Oh, he’ll try to rack the whole thing up to my account, but I’ll see it out.” He poured a cup one-handed, muttering, “And if you’d had any patience, you’d have let me be a good host and pour for you too.”

“I’m a caravaneer. I know better than to let anybody pour for me.” It came out sharper than she’d intended, but perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. 

Noemie took up the cup and tapped its sides. Cooler than before. She stuck her tongue out, catlike, to test the temperature. Manageable. She took an enormous, slow gulp of coffee. She swirled it around in her mouth, from one cheek to the other.

Alain propped his chin on his fist. “Initial impressions? Be careful, I’m armed if you insult it.”

She swallowed. “Actually armed?”

“It’s only a knife. For some reason your authorities have less objection to concealed weapons than they do to a good honest sword belt within city walls. But – coffee. Speak.”

She took another tentative sip. “It’s a little like drinking smoke. Very dark. Very…. soft and hard at the same time. I don’t know if I like the taste, but I like – it.”

He piled three different pastries onto a plate, and shoved it towards her along with the milk and sugar bowl. “Right. Then it’s all downhill from here. We'll probably be slaves in the Circle tomorrow, so why not? Come on. I swear I’ve got the money for it. Stuff as much as you can.”

Not much conversation followed. They gobbled down enough for three meals in one, and touched practically every delicacy on the tray to find the best ones. 

When the wild feast began to slow a little – though it never really stopped so long as they were in the coffee house – a thoughtful look came into Noemie’s eyes. “Did you mean it just now when you said ‘slaves?’”

Alain, who was spreading the cream from one pastry into a sort of filling for a sandwich between two other pastries, looked up.  “I suppose I did, in a sense. Not to glower the situation over.”

“But we’re not running away?”

He shrugged. “What choice have we got? I’ve had two run-ins with the guard today. I’m not going to answer a lot of questions at the city gate to top it off."

 She licked a strawberry dribble from her palm. “We don’t have to leave the city. It’s a big place, Morceaux. We could disappear, easy as pie.” She sipped her sugar-silted coffee (the third one) meditatively. “What exactly did you do, that they want you so badly? You didn’t take a girl to a coffee house and then stab her with your secret knife, did you?”

“Quiet.” Alain glanced about furtively. “Vague language. Let’s not make jokes that would make anyone’s ears perk up. All the same, I wonder that you’re only asking about it now.”

It was Noemie’s turn to shrug. “I never travel on my own. And the only way performers stay safe is keepin clear of each others’ secrets. When you’re only together a few days, you sort of chance it that either of you could’ve murdered someone. You get out of the habit of asking.”

 “I didn’t, er,” he chuckled awkwardly, “murder anyone.” The laugh was a trifle too much. There was something forced at the end of it.

Noemie swallowed. A bubble of silence seemed to spring up around their table, even as the crowd went on clattering round them. Something in the way Alain fidgeted his nails back and forth on the table’s rim unnerved her again. Her apprehensions from the alleyway flooded back. 

He went on smiling weakly. “Ha. Well, that came out all wrong.”

“What, you really did murder someone?” She kept her tone light.

He waved exasperatedly, and his tone was even lighter.. “If I had, would I be likely to drop it on you that way?”

“I don’t know. You might be incompetent.” 

 He pushed his cup aside. “Come on. Here’s my handkerchief. Let’s wrap the rest of the cakes up in it and dump the rest into that sack of yours. If the man asks, we’ve eaten them. We need to talk in earnest, and we can’t here.”

Noemie grinned, but her fingers felt stiff as she tied the food up. “I’m not going someplace with you for you to tell me about how you didn’t precisely murder anyone.”

Alain didn’t seem to hear her. “Fellow!” he called. “How much for the whole thing?”

The landlord’s eyes nearly burst out of his head when he saw the empty platters. “Well, you’ve made the calculation easy, sir. All told, comes to –“

“Wait.” Alain threw up his hand, as though he had just thought of something. “Are you licensed for lemonade?”

The landlord looked the more surprised. “Uh, yes. Fresh squeezed this morning.”

“And…” The hope in Alain’s voice was almost pathetic,  “And… and hot chocolate? I haven’t had hot chocolate in nearly three weeks.”

“Well, we don’t serve it regularly, but I could manage to –”

Alain nodded and interrupted, leaning across the crumbs to Noemie. “Do you mind? I know we can’t go on like this. I’ll tell you anything you like. Answer any question. Come perfectly clean. I’ll even tell you my name. It’s just – first – if we go into the palace tomorrow… Well, I don’t know how they feed the entertainers, and as long as we’ve gone and eaten this much…?” 

Noemie laughed despite herself. He was so very earnest and looked exactly like a little boy begging his mother to let him lick the honey spoon. And she could put off being wary just a bit longer. She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve never had hot chocolate either.”

Alain banged the table with his hand, reached into the pouch at his belt, and spilled a handful of singing silver over the table. “My good man, do your worst. Kill us with sugar. We’ll bless your name as we lie dying.”

The landlord hurried off, thoroughly discomfited.

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Silk gauze alert! And the 1820s. And stripes! You probably know this about me by now, but I adore Regency and Long Regency style clothing, and the 1820s are among my favorites. You can see the waist here starting to slowly creep down, so it isn't quite so high as the decade before.

This particular dress has a bit of staining, but that's not surprising given the material. Silk gauze is extremely fragile, and this particular version has a feather motif woven into it as well.

The braided bottom and embellishments on the bodice and sleeves are made of silk satin and are called rouleaux. This is very common in gowns from the 1820s and 1830s, adding a fascinating almost sculptural aspect to the gowns.

I also adore the color here, that sweet gentle green that speaks of spring. From the Maryland Center for Humanities.

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Day dress, 1869

From the Agnes Etherington Art Centre at Queen’s University

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• Woman’s Tennis Dress. Place of origin: England Date: ca. 1885 Medium: Cotton plain weave, printed, with cotton-lace trim.

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Reception Gown, ca. 1901

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Good news: that was the last footnote, so either there were no more major faux pas or Sayers decided the last was enough. On the flip side, in her narrative, she included a footnote referring readers to one of the other author's stories and recommending it, with a comment that the author was "a gentleman for whom I have the utmost esteem." Which was a nice conclusion to the matter.

Also, the other author does get points for either including or referring to not just Parker and Bunter, but also the Dowager Duchess, Miss Climpson, and Freddie (sic) Arbuthnot.

I'm reading Ask a Policeman and, while I can't say I fully understand it, it's been interesting. I'm a little bit into Lord Peter Wimsey's part, which starts off with a note from the editor (for lack of a better term) saying he was fortunate enough to induce Lord Peter to provide a few comments on the narrative. Given that part of the conceit is that authors switch detectives, another author is writing Lord Peter, so I assume that Dorothy L. Sayers is adding the notes in Lord Peter's guise. The first footnote is about the descriptor "young" being applied to Peter, with "Peter Wimsey's" note saying it's an elastic term, him having been born in 1890 (making him in his early 40s when this story takes place, based on the publication date). At which point it appears that the purpose of the "Peter Wimsey" notes is to correct any minor inconsistencies on the part of the narrative author. And the second footnote just refers back to the first, which seems to confirm this.

But then the third footnote starts "I cannot account for my having used this vulgar abbreviation. . ." and then continues "But I seem to have been talking at random," with the concluding comment stating the opposite of the opinion expressed by Lord Peter in the narrative.

And I'm not sure if I should feel sorrier for Dorothy L. Sayers, who had her character so poorly interpreted, or for the author who had to tackle Lord Peter and apparently either wasn't familiar enough with the character or wasn't up to the challenge for some reason and then was publicly corrected like that.

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Today’s Uppdate - 1/21

Willa Brown didn’t just break through glass ceilings, she flew threw them. Brown was the first Black female officer in the Civil Air Patrol and the first Black woman to hold a commercial pilot’s license in the United States. And for those accomplishments, she is today’s Uppdate.

Read more: http://www.bet.com/news/national/2013/01/21/this-day-in-black-history-jan-21-1906.html

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In Honor of 1st Lt Charles Shelfus, Civil Air Patrol, 1923-1942 (age 19). While on a coastal patrol, unarmed, tracking a german submarine, he was shot down. He was only married for a week when he made the ultimate sacrifice.