Paris Fashion: A Cultural History 9781474269711, 9781474245487

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Acknowledgments The first edition of Paris Fashion was published in 1988 and the second in 1998. Now there is a third, revised and expanded, edition, and I am pleased to thank all the individuals and institutions that have contributed to this project over the years. For permitting their illustrations and photographs to be reproduced here I would like to thank: The Art Archive at Art Resource, The Art Institute of Chicago, Art Media, Artists Rights Society, Bibliothèque de la Comédie Française, Bibliothèque Nationale, Bridgeman Images, Bruxelles Bibliothèque Royale, Château de Compiègne, Château de Versailles, the Costume Institute of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the De Agostini Picture Library, Monsieurs Antoine and Nicolas of Diktats, the Fashion Group Foundation, Hans Feurer, Image Works, The Gladys Marcus Library of FIT Special Collections and College Archives, The French Revolution Museum, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, The George Eastman Museum, Getty Images, Gulbenkian Museum, Koninklijk Museum voor Schone Kunste, Lewis Walpole Library and Yale University, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, Roxane Lowit, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Ministère de la Culture – France, Musée des Beaux-Arts, Musée Carnavalet and the Musées de la Ville de Paris, Musée d’Orsay and the Musées Nationaux de France, Musée Royale du Mariemont, Musée de Versailles and the Musées Nationaux de France, Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, Museum of Fine Arts (Boston), The Museum at FIT, Niall McInerney Archive at Bloomsbury, National Gallery of Art, National Gallery (London), Palais Galliera: Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris (formerly known as the Musée de la Mode et du Costume), Philadelphia Museum of Art, Ann Ray, Rex–Shutterstock, RogerViollet, Royal Museum for Fine Arts Antwerp, Saint Louis Art Museum, Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Sotheby’s, Tate Gallery, Trustees of the British Museum, and the Wallace Collection. While every effort has been made to give acknowledgment wherever due, this has occasionally proved difficult. If insufficient credit has been given, the publishers will be pleased to make amendments in any further edition. When no source is given for an illustration, it is in the collection of the author. Grateful acknowledgments are also made

Opposite: Gabrielle Chanel. Red silk crêpe de chine and feathers. 1927, France. The Museum at FIT. Photo © The Museum at FIT.

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acknowledgments

to Random House for permission to reprint excerpts from Remembrance of Things Past, translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom. My sincere thanks to the staff of the Bibliothèque des Arts Décoratifs, the Union Française des Arts du Costume, the Bibliothèque Forney, the Bibliothèque Nationale, the British Library, the Musée Carnavalet, the Cooper-Hewitt Museum, the Palais Galliera: Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris, Les Arts Décoratifs, Musée des Arts de la Mode et du Textile, the Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, the New York Public Library, the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Gladys Marcus Library, especially the department of Special Collections and College Archives at the Fashion Institute of Technology, as well as The Museum at FIT. It is also a pleasure to thank the friends and colleagues who helped me with Paris Fashion, especially Kathyn Earle, Fabienne Falluel, Chantal Fribourg, the late Guillaume Garnier, Margaret Hayes, Corinne La Balme, Katell Le Bourhis, Melissa Marra-Alvarez, the late Richard Martin, Patricia Mears, Florence Müller, Marie-Hélène Poix, Jan Reeder, the late John Rewald, Aileen Ribeiro, Olivier Saillard, Françoise Tetart-Vittu, and Anna Wright. Naturally, any mistakes that remain are my own. Most of all, thanks to my husband, John S. Major.

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preface Paris Fashion was my second book and remains one of my favorites. I started working on it in graduate school, even before I finished my doctoral dissertation. At that time, fashion was not an accepted field of study within academia. Once, at a cocktail party at Yale University, an eminent historian asked me the subject of my research. “Fashion,” I replied. “That’s very interesting,” he said. “German or Italian?” It took me a few minutes, but eventually the penny dropped. “Fashion,” I explained, “as in Paris. Not . . . Fascism.” He turned and walked away. A few years later, in 1985, I moved to New York City and published my first book, Fashion and Eroticism. Unable to find a full-time, tenure-track job, I worked as an academic proletarian at several institutions. Any available nights, weekends, and vacations, I devoted to research and writing. Whenever I could afford it, my book was a great excuse to go to Paris. Paris Fashion was published by Oxford University Press in 1988, which happened to be a very good year for fashion in Paris, with outstanding collections by designers like Jean Paul Gaultier and Azzedine Alaïa. My book, however, barely touched on contemporary fashion. Indeed, I was not particularly interested in writing another hagiography of “the great Paris designers.” Instead, I focused on investigating why Paris had been for so long the international capital of style. My “case study” of Paris looked primarily at the long nineteenth century to explore the significance of fashion in modern urban society. The geography of fashion emerged as an important theme, as I analyzed the work of writers and artists who contributed to the cultural construction of Paris fashion. In retrospect, I think that Paris Fashion contributed to the discourse on fashion cities and on the cultural context within which fashion flourishes. The book received kind words from scholars such as Eugen Weber: “A mine of novel information and fascinating illustrations, Valerie Steele’s book is good to look at and good to read.” My favorite review was in The Los Angeles Times Book Review: “This is an original, gracefully written study of Paris fashion, one that manages to say as much about national character, in a sense, as it does about the rise and fall of hemlines. . . . I would not only recommend it to anyone interested

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Opposite: Fashion plate by Georges Barbier for Journal des Dames et des Modes (1913).

in the psychology of clothes, but to anyone planning a séjour in France – as much required reading, say, as the Green Guides of Michelin.” As I continued writing books, such as Women of Fashion: 20th-Century Designers and Fetish: Fashion, Sex & Power, I increasingly dealt with modern and contemporary fashion. The French publisher Adam Biro commissioned a book, Se vêtir au XXe siècle, also published in English by Yale University Press as 50 Years of Fashion: From New Look to Now. But although Fetish was translated into French, German, Italian, and Portuguese, no French publisher was interested in Paris Fashion. I was told that no French person would read a book on Paris fashion that had been written by an American. A revised and updated paperback edition of Paris Fashion was published by Berg in 1998. The first issue of Fashion Theory: The Journal of Dress, Body & Culture appeared the previous year, 1997, thanks to the support of Kathryn Earle. That same year, I was also appointed chief curator of The Museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Those were great years for me and, coincidentally, the beginning of a very creative period for fashion. January 1997 saw John Galliano’s first couture collection for Christian Dior; and a few months later Alexander McQueen showed his powerful Eclect/Dissect collection for Givenchy. The revival of two famous Paris fashion houses by radical young British designers was a harbinger of things to come, as the fashion world became increasingly globalized. A few years ago, Kathryn Earle invited me to revise and update Paris Fashion once again. This time, I could have three times as many pictures, all in color. Although I can’t imagine wanting to revise any of my other books, I was delighted to return to a subject so close to my heart. The revisions took longer than expected, however, not only because I had my hands full at the museum, but also because it was not just a question, as we had first thought, of updating the final chapter, bringing the story from 1997 to the present. The field of Fashion Studies has developed so much over the past twenty years that I really wanted to acknowledge the wealth of scholarship that has been done on fashion in general and on Paris fashion in particular. At the same time, I tried not to lose the conversational tone that made the book accessible to the general reader. The idea of Paris as a “fashion capital” has more than academic significance. Once regarded as a trivial subject, fashion now plays an important role in the cultural economy of cities around the world. For this reason alone, it seemed worthwhile to revise and expand Paris Fashion for a new audience.

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1 Paris, Capital of Fashion? Fluctuat nec mergitur —Motto of the city of Paris

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not a history of fashion, still less of haute couture. Rather, it is a cultural history of Paris fashion and an analysis of the reasons why Paris has been regarded for so long as “the capital of fashion.” Certainly, Paris has played a very important, perhaps unique, role in the history of fashion. However, it can be difficult to know how to interpret the many texts and images devoted to Paris fashion because the myth of Paris is so entrenched in the cultural imaginary. For Paris is not just a real city, it is also a mythical city, celebrated by innumerable artists and writers for centuries. To describe Paris as the City of Light, for example, implies not only the glittering spectacle of shop windows, theaters, and cafés but also the Enlightenment and the image of Paris as a beacon of liberty. In the mythology of the city, Paris is not just the capital of France but capital of the world, the place where all the refinements of civilized life reach their fullest expression, from avantgarde art to elegant fashion. In recent decades, however, the geography of fashion has become more competitive. Today there are several recognized fashion cities: Paris, New York, London, and Milan are always cited, and sometimes also Tokyo. As China has become increasingly important in the global garment industry, some observers have suggested that Shanghai, once known as “the Paris of the East,” might soon become the fifth or sixth fashion capital. Meanwhile, dozens of other cities around the world—from Mumbai to Moscow, and from Sydney to Sao Paolo—have also launched their own fashion weeks, as governments have recognized the importance of fashion as a source of economic and cultural capital. Perhaps Paris was once “the” capital of fashion, but in an age of globalization does it still hold that title? The reality is even more complex. In Fashion’s World Cities, David Gilbert observes: “The concept of ‘Paris fashion’ must represent one of the most powerful and his book is

Opposite: John Galliano for Christian Dior, Haute Couture. Spring– Summer 1998. Photograph © Guy Marineau.

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long-running reifications of place in modern history. But even a cursory examination of the way the term has been used draws attention to the complexity of the notion of the fashion capital, and to the complexity of the fashion process itself.”1 Recognizing that the position of Paris within today’s global fashion system is the product of a long historical process, this book seeks to explore the evolving significance and symbolism of Paris fashion. To understand why Paris has been so important in the history of fashion, it is necessary to begin by looking back to the period before Paris had acquired its reputation as the capital of fashion. In the following chapter, we will see how fashion emerged in many cities and courts in both Europe and Asia. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the court of the dukes of Burgundy was especially stylish. With the growth of the nation state, European fashion came to be dominated in the sixteenth century by Spain, which was then the center of the Western world’s largest empire. By the seventeenth century, fashion leadership had moved from Spain to France, which was now the richest and most powerful country in Europe. Although fashion and luxury were still widely viewed with suspicion, some people realized that they could be a source of national wealth. As Jean-Baptiste Colbert, Louis XIV’s minister of finance, famously put it: “Fashion is to France what the goldmines of Peru are to Spain.” Under Louis XIV, the French state instituted political and economic policies designed to maximize the benefits to be obtained from the French fashion and luxury trades, triggering complaints from Englishmen worried that French rule over fashion amounted to a “Universal Monarchy for clothes.”2 Foreigners not only followed French fashion, they also increasingly adopted the French word for fashion, “mode,” which was defined in Antoine Furetière’s 1690 Dictionnaire universal: “Said particularly of the manner of dressing following the customs of the Court. The French are constantly changing fashion. Foreigners follow the French fashions, except for the Spanish, who never change fashion.”3 The court of the Sun King set the style for aristocrats throughout Europe, but the baroque magnificence of court dress gradually gave way to the changing fashion parade of Parisian styles. The Paris fashion industry was already well established by the late seventeenth century. There were numerous skilled and specialized artisans (textile producers, dressmakers, milliners, tailors, fan-makers, shoe-makers, etc.), as well as established merchants and shopkeepers. By 1685, Charles Le Maire’s history of Paris boasted that “Parisians dress better than anyone else in Europe.”4 Prints and periodicals, such as Le Mercure galant, transmitted information about the latest styles far beyond the borders of France, as did the famous fashion dolls, which the shopkeepers of the rue Saint-Honoré sent out every month to clients in Europe, Russia, the Ottoman Empire, and the New World.5 By the eighteenth century, foreigners were amazed, and sometimes a bit horrified, by the Parisian mania for new fashions. The most prestigious illustrated fashion magazines were based in Paris, and Rose Bertin, Marie Antoinette’s “ministre des modes,” was the first internationally-famous fashion professional, with clients everywhere from England to Russia. “The French fashion industry works day and night” to create new styles, “making Europe French,” declared one observer in the 1770s.6 Even French second-hand clothing

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was eagerly purchased in neighboring countries once it had become unfashionable in France, noted a German writer, adding that “Peru and Mexico also absorb a great quantity” along with the poor of France.7 The French Revolution saw the rise of a new vestimentary regime, characterized by an officially proclaimed liberty of dress. Chapter 3 will explore how the politics of appearances influenced clothing styles over the course of the Revolution, from the time Louis XVI convened the Estates General in 1789 through the final defeat of Napoleon in 1815. The plain, dark suit of the revolutionary bourgeoisie, the long trousers of the sans-culottes, and the much-caricatured clothing of the Incroyables and Merveilleuses, all played a role in the panorama of revolutionary fashion. Despite England’s attempts to isolate revolutionary France, Paris fashions trickled out and were copied, albeit not always exactly. Consider, for example, two fashion plates from the period of Napoleon’s Consulate. The original print appeared in the Journal des Dames et des Modes in the Year 9 of the Revolutionary calendar, and shows a ball dress with such a low décolletage that the woman’s nipples are visible. The London copy appeared a few months later in The Ladies Magazine (February

Doll’s dress, robe à la française. European, 1750– 1790. Silk taffeta. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston: The Elizabeth Day McCormick Collection, 43.1772a-b. Photograph © 2017 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

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Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes (Year 9).

Opposite: Fashion plate, “Grande robe à la Sultane . . .” From Gallerie des Modes et Costumes Français (1782).

Fashion plate, The Ladies Magazine (February 1801).

1801). Not only is the second print inferior in execution, but the dress is conspicuously more modest in design. To compensate for raising the neckline of the dress, the English artist introduced a table supported by bare-breasted caryatids. When I bought the two fashion plates, the French dealer drew my attention to the difference between them and sneered: “La pudeur anglaise.” The liberty of dress proclaimed in the French Revolution, together with the rise of the bourgeoisie, destroyed what remained of the vestimentary Old Regime. As Tocqueville observed after touring America, the citizens who “swept away the privileges of some of their fellow creatures . . . have opened the door to universal competition; the barrier has changed its shape rather than its position.”8 Over the course of the nineteenth century, capitalism radically transformed the production and consumption of fashionable dress.

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Fashion plate, “Morning dress in taffeta, hat à la Harpie, Chinese style shoes . . . “ (1787).

With guild restrictions abolished, manufacturers began to hire workers to produce ready-made clothing, resulting in a greater democratization of fashion. The plain, dark suit became the default style for most urban men, from bankers to humble clerks, although workers wore it only on special occasions and wealthy men continued to patronize custom tailors. The emergence of modern fashion (la mode) is closely related to the rise of urban modernity (la modernité). Baudelaire’s essay on “The Painter of Modern Life” (1863) has been especially influential in its emphasis on fashion as a critical aspect of modernity. At the same time, Parisian high society drew on the heritage of the court and the aristocratic salons of the Old Regime, welcoming ritualized fashion display and emphasizing the importance of taste and style. Nowhere else did writers and artists devote so much attention to fashion—and, no wonder, since throughout the city, people were engaged in the symbolic production of fashion as a creative language. Chapter 4 explores the role of fashion as the expression of society in the work of Honoré de Balzac, while Chapter 5 looks at the poet Charles Baudelaire as an exemplar of the dandy. Chapter 6 looks at the relationship between fashion and art. For many artists, contemporary fashion played a significant role in the shift from academic to modern painting. But the humble fashion illustration also played a role in the aesthetic construction of Parisian modernity, and fashion illustrators, such as the Colin sisters, also contributed to creating the image of the chic Parisienne, which would emerge as an important sign of modernity. Paris was strongly identified with the image of La Parisienne, which encompassed not only the great lady, but also the courtesan and the fashion professional, whether couturière, milliner, or grisette. As Emmeline Raymond put it in her 1867 text “La Mode et la parisienne,” “It is difficult to think of Fashion without also thinking of La Parisienne . . . In Paris, half the female population lives off fashion, while the other half lives for fashion.”9 French literature is full of assertions that there are Parisians and then there are “barbarians or provincials.”10 “Provincials put on clothes, the Parisienne dresses.”11 Certainly foreigners and provincials may wear Paris fashion—even they can recognize its superiority—but they seldom wear it quite the same way, and they are utterly incapable of creating anything as good themselves. By contrast, Americans have traditionally been ambivalent about fashion, because their cultural identity (“natural” and “democratic”) was formed in reaction to (“artificial” and “aristocratic”) Europe. Just as the French had their own myths about fashion and national identity, so did Americans. Dress reformers complained bitterly that American women wore fashions that came from

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licentious Paris and infidel France! Where woman stoops from her high position of virtue and morality, to mingle with the vicious and impure, to pander to the low passions and base desires of compeers in the arts of hell!! Let American and Christian women blush, at the character of their Parisian models of fashion!12

Why should the “daughters of Puritan ancestors” imitate the clothing of “the fashionable courtesan class in the wicked city of Paris”?13 Instead, “all lovers of liberty” should join “to free American women from the domination of foreign fashion.”14 But American women, like women in many other countries, obstinately refused to be “liberated,” preferring to believe that they subtly altered French fashions. The American fashion magazine Godey’s Ladies’ Book, for example, repeatedly proclaimed that it featured “Americanized” fashions; although, in fact, its fashion plates were usually more or less copied from French originals. A fashion plate by Laure Colin Noël, for example, appeared in the Petit Courrier des Dames (July 4, 1857): The figure on the left bends down to look at a doll. The same figure and the same doll wearing the same clothes from the Maison Fauvet reappear exactly a year later in Godey’s, without any reference to artist or dressmaker, and accompanied by several new figures (which could probably be traced to other French fashion plates). By the middle of the nineteenth century, ready-made fashion, confection, was widely available. It first appeared in the magasins de nouveautés (fancy goods stores) and then in the department stores, dream worlds of consumption, which emerged first in Paris. This retail revolution coincided with a vastly-expanded fashion press. The (relative) democratization of fashion meant that fashion was increasingly available even to working-class people, for whom something as simple as a brightly-printed calico dress was a novelty. According to Jules Michelet, “Today . . . a poor worker” can buy his wife “a robe of flowers for the price of a day’s labor.”15 The design and production of women’s high fashion was also transformed by the rise of the grande couture. Small dressmakers were increasingly marginalized, but a few couturiers, such as Charles Frederick Worth, flourished by restructuring the business of high-end, made-to-measure fashion. Later known as haute couture, this elite branch of feminine fashion would become central to the image of Paris as “a woman’s paradise.” Couture fashion functioned not only as a status symbol, testifying to the wealth of a husband or lover, but also as a mark of personal identity and taste. Two years before Worth’s death, the Ladies’ Home Journal argued that “women’s fashion originated with Frenchmen” but they were then “made adaptable . . . by American women.”16 Of course, Worth was an Englishman by birth, and the vast majority of Parisian dressmakers were women. But it was psychologically more satisfying to blame fashion’s “follies” on the pecuniary and licentious motives of dictatorial Frenchmen and flashy courtesans, just as the French preferred to believe that their own innate national genius was responsible for the art and luxury of fashion. Chapter 7 explores Worth’s role in the creation of the haute couture and the place of couture in the image of Paris as the capital of fashion and luxury.

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But even within the “kingdom of fashion,” certain neighborhoods were especially fashionable. “The Rue de la Paix, connecting the brilliant quarter of the Opéra with the old royal promenade of the Tuileries by the Rue Castiglione, may be called the center of [the fashion] industries,” observed Octave Uzanne.17 Many fashionable theaters, restaurants, and cafés (such as the Café Tortoni, on the corner of the boulevard des Italiens and the rue Taitbout) were concentrated in this small area on the Right Bank, which had been a center of social life since the Restoration. The Left Bank included not only the bohemian Latin Quarter, and some quieter and more conventional districts, but also the highly aristocratic and correct Faubourg Saint Germain, whose relative geographical isolation corresponded to its exclusivity and emphasis on private social rituals and “in-group” fashion references. By contrast, the wealthy financiers living in the Chaussée d’Antin area on the Right Bank were thought to favor a more extravagant mode of life. Members of different classes often lived in the same buildings, on different floors, but over time there was increasing class segregation, with sharper distinctions between wealthy residential districts in western and central Paris, and the more distant working-class faubourgs. Every morning, women in the fashion trades descended from “Montmartre and Batignolles, Belleville and Bastille, Montrouge and the Avenue d’Orléans. . . . One could baptize this . . . route, from the Place Clichy to the Place d’Opéra, the Milliners’ Way.18 The physical changes in the form of the city, like the changes in the structure of the fashion system, were evidence of the development of international capitalism. In 1860, the Goncourt brothers observed that the boulevards “smack of London, some Babylon of the future.” But when Edmund Goncourt edited the journal for publication in 1891, London no longer served as the paradigm of modern capitalism, so he changed the entry: “These new boulevards . . . implacable in their straight lines, which no longer smack of the world of Balzac . . . make one think of some American Babylon of the future.”19 Despite deep class divisions, individuals had far greater freedom to present themselves as they wished to be seen. Fashion served both to maintain the hierarchy and to weaken it—as anonymous individuals were increasingly judged on the basis of their appearance. The people who were best placed to exploit fashion were often those who belonged to new social strata, whose class positions were ambiguous, such as white-collar workers, shop assistants, dressmakers, and, of course, “ladies” of the demi-monde. The strength of the French fashion industry, per se, cannot explain why Paris became and long remained the international capital of style. At least as important was the depth and sophistication of Parisian fashion culture. Chapter 8 explores the geography of fashion in Paris, focusing on the sites of fashionable display, such as the theater and the racetrack, while Chapter 9 looks at the private life of Paris, where women of the elite performed for members of their social group alone. Fashion plays a vital role in Marcel Proust’s great novel, À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time). Having looked at the role of fashion in the work of Balzac and Baudelaire (and briefly also Mallarmé), Chapter 10 explores Proust’s analysis of “the mute language of clothes.”

Opposite: Constantin Guys, A Conversation, pen and ink and watercolour on paper, Private Collection/Photo © Christie’s Images/Bridgeman Images.

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History Fashion plate, Godey’s Ladies’ Book (July 1858).

Laure Colin Noël, fashion plate for Petit Courrier des Dames (4 July 1857).

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“The Last of the Boulevard Lions,” from Louis Octave Uzanne’s Fashion in Paris (1898).

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Jean Béraud, Boulevard Montmartre, c. 1880. Oil on canvas. Private Collection.

Opposite: M. de Charly, Dans l’atelier, 1862. Albumen silver print. Courtesy of George Eastman Musuem.

Moving into the twentieth century, Chapter 11 explores the rise of avant-garde styles in the years prior to the First World War, when the corset began to be replaced by the brassiere, and a “modern type” of feminine beauty emerged. Contrary to popular belief, it was not World War I that transformed fashion, although it accelerated changes that had already begun. In the 1920s and 1930s, “between Poiret’s harem and Dior’s New Look,” Paris fashion was dominated by a “regiment of women,” including Gabrielle Chanel, Elsa Schiaparelli, and Madeleine Vionnet. Chapter 12 places Chanel and her rivals in the context of their time. Paris fashion entered its darkest period under the Nazi Occupation, the subject of Chapter 13. That Paris has long dominated fashion cannot be credited to any particular spirit of frivolity, innovation, or taste on the part of Parisians. Nor is it the product of individual

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History

Pierre Brissaud, fashion illustration for Femina (15 December 1911). Paris, Editions Pierre Lafitte, 1911. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris.

creative genius, although this concept continues to play a large part in the mythology of Paris fashion. The many anecdotes about the “dictatorship” or the “genius” of Paris fashion designers indicate a profound misunderstanding of how fashion works. Fashion designers and fashionable clothes form only part of the fashion system, which also involves ideas and images, attitudes and behaviors. Chapter 14 begins with the triumphant revival of Paris fashion in 1947 and goes on to explore how the supremacy of Paris was repeatedly challenged by other cities, such as Florence (and later Milan), London, and New York.

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Dress by Yves Saint Laurent (1968). Photo by Bill Ray/The LIFE Picture Collection/Getty Images.

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The final chapter analyzes Paris fashion in the twenty-first century, in an era of globalization, when Paris is increasingly perceived as one of a number of fashion’s world cities, albeit still probably first among equals. Fashion is not simply a question of the material production of fashionable clothing but also of its symbolic production. Moreover, the mechanisms of fashion extend beyond clothing, per se, to include a host of phenomena, such as fashions in names. When parents choose a name for their child, they are neither succumbing to commercial pressures nor simply reflecting vast social changes. Rather, their choice, like each individual’s choice of what to wear that morning, is largely “a matter of taste.”20 Even today it seems that magic is still associated with the name “Paris.”

Opposite: John Galliano for Christian Dior Haute Couture. Autumn/ Winter 2000. Photograph by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

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2 The Birth of Paris Fashion Le travail des modes est un art: art chéri, triomphant, qui dans ce siècle, a reçu des honneurs, des distinctions. Cet art entre dans le palais des Rois, [et] y reçoit un accueil flatteur. Mercier, Le Tableau de Paris, 1782–1788

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understand how Paris became so important in the world of fashion, we need to go back to a time before Paris was a major fashion capital, even before the French royal court set the mode throughout Europe. However, this raises the contested issue of when and where “fashion” first emerged. Was it born in courts or cities? Was it the fruit of capitalism or modernity? Was fashion a European invention? Can we even speak about the “birth” of fashion? Dress historians have traditionally tended to define fashion as a regular pattern of style change. The visual evidence from Europe indicates that by the fourteenth century, men and women had abandoned long T-shaped robes in favor of a variety of new clothing styles. Textual evidence also reveals a growing emphasis on novelty. As early as 1393, an ordinary Parisian (not a nobleman) warned his 15-year-old wife to stay away from newfangled styles of dress.1 But it was too late, the reign of ever-changing fashion had already begun. Of course, strictly speaking, our bourgeois adolescent was breaking numerous sumptuary laws in her pursuit of high “Gothic” headdresses, wide sleeves, and fur trimmings. Such sartorial competition was theoretically limited to members of the ruling class. Clothing that was honorable and magnificent for the elite was presumptuous for mere townspeople, who were specifically (and repeatedly) forbidden to wear new styles of dress, luxury fabrics, and rich colors like scarlet and purple. The most outrageous fashionable innovation for women was the form-fitting, lownecked dress. “Husbands complain—preachers denounce,” summarized fashion historian n order to

Opposite: François Boucher, The Modiste, c. 1746. Oil on canvas. © The Wallace Collection, London.

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Augustin Challamel. Actually, the men were at least as flamboyantly dressed as the women—and some observers did object to men’s short, fitted doublets and tights—but women’s sartorial excesses were more vehemently criticized. Certain women like the beautiful Agnès Sorel, mistress of Charles VII, became notorious for their fashions. According to a chronicle of the time, her “train was a third longer than any princess in the kingdom, her headgear higher, her gowns more numerous and costly.”2 The “Lady of Beauty” was probably the model for Jean Fouquet’s seductively fashionable Virgin Mary. It is reasonable to assume that French queens and royal mistresses set the fashions, which then trickled down to bourgeois Parisians, and thence to the provinces and the world at large. However, this is not really true.

Jean Fouquet, The Virgin and the Infant Jesus, c. 1450. Royal Museum for Fine Arts Antwerp. www.lukasweb.be— Art in Flanders vxw, photo Hugo Maertens.

The “Birth” of Fashion in Europe Scholarship has increasingly stressed the complexity of defining “fashion” and identifying its place and time of origin. As Sarah-Grace Heller writes, “Better than trying to fix a single moment for fashion’s incarnation is to ask when the cultural value placed on novelty becomes prominent, and when the desire for innovation and the capacity for the production of innovation reach a critical point of becoming a constant and organizing principle.” In her book Fashion in Medieval France, she tried to avoid the idea that “fashion was born in a particular time and place,” focusing instead on demonstrating that “it existed in developing stages in thirteenth-century France.”3 Fashion was also emerging in several Italian city-states. Indeed, to the extent that we can speak of the “birth” of fashion in Europe, it seems to have emerged first in Italy. Recent scholarship has identified “perhaps the first age of fashion” as taking place in fourteenthcentury Italian cities, such as Florence and Venice, while the first extant European sumptuary law was passed in Genoa in 1157. Moreover, in its developing stages, fashion influenced

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men’s clothing more than women’s clothing.4 Politically independent, economically advanced, and culturally flourishing, the Italian city-states were all more fashionable than Paris, which was not yet a very important urban center. Whereas France was still largely under the feudal dominance of a hereditary agrarian aristocracy, cities such as Florence and Venice had proto-capitalist economies. The social and economic structure of the Italian citystates thus favored the development of fashion innovation and competition. A type of proto-fashion also existed in a variety of regional courts in France, including the courts of Provence and Anjou. Although smaller and more hierarchical than cities, such courts certainly provided another type of fashion arena. Certain radical new fashions, such as the doublet, which appeared in about 1340, were worn at court. A rare surviving doublet in the Musée des Tissus was allegedly worn by Charles of Blois, duke of Brittany (1345–1364).5 The court of Burgundy was especially stylish. Indeed, it has been called “the cradle of fashion” and “the most voluptuous and splendid court in Europe, Italy included.” French historians agree that the Burgundian Court “prefigure[d] that of Versailles”—both

Roger van der Weyden, Remise d’un manuscrit à Philippe le Bon, c. 1448. Courtesy Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique.

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in the elegance of its dress and in the elaboration of its court ceremonial, which created “a cult devoted to a monarch set up as an idol.”6 Luxury and fashion were symbols of power, brilliantly exploited by rulers and avidly pursued by the nobility. During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the dukes of Burgundy were then far wealthier and more powerful than the kings of France—and this was reflected in their dress. When Philip the Good of Burgundy rode to Paris together with the Dauphin (later Louis XI), not only Philip’s clothes but even his horse’s trappings were so covered with rubies and diamonds “that beside it the clothes of the heir to the French throne looked almost pitiful.” Similarly, Duke John the Fearless of Burgundy was known as the “King of Paris,” and when this “prince of violent and sombre character” appeared in the city in 1406— charged with murdering the real king’s brother—”he wore a red velvet suit lined with grey fur and worked over with gold foliage. When he moved, his armour became visible under the wide sleeves.”7 Color was an important component of late medieval fashion, and there was a highly developed language of colors that was heraldic in origin. Historically, courtiers, servants, municipal officials, and soldiers had all received gifts of clothing from their lords that amounted to livery. “On every possible occasion Philip [the Bold] liked to parade his whole court in costumes which showed the colours of his house [red and light green]. These were made of velvet and silk for the nobility and of satin and serge for the servants.”8 Yet certain individual Burgundian and Italian dandies seem to have deliberately rejected gay colors in favor of chic black. Philip the Good of Burgundy, for example, preferred to wear black velvet, initially as a sign of mourning for his late father, John the Fearless, who had been assassinated by the French. He continued wearing black, however, for the rest of his life, in part as a sign of Christian piety, but also perhaps because its somber elegance served to distinguish him from his peacock courtiers.”9

Was Fashion a European Invention? Ever since fashion began to be the subject of discussion in Europe, most commentators agreed that fashion was an exclusively Western European phenomenon. By contrast, Asia and the Middle East were thought to have “ancient” and “unchanging” costumes, while Africa, the Americas, and Oceania had “primitive” costumes. In contrast to words like “mode” and “fashion,” the term “costume” implied the weight of custom. Today, however, most scholars have acknowledged that fashion existed in a number of premodern nonWestern cultures, including China, Japan, and India. As early as the eleventh century, at the Japanese court of Heian-kyo, the highest term of praise was to call something imamekashi, “up-to-date.”10 Such intense fashion

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competition was, however, restricted to a small number of male and female courtiers. By the seventeenth century, the imperial court had declined radically, while political power flowed to the samurai military aristocracy. A rising class of urban merchants and artisans prospered and wanted to dress accordingly. In Edo, celebrity geisha and Kabuki actors were trendsetters who pioneered new tastes and styles. Harsh sumptuary legislation merely triggered the development of new, more subtle styles. In late Tokugawa Japan, there was even a new word—iki—which meant being elegantly chic. By the eighteenth century, fashion had a significant impact on the Japanese economy, although the garments in which it was embodied (kimono outfits with changing fabric designs and accessories) were significantly different from the changing silhouettes that characterized European fashion. By the nineteenth century, even before the introduction of Western dress, the production and consumption of fashionable Japanese dress had accelerated dramatically.11 Another example, from Ming dynasty China, will provide further evidence of the existence of fashion outside Europe. In his book, The Confusions of Pleasure: Commerce and Culture in Ming China, Timothy Brook quotes the scholar Chen Yao, writing in the 1570s, describing how, in contrast to the (idealized) past, when gentry wore clothes of simple weave, “‘Now the young dandies in the villages say that even silk gauze isn’t good enough and lust for Suzhou embroideries . . . Long skirts and wide collars, broad belts and narrow pleats—they change without warning. It’s what they call ‘fashion,’ to translate shiyang, literally ‘the look of the moment.’” Social distinctions were overturned, as commerce made luxurious, elite styles widely available: “Take simple clothes to a country fair, and not even country people will buy them—they’ll just laugh . . . Base people wear gentry hats, while actors . . . and peddlers wear courtiers’ shoes. They traipse right down the road like that, one after the other, and no one thinks it strange.”12 Suzhou, a city near present-day Shanghai, was repeatedly referenced as a source of new fashions. As another Ming writer, Zhang Han, put it: From early times, the people of Suzhou have been habituated to rich adornment and have favored the unusual, so everyone is moved to follow fashion. If it isn’t splendid Suzhou-made clothing, it isn’t refined. . . . People from all over favor Suzhou clothing, and so Suzhou artisans work even harder at making it. . . .This drives the extravagance of Suzhou style to even greater extravagance, so how is it possible to lead those who follow the Suzhou fashion back to sensible economy?13

The fall of the Ming dynasty seems to have disrupted this emerging fashion system. The spread of fashion did not progress unimpeded, either in Europe or in Asia, because it implicitly challenged the hierarchical nature of traditional society. Sumptuary laws were widely promulgated, sometimes with draconian penalties. Nevertheless, whenever and wherever novelty was valued and the capacity for production (and consumption) was sufficient, some degree of fashion emerged. To the question “Was fashion a European invention?” the answer is clearly “No.”

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Fashion Follows Power: Spanish Black

Titian (Tiziano Vecellio). Seated portrait of Emperor Charles V, 1548. Alte Pinakothek, Munich, Germany/ Bridgeman Images.

During the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the political fragmentation of medieval Europe meant that there was no single fashion capital, but rather a number of regional styles and fashion centers of which some became particularly important, including Florence, Venice, and the court of Burgundy. By the sixteenth century, more unified nation-states began to emerge, among them England, France, and Spain. Male fashion reached new heights of splendor in France with the accession of Francis I (1494–1547). A true Renaissance prince, Francis wore clothing of extraordinary richness, made of luxurious and colorful fabrics—doublets of cloth of gold, cloth of silver, velvet, satin, and taffeta in crimson, azure, violet, and every other color of the rainbow. His clothes and those of his courtiers were further ornamented with lace, gold braid, embroidery, and precious jewels. Much the same could be said of Henry VIII of England (1491–1547). But Spanish fashion took a different path, under the reign of Charles I (1500–1558), better known to history as Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire. The discovery and conquest of the New World vastly enriched the Spanish crown, which further enhanced its political power in Europe. Because the Burgundian Netherlands had become part of the empire of Charles V, “Spanish black” was almost certainly derived from Burgundian fashion. The fashion for black also benefitted greatly from the introduction of dyes from the New World: Logwood (Haematoxylum campechianum), which was imported into Spain from Mexico, produced a deep, lustrous jet-black, far superior to previous dyes. But even more important was the complex symbolism of black. Black was associated not only with Christian piety but also with political authority. It was not only austere, but elegant. It was serious, whereas colors could seem frivolous and sensual. Baldasare Castiglione, author of The Courtier (1528) and papal nuncio to Spain, emphasized the dignity, sobriety, grace, and elegance of black clothing. For Charles V to wear black, as he almost always did, was to assert his “temporal and religious hegemony in Europe.”14 His successor Philip II was even more closely associated with black clothing. Although he never explicitly said why he wore black, he did write that ecclesiastical black “is so grave

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and decent and religious that no change can make it more so”—and he forbade his bishops from adopting the new purple headwear proposed by Pope Sixtus V.15 Certainly, in the era of the Counter-Reformation, Spanish black recalled the garb of Catholic ecclesiastics, such as Benedictine monks and especially Dominican inquisitors. The Italian Campanella (who was tortured seven times for defending Galileo against the Inquisition) wrote: Black robes befit our age. Once they were white; Next many-hued; now dark as Afric’s Moor, Night-black, infernal, traitorous, obscure, Horrid with ignorance and sick with fright. For very shame we shun all colors bright, Who mourn our end—the tyrants we endure, The chains, the noose, the lead, the snares, the lure— Our dismal heroes, our souls sunk in the night.16

The association of black with Spain reflected not only the reality of Spanish dress, the fact that the stiff, black clothes and white ruffs of the Spanish court would become the dominant sartorial style in Western Europe, it also evoked for many other nationalities the “Black Legend” of a cruel, tyrannical, and exotic Spain.17 Thus Spain had become the first international fashion power to emerge in Europe. Yet the black and sober Spanish fashion never entirely caught on in France, although other aspects of Spanish fashion were adopted, including the corset and the farthingale. Elsewhere in Europe, however, Spain’s bitterest enemies, the Protestant English (especially the Puritans) and the Dutch, transformed Spanish black from a Catholic, aristocratic, and courtly mode into a Protestant, bourgeois, and urban style. Black clothing (with white accents), simplified from Spanish courtly styles, must have seemed well suited to the reformed religion, which placed a high value on sobriety of appearance and demeanor. Black clothing that underwent little stylistic change over a period of several decades served the social and religious needs of the Protestant community by allowing people conspicuously to avoid the “frivolity” and “temptation” of fashion, while at the same time permitting subtle manifestations of fashionable behavior. For, of course, even within the confines of a basic black-and-white style, fashion would appear in the fineness of cloth and cut and the quality of linen and lace. Meanwhile, color—pale, glittering color—lay in wait, to reappear in the seventeenthcentury French court. The marriage of Louis XIV of France and the Infanta Maria Theresa of Spain in 1660 symbolically opposed Spanish grandees in black velvet and the French nobility in the baroque splendor of beautiful lace and gold and silver embroidery. When the young king and queen made their triumphal entrance into Paris, Madame de Motteville wrote, enthusiastically: “The King was such as the poets paint for us these men that have been made divine. His clothing was of gold and silver embroidery, as beautiful as it should be in view of the dignity of the one who was wearing it.” Of the new queen, she

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remarked, “Her bosom appeared to us well formed and sufficiently plump, but her dress was horrible.”18 Soon the colorful, decorative French style triumphed in courts and cities throughout Europe, while black-and-white was left to retrograde Spanish noblemen, Dutch burghers, and English Protestants.

The Court of the Sun King Louis XIV is supposed to have said that “Fashion is the mirror of history.” Certainly, the clothing of the Sun King was intended to represent unparalleled power and glory—an idea expressed most clearly in his official robes of state, which were emblazoned with gold fleursde-lys and completely lined with ermine. But even on less exalted occasions, he remained aware of the symbolic value of clothing. From his elaborated curled periwig to his red highheeled shoes, Louis XIV chose to present himself, not as a warrior-king (like some of his predecessors), but rather as the cynosure of the most magnificent court in the history of the Western world. When influence derived from proximity to the person of the monarch, when even the act of helping him into his shirt in the morning was a signal honor, what could be expected but that some of the same charisma should be associated with his style of dress? “Fashion is to France what the gold mines of Peru are to Spain,” declared Jean-Baptiste Colbert, assuming the statement is not apocryphal. As Louis XIV’s minister of finance between 1661 and 1683, Colbert certainly recognized the potential value of French fashion leadership. The gold and silver that poured into the Spanish treasury from the South American colonies—and that formed the basis for Spanish fashion power—would be matched, and exceeded, by the money to be made in France from French luxury goods, especially those related to fashions in clothing. Then, as now, textiles were the foundation of the fashion industry. In a deliberate attempt to supplant Italy as the Western world’s greatest producer of luxury textiles, the French government initiated protective legislation designed to promote French silk weaving and develop French lace-making. Colbert’s promotion of French luxury goods, together with laws against most foreign goods amounted to a veritable trade war with nations such as England. Fashion professionals, including weavers, leather-workers, and lace-makers, were invited to come work in France. The French economy received a setback in 1685, however, when Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, and the Huguenots (Protestants) of France lost the right to practice their religion without persecution from the state. The vast majority of Huguenots fled abroad, bringing with them their skills—including their expertise in textile manufacturing—which greatly benefited countries such as England. State support was crucial to the rise of French fashion, and Colbert’s importance was such that the French luxury industry organization is still today called the Comité Colbert. But Colbert’s economic policy alone does not explain the rise of French fashion power. At least as important was the prestige of the French court, which was imitated at lesser

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courts throughout Europe. The courtiers at Versailles were enlisted as standard-bearers of French style. As Madame de Sévigné wrote of Madame de Montespan, the king’s official mistress: “Her costume was a mass of French lace.”19 French court dress set the style for rulers and aristocrats throughout much of Europe (except for Spain). However, the French court and the city of Paris were not synonymous, nor was court dress exactly the same as fashion. In 1670, Louis XIV moved the French court out of the Louvre in Paris to Versailles, which somewhat eclipsed Paris as the center of style. Moreover, although Louis XIV encouraged magnificence of dress at court, he also desired the precise regulation of clothing according to minute distinctions of rank. Fashion at court was constrained by etiquette, with Louis XIV as lawgiver, and the inflexibility of ceremonial restricted fashion innovation. Yet beyond the court at Versailles, a fashion system was beginning to emerge . . . in Paris.

The Rise of Paris Fashion Although the rise of Paris fashion is usually dated to the eighteenth century (and especially after the death of Louis XIV in 1715), new evidence indicates that the last three decades of the seventeenth century already witnessed significant changes that amounted to a kind of fashion revolution, with innovations in production and retailing, a vastly enlarged consumer market, and new fashion media. Until 1675, clothing production for both men and women was legally restricted to the guild of tailors, who were all men. However, that year the maitresses couturières of Paris were permitted to form their own guild, making clothes for women and children. Despite resistance from the tailors, growing numbers of women worked as couturières (seamstresses or dressmakers). Meanwhile, the mercers’ guild supplied materials, but here, too, a new female guild was formed, the marchandes de modes (fashion merchants or milliners), who made and sold trimmings and accessories. The marchandes de modes, in fact, were even more influential than the couturières, since trimmings and accessories played such an important part in late seventeenth and eighteenth-century fashion. These developments marked the beginning of what would become the Parisian couture system. They also helped establish an increasingly widespread belief that women were

Henri Bonnart and Jean Baptiste Bonnart, Recueil des modes de la cour de France, ‘Dame en Robbe.’ France, Paris, 1683. Handcolored engraving on paper (M.2002.57.18). Courtesy of Los Angeles County Museum of Art, www.lacma.org.

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Diderot (Denis) and D’Alembert (Jean le Rond), La Marchande de Modes. Paris, Le Breton, 1769. Courtesy Diktats Books.

“naturally” suited to making and appreciating fashion. Among the celebrated couturières of the later seventeenth century were Madame Villeneuve and Madame Rémond, while in the eighteenth century, the marchande de modes, Rose Bertin, who became famous as Marie Antoinette’s “Minister of Fashion,” had an international clientele. Shopping was transformed, as consumers increasingly purchased fashionable goods, not at seasonal fairs, but at permanent shops. Already by the late seventeenth century, the rue St. Honoré had become a fashionable shopping street, which, of course, it remains today. The Place des Victoires and later the Palais Royale were other important sites in the geography of fashion. The most fashionable and aristocratic neighborhoods in which to live were the Marais and the Faubourg Saint-Germain. The clientele for these new fashion producers and retailers also expanded greatly. Aristocrats, wealthy bourgeois, and an increasing number of foreign and provincial visitors came to shop in Paris. According to the French historian Daniel Roche, a “clothing revolution” took place in eighteenth-century Paris as women’s wardrobes grew in size and value, and the dress (as opposed to the plebian skirt and jacket) was adopted by women across the social spectrum.20 More recent research indicates that these developments probably took place, not between 1700 and 1789, but rather between 1670 and 1700.21 New fashion trends were disseminated more quickly and widely than ever before— through newspapers, fashion prints, and fashion dolls. In 1672, Jean Donneau de Visé launched a newspaper Le Mercure galant, featuring fashion news. In its very first year of publication, the journal boasted: “Nothing pleases more than Fashions born in France . . .

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everything made there has a certain air that Foreigners cannot give to their Works.”22 Within a few years, there were even fashion supplements and references to new seasonal fashions, along the lines of “ribbons will be popular this spring,” which sound remarkably similar to today’s fashion reportage; although, of course, there were not yet “fashion seasons” as we know them today.23 Near the end of the Sun King’s reign, some of the younger princesses and ladies of the court, such as the Duchesse de Berry, became increasingly frustrated by the dominance of ceremonial dress at court. Apparently in 1715, the Duchesse d’Orléans and the Princesse de Conti dared to present the latest Paris fashions to Louis XIV; “The king said to them that they could dress as they pleased . . . that it was a matter of indifference to him.” A month later, he died.24 Henceforth, to a far greater degree, fashion would be a matter of individual choice, subject only to social opinion. The process rapidly accelerated when the new Regent left the gloomy old court at Versailles and returned to Paris.

The Parisian Mania for Fashion Foreigners were amazed at the Parisian mania for fashion: “They invent every Day new Modes of Dressing.”25 In 1773, the Marquis de Caraccioli wrote: To be in Paris without seeing the fashions, you have to close your eyes. The scenes, streets, shops, carriages, clothing, people, everything presents only that. . . . A suit of forty days passes for very old among the distinguished people. They want new fabrics . . . modern systems. Whenever a fashion begins to dawn, the capital is infatuated with it, and no one dares to show himself, unless he is done up in the new finery.26

Such hyperbolic descriptions can be misleading, however. In fact, the fashionable silhouette did not change very rapidly at all, although new colors, trimmings, and accessories appeared frequently. “I am going to talk about Paris,” wrote Louis Sebastien Mercier. “I may talk of . . . a cherry bonnet or one à la fanfan, meaning a bonnet too utterly sweet. . . . The color most in fashion as I write is puce” (which, translated, means “flea”). “Paris mud” was another fashionable color, along with “soot of a London chimney.”27 This kind of reportage shows that by the eighteenth century fashion was beginning to assume a modern aspect. No longer was fashion determined by a centralized authority at court. Now the collective but ephemeral taste of many individual Parisians decided whether puce, mud, or soot was in fashion; the cherry bonnet, the porcupine coiffure, or the baby’s cap. Moreover, the very names indicate a new sensibility, alternately sentimental and ironical, and a far cry from the solemn grandeur of Versailles.

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In the early eighteenth century, the formal grand habit was increasingly abandoned in favor of the robe volante or floating sack dress, a more negligee style, which the English found shocking. By the mid-eighteenth century, the sack dress then evolved into a form known throughout Europe as the robe à la française, which became more fitted, at least in front, with Watteau pleats hanging loosely down the back. The little bustle, characteristic of late seventeenth-century dress, was abandoned in favor of hooped petticoats called paniers, which extended on either side. Increasingly, the skirt was open in front to reveal a decorative petticoat that was part of the garment, while the front of the bodice displayed a triangular stomacher. Other popular styles in the later eighteenth century were the robe à l’anglaise (English-style dress) and the robe à la polonese (Polish-style dress), but whatever their names, they were all perceived as Parisian fashions. The trimming of a dress was more important than its cut, since the shape of dresses changed only slowly and even an “ordinary” robe à la française was highly decorated. As a result, the couturières were less influential than the marchandes de modes. Even wealthy and fashionable ladies might keep their dresses for a number of years, but they re-trimmed them frequently, and that was where the milliner came in with her stock of ribbons, ruffles, furbelows, and lace. Every change of fashion—in trimmings, accessories, and colors—was soon transmitted to an increasingly international public. In fashion terms, London and Saint Petersburg were closer to Paris than many a small French town. But high fashion was still only a thin veneer on European culture. The vast majority of people did not wear fashionable dress. Because the diffusion of fashion was still limited, the foreign and provincial nobility remained attached longer to the older vestimentary forms. Traditions long entrenched in particular regions carried more weight than innovations coming from faraway Paris. The provincial middle classes also drew their ideas of fine dress from the outmoded styles of local aristocrats, while the common people wore a mixture of long-out-of-date high fashions allied with a basic functional costume that had existed for centuries. Just as “ceremonial and court dress had frozen into a kind of uniform,” so also was regional dress a kind of antiquated “costume.”28 As we have seen, in an era when fashion journalism was still somewhat rudimentary, perfectly dressed dolls were sent from Paris to dressmakers and private clients throughout the Western world and even to Constantinople. Louis-Sebastien Mercier describes taking a skeptical foreigner to see these dolls, known as the poupées de

Opposite: Francois Boucher, Madame de Pompadour, 1756 (oil on canvas). Alte Pinakothek, Munich, Germany/Bridgeman Images.

Fashion plate by Le Clerc for La Gallerie des Modes et Costumes Français (c. 1779).

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la rue Saint-Honoré. Fashion illustrations were also exported, to be followed in the later eighteenth-century by illustrated fashion magazines, such as the Gallerie des modes and the Cabinet des modes. As the fashion media developed and proliferated, provincials gained more access to Parisian fashions and began to try to imitate them. Even Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the apostle of natural living, wrote that “Fashion dominates provincials, but Parisiennes dominate fashion, and knowing it, each bends it to her advantage. The former are like ignorant and servile copyists who copy everything down to the mistakes of orthography; the others are authors who copy authoritatively, and know how to restore the misreadings.”29 It is worth noting that in 1761 Rousseau was already describing fashion in terms of the female inhabitants of Paris. Male modishness was beginning to be regarded as unnecessarily foppish. Within Paris, the Palais Royal was regarded as “the capital of Paris.” According to Mercier, “It is like a tiny, very rich town in the heart of a great city.” The Duc d’Orléans, who owned this palace, made a fortune from the shops and cafés that filled its arcades and gardens. Said Mercier, “A man might be imprisoned within its precincts for a year or two and never miss his liberty.”30 More humble Parisians often bought their clothing at fairs like the one in the Place des Grèves: “Skirts, paniers, loose gowns are there in piles from which you may choose. Here, a grand dress worn by the dead wife of a judge, for which the wife of his clerk is haggling; there, a prostitute tries on the lace cap of a great lady’s lady-in-waiting.” On other days, the place served as the public execution ground—a fact, as Mercier notes, that acted as little deterrent to the crowds of thieves and fences, some selling clothes they had recently seized from passers-by.31 Beyond Paris, however, London was emerging as an alternative fashion capital, at least with regard to men’s clothing.

Men’s Clothing: The English Connection At the beginning of the eighteenth century, a pink silk suit, gold and silver embroidery, flowered and plain velvet, lace, and jewelry were all regarded as perfectly masculine. Dress was the visible sign of social standing—and the more elaborate the dress, the higher its wearer’s apparent social status. The fashionable man in both England and France wore a three-piece suit, composed of coat, waistcoat, and breeches, which were often, but not always, made of the same fabric. The style had none of the austerity of the reign of Louis XIV, and was far more graceful, slim, and dégagé. The quality of the material and decoration were the primary distinguishing characteristics, since tailoring as such was still rather crude. Of course, not everyone could afford to follow the fashion and buy a multiplicity of fine suits. “With a black coat a man is well dressed,” observed Louis Sebastien Mercier, “for you are believed to be in mourning . . . and can go anywhere thus clad. True, it shows

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you are but poorly off”—and for that reason, black was favored by people like “authors and retired folks,” since a black coat “goes marvelously well with mud [and] economy” as well as “the dislike for a lengthy toilet.”32 Many fashion historians have believed that plain male clothing was a product of the French Revolution, when Mercier’s black-coated bourgeoisie came to power. In fact, however, the plain style emerged several decades earlier in England. Moreover, the new style did not develop solely among the “rising middle class” but also significantly derived from the country and sporting clothing of the English aristocracy. By the 1780s, members of the French aristocracy also began to wear the English style—and they would never have copied Mercier’s humble authors. The tension between the more formal and decorative French style and the plainer, informal English style would end with the triumph of English menswear, but it took several decades for this to become clear. In the interim, certain Englishmen reacted against the trend by adopting an exaggerated version of French fashions. These “ultra-fashionable young men, Italianate and Frenchified,” became known as Macaronis, because some of them were members of Almack’s Club, “where they introduced the Italian dish from which they derived their name.33 A letter to Town and Country Magazine (November 1771) warned that Macaroni aristocrats were, in effect, the tools of foreign tyranny:

Jean-Baptiste Perronneau. Portrait of Jacques Cazotte, (1760–1764). Oil on canvas. © The National Gallery, London.

It was the policy of the ministers of Louis XIV to make their language universal, in order to pave the way to universal monarchy: to the same end were their fashions propagated throughout Europe; and every country that has adopted them has, in proportion, become effeminate and vicious. To our lot have they fallen most amply, as every macaroni daily evinces.34

During the eighteenth century, a growing sense of cultural nationalism emerged as one aspect of British patriotism. The French, who were individually seen as being weak and

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James Gillray, “Politeness” (1779). Hand-coloured etching. Courtesy of The Lewis Walpole Library, Yale University.

effeminate, were perceived as conspiring to enslave the English by corrupting and weakening them. The Macaroni was not merely “a minnikin, finicking French powder-puff.”35 In English garb, we know plain common sense To modish understanding gives offense; . . . Whilst fan-tailed folly, with Parisian air Commands that homage sense alone should share.36

To the extent that an Englishman became effeminate and weak, he became unable to resist foreign threats and might even admire European tyranny. The fashion in men’s attire changed as more and more people in England came to perceive sober male dress as being a reflection of patriotism (versus aristocratic cosmopolitanism), liberty (versus tyranny), country and city (versus Court), Parliament and Constitution (versus royal prerogative and corruption), virtue (versus libertinism), enterprise (versus gambling, frivolity, and dissipation), and manliness (versus a fribbling,

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degenerate, exotic effeminacy). The Macaroni was not merely a petit-maître; he was part of a rearguard defense of continental and courtly styles and values, destined to be routed by plain-dressing John Bull. Contrary to popular belief, the development of the modern male suit was not simply a reflection of the growing power of the bourgeoisie. Darker, plainer male attire originated several decades before the French Revolution, and derived in part from the country clothing of the English aristocracy. The portrait of Sir Brooke Boothby (1781) by Joseph Wright of Derby displays the clothing of the future. As Quentin Bell wrote: “It is a suit carefully designed for a Natural Man who is also the eldest son of a baronet.” The phenomenon of plainer male dress spread from England to France in the 1770s and 1780s, as part of a wave of Anglomania that sometimes (but not always) implied an appreciation of English political liberties. The portrait of Sir Brooke Boothby (1781) by Joseph Wright epitomizes the influences that flowed back and forth across the Channel. Frequently reproduced in fashion histories, it is best described by Quentin Bell:

Joseph Wright of Derby (1734–1797). Sir Brooke Boothby, 1781. © Tate, London 2015.

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The young man has thrown himself upon the ground and this for the excellent reason that he wants to return to Nature. Above him the freely growing trees of the forest; by his side the running brook; beneath his hand a MS copy of La Nouvelle Heloïse. He wears the mildly amiable took of a virtuous philosopher; he also wears a suit cut by a first-rate tailor. It is a suit carefully designed for a Natural Man who is also the eldest son of a baronet; it is no way gaudy or ostentatious, it has an air of high luxury (a quality so evident that we cannot but wonder anxiously whether, when the young man gets up, he will not discover that he has been lying on a cow pat) and this derives entirely from its beautifully discreet cut. These are the clothes of the future. . . .37

Fashion plate. “Habit à la française de Printemps,” Le Clerc for La Gallerie des Modes et des Costumes Français (c. 1779).

The habit à la française (French-style man’s suit) and the habit à l’anglaise (English-style man’s suit) existed side by side in the Paris of the 1770s and 1780s. They even merged to some extent as the informal frock coat was produced in both its plain English version and in a more highly decorated and form-fitting French style. In the same way, the robe à la française and the robe à l’anglaise co-existed. Other English fashions were also introduced. The English riding coat, for example, was adopted as la redingote, along with a host of other horsey customs and accoutrements, such as buff breeches, greatcoats, boots—and, for that matter, jockeys, horse-racing, and driving one’s own carriage. French observers often reacted negatively to the invasion of English style in the 1780s, especially with respect to English men’s fashions. The Petit Dictionnaire de la Cour et de la Ville (1788), for example, commented sourly: “Soon Paris will be completely English. Dress, carriages, hair, jewelry, drinks, entertainments, gardens, and morals, everything is in the English style. We have taken from this wretched people le vauxhall, le club, les jocqueis, les fracs, le vishk, le punch, le spleen, & la fureur du suicide.”38 Mercier argued that although the “Parisian ignoramus . . . dresses like a citizen of London, head high, Republican air and so on, you need expect from him no proper appreciation of serious questions.” He urged: No, no, my young friend. Dress French again, wear your laces, your embroidered waistcoats . . . powder your hair . . . keep your hat under your arm, in that place which nature, in Paris at any rate, designed for it . . . wear your two watches at once. Character is something more than dress. . . . Keep your National frippery, and in that silly livery talk your fill of nothing. . . . Have we nothing to learn from Englishmen other than the tailor? 39

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Eighteenth century design detail for a man’s waistcoat.

Queen of Fashion Until recently, most dress historians have assumed that court continued to dominate fashion in the eighteenth century, as it had under the Sun King, and that Louis XV’s mistresses, Madame de Pompadour and Madame Du Barry, set the fashion, to be followed in the next reign by Marie Antoinette. To some extent, this was true. Aristocrats throughout Europe wore French courtly dress, at least on formal occasions. Madame de Pompadour was, indeed, a leader in all the fine and decorative arts, including the art of dress. Yet everywhere, the baroque magnificence and status hierarchy of the old monarchical style were being transformed into the easy, flowing lines of an aristocratic and individualistic rococo, to be followed by the emergence of the neo-classical style. However influential individual aristocrats might be, they no longer represented the hierarchical authority of the court. The stifling rules of court etiquette increasingly gave way to a more open urban society and a new sense of freedom and informality. Fashions were not merely “trickling down” from the court to the city; they were emerging from within Parisian society itself. Yet society was also animated by the old court belief in the importance of taste and art—of fashion as an expression of individuality. Aileen Ribeiro writes: “The essence of eighteenth-century costume is the sophisticated urban dress—embroidered velvet coat and knee breeches, rustling silk taffeta dress over paniers, powdered hairstyles—that was France’s great contribution to the world of fashion and civilized living.”40

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Fashion plate. Marie Antoinette in court dress, (c. 1780).

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“Marie Antoinette preferred the title of Queen of Fashion to that of Queen of France,” observed one court lady. But this showed her loss of influence. Louis XIV was no mere trendsetter; Marie Antoinette was—along with other, less exalted, Parisians. Indeed, in her style of dress, she seems to have been influenced by women such as the dancer Marie Guimard and the actress Mademoiselle Raucourt. Actresses were, indeed, becoming fashion trend-setters. Apparently, once when Maria-Theresa of Austria received a painting of her daughter, Marie Antoinette, she responded coldly: “This is not the portrait of the Queen of France; there is some mistake, it is the portrait of an actress.”41 Fashion professionals were also exerting greater influence. “Much of the credit for this take-over bid by the modiste was due to the greatest marchande de modes of all, Rose Bertin, whose flair for publicity and ability to catch the popular mood made her the Ministre de la Mode in Paris.”42 Bertin’s fame was due in part to her association with Marie Antoinette, whom she visited twice a week. Berlin’s other clients had to come to her establishment, Le Grand Mogol, on the rue Saint-Honoré, where they endured her boasting about her relationship with the Queen. “Mademoiselle Bertin seemed to me an extraordinary person, full of her own importance and treating princesses as equals,” recalled the Baroness d’Oberkirch. Her “jargon” was “amusing,” but it “came very near impertinence if one did not hold her at arm’s length, and degenerated into insolence when one did not nail her to her place.” Oberkirch also called at Baulard’s, explaining that “he and Alexandrine used to be the most celebrated, but Bertin has dethroned them.” On one occasion, Baulard kept her “for more than an hour while he held forth against Mademoiselle Bertin, who put on the airs of a Duchess, and was not even a bourgeoise.”43 Marie Antoinette often exceeded her dress allowance of 120,000 livres—in one year by an additional 138,000 livres. Because her Lady of the Wardrobe had to request a special grant, know that in 1785, Rose Bertin was paid 27,597 livres as a dealer in fashions, plus 4,350 livres for lace. Hers was the largest share, but her competitors also profited: Dame Pompée received 5,527 livres, Demoiselle Mouillard (who did the children’s clothes) 885, and Dame Noël 604. A tailor named Smith, who specialized in English riding habits, got 4,097 livres. Much of the rest went for jewelry.44 The Queen’s clothing expenses were trivial in comparison with other royal expenditures, but she was nicknamed Madame Deficit. Her interest in fashion also contributed to her growing unpopularity, especially when she was portrayed wearing advanced styles, such as the chemise dress, also known as the gaulle. Elizabeth Vigée-Lebrun’s portrait Marie Antoinette (c. 1783) provides visual proof that sartorial revolutions were occurring even before the fall of the Bastille. Certainly, this simple frock was in startling contrast to the stiff and highly decorated dresses shown in Boucher’s famous paintings of Madame de Pompadour or in Drouais’s portrait of the Marquise d’Aiguirandes (1759). In fact, the picture of Marie Antoinette caused such a scandal that it had to be withdrawn from the Salon. According to one critic, “Many people have found it offensive to see these august persons revealed to the public wearing clothes reserved for the privacy of their palace.”45 Others attacked the Queen for damaging the silk industry of Lyons by favoring simple “foreign” fabrics. When Vigée-Lebrun described the

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incident in her memoirs, however, she emphasized the charm of the Queen’s dress and her own succès de scandale: I painted several portraits of the Queen. . . . I preferred to paint her without grand attire. . . . One of them shows her wearing a straw hat and dressed in a white muslin robe, the sleeves of which were crimpled crosswise but fairly tight. When this portrait was exhibited at the Salon, the evil-minded did not fall to say that the Queen had had herself painted en chemise; for . . . slander had already begun to make her its butt. Nevertheless, this portrait had great success. Towards the end of the exhibition, a little play called  . . . La Réunion des Arts, was performed at the Vaudeville. . . . When the turn came to Painting . . . I saw the actress copy me . . . in the act of painting the Queen’s portrait. At the same moment everybody in the boxes and parterre turned towards me and applauded me tumultuously.46

Opposite: Marie Antoinette (c. 1783, attributed to Elizabeth VigéeLebrun). Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington; Timken Collection.

The royal family commissioned another painting of the Queen, but this one showing her in formal court dress and together with her children—an obvious attempt to emphasize her position and social function. The development of the chemise dress was related to a more widespread classical trend that affected all the decorative and fine arts, which moved away from the threedimensional rococo and toward the “pure” straight lines of classicism. The influence of the Enlightenment provided the context within which French women began to favor a simple “undress” style, at least for informal occasions. Of course, this was not the first time that informal, negligée styles had emerged, since the seventeenth-century mantua and the early eighteenth-century robe volant originated as informal or semiprivate dress, but made their way into a more public realm. The English sporting style of the late eighteenth century was another example—and Marie Antoinette also liked redingotes. There is also some evidence that the chemise dress had colonial, as well as classical and English, antecedents. Much of French eighteenth-century wealth was based on Caribbean sugar—and Creole ladies understandably favored cool, light, white fashions. Both the material and the indigo that (with bleaching) tinted it to a striking bluish white came from the tropics, however much they were popularly associated with the pellucid atmosphere of Greece and Rome. Dress historians have told us that the chemise only came into fashion during the course of the French Revolution, as the expression of an entirely new way of thinking: “The aristocratic stiffness of the old regime in France is completely mirrored in the brocaded gowns of the eighteenth century. The republican yet licentious notions of the Directoire find their echo in the plain transparent dresses of the time.”47 Yet the real picture is not so clear-cut. After the fall of the monarchy in 1792, women’s dress became progressively more “undress” and pseudo-classical, especially in Paris. Under the Directory (1795–1799), the Consulate (1799– 1804), and the Empire (1804–1815), these trends were further accentuated, but they did not originate either during the radical phase of the Revolution or during the reaction that followed the reign of terror. Significant changes in fashion were occurring before the Revolution.

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3 Liberty of Dress Nulle personne de l’un ou de l’autre sexe ne pourra contraindre aucun citoyen ni citoyenne à se vêtir d’une manière particulière, chacun étant libre de porter tel vêtement et ajustement de son sexe que bon lui semblera, sous peine d’être considéré et traité comme suspect, et poursuivi comme perturbateur du repos public. Decree of the 8th Brumaire of the Year II (October 29,1793)

T

French Revolution changed the history of the world. But did it also change fashion history? Daniel Roche argues convincingly that “The Revolution did not revolutionize fashion.”1 Styles traditionally associated with the impact of the Revolution, such as the plain, dark suit for men and the white chemise dress for women, had already appeared before the fall of the Bastille. Yet the Revolution did more than accelerate existing trends toward liberty and equality in dress. Clothing would be a political issue from the very beginning of the Revolution. It was not simply that clothing was influenced by political events, although this was certainly the case. Dress was “a highly significant site for the articulation of beliefs and ideas, and a key ingredient in the consolidation of a new political culture.”2 As Lynn Hunt points out, “Questions of dress . . . went to the heart of the Revolution in both its democratic and totalitarian aspects.”3 Although sumptuary laws had not been enforced for a long time, they still existed officially, and in May 1789, when Louis XVI convened the Estates General, its members were instructed to dress in the costumes appropriate to their respective estates. The First Estate (the hereditary nobility) wore gold-trimmed cloaks and hats with white plumes; the clergy wore religious costumes; and the Third Estate (the commoners) had to wear magistrates’ caps without braids or buttons and black knee-breeches with short black capes. In effect, this was the formal black uniform decreed for legal officials, although black already carried more general bourgeois connotations. The significance of these sartorial distinctions was not lost on the Parisian public, who protested against both the vestimentary discrimination and the tripartite division of the Estates General. he

Opposite: Joseph Boze. Portrait of Honore Gabriel de Mirabeau Riqueti (Bignon-Mirabeau, 1749–Paris, 1791) French politician and orator, at National Assembly. DEA / G. DAGLI ORTI / Getty Images.

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In one of his most popular speeches, count Honoré Gabriel de Mirbeau, an aristocrat who supported the Third Estate and who deliberately wore black attire, thundered against inequality of dress. The clothing of commoners was as decent as the grandeur that characterized aristocratic dress, he argued, but no one had the right to force men to wear different costumes that reinforced pernicious distinctions of relative status. Members of the Third Estate declared that they represented the people of France, and they regrouped to form a new unitary legislative body, the National Assembly, which they invited the others to join. The National Assembly went on to abolish legal distinctions of dress, abrogating earlier sumptuary laws. With this act, the revolutionaries hoped to promote equality between aristocrats and commoners. But the nation remained politically divided, and when Louis XVI dismissed and banished the popular minister Necker and brought soldiers into the city, the population of Paris feared that a royal coup d’etat was about to occur.

The Politics of Dress, 1789–1794 On July 14, 1789, a crowd of about 1,000 people, the majority of them artisans and small shopkeepers, stormed the Bastille, a medieval prison that was a symbol of the abuse of royal authority. The storming of the Bastille immediately became a symbol of the victory of the people over tyranny and it remains the great mythic emblem of the Revolution. Images of the scene created later depict a mixture of bourgeois men in knee-breeches and working-class men in loose trousers. The latter are known to history as the sans-culottes, literally “without breeches,” referring to the fact that at least some urban working-class men did not wear knee-breeches (culottes), but rather long loose trousers (pantalon). We will return later to the issue of the dress of the people. The storming of the Bastille was celebrated in fashion, continuing a tradition of fashions commemorating public events from naval victories to the American War of Independence. Some of the early fashions à la Bastille were quite elaborate, such as a locket worn by Mademoiselle de Genlis that was “made from a stone of the Bastille, cut and polished, and bearing the word ‘Liberté’ in brilliants.” Encircling the stone was a laurel wreath (in emeralds) fastened by a national cockade in blue, red, and white precious stones. Later there were also jewels, fans, and dresses à la Constitution and à la Fédération.4 But the blue, red, and white tricolor cockade was the most important patriotic badge. First adopted in 1789, it continued to be worn throughout the Revolution and beyond. Symbolic colors had long been the prerogative of princes, so the very concept of “national colors” symbolized the triumph of popular sovereignty. Indeed, diehard royalists continued to flaunt the white cockade, which symbolized the Bourbons. The tricolor cockade became part of the uniform of the National Guard and then the Army. It was worn by representatives of the people, who sometimes also wore a tricolor sash. It was also more generally worn—

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Liberty of Dress Dominique Doncre, Portrait of Pierre-Louis Joseph Lecocq and his Family, 1791. Oil on canvas. The French Revolution Museum. Inv. MRF 1984-263. © Coll. French Revolution Museum/Domaine de Vizille.

first by choice and then by law. Eventually, the tricolor cockade became compulsory for men, although there was controversy about whether women should wear it, and both children and criminals were forbidden from wearing it. Foreigners were initially required to wear the cockade and then explicitly forbidden from doing so. Like his soldiers, Napoleon wore a cockade. But all that was still in the future. During the early years of the Revolution, one still saw a variety of clothing styles in Paris, as Chateaubriand recalled: “Walking beside a man in a French coat, with powdered hair, a sword at his side, a hat under his arms, pumps and silk stockings, one could see a man wearing his hair short and without powder, an English dress-coat and an American

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Opposite: Portrait of Maximilien de Robespierre, French School, 18th century. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images.

cravat.” At one stormy evening session of the National Assembly, Chateaubriand noticed “a common-looking deputy mount the tribune, a man with . . . neatly dressed hair, decently clad like the steward of a good house or a village notary who was careful of his appearance. He read out a long and boring report, and nobody listened to him; I asked his name: it was Robespierre.” Using the language of clothes and with the advantage of hindsight, Chateaubriand concluded, “The men who wore shoes were ready to leave the drawingrooms, and already the clogs were kicking at the door.”5 The deputy that Chateaubriand mentions is, of course, Maximilien Robespierre, leader of the radical Jacobin party and one of the engineers of the Terror. Although often supported by members of the urban laboring classes, he never wore the dress of the people. Nor did most of the other revolutionary leaders. A portrait of Robespierre from about 1791, for example, depicts him wearing a striped vest and coat, a ruffled cravat, and even powdered hair. On the occasion of the Festival of the Supreme Being (June 8, 1792), Robespierre was dressed in a cornflower-blue suit (with breeches), a tricolor sash, and, on his hat, a tricolor cockade. Fashion did not disappear during the Revolution, but it became increasingly politicized, especially after the fall of the monarchy in 1792. The King was guillotined in January 1793 and the Queen in October. The Committee of Public Safety was founded in April 1793 and given near dictatorial powers, with Robespierre the most influential member of the committee. The Jacobin Reign of Terror lasted from September 1793 to July 1794, when Robespierre and his associates were arrested and executed. The image of the sans-culotte epitomizes the most radical phase of the Revolution, marked by the Jacobin ascendancy and the Reign of Terror. Sans-culottes regarded themselves as militant patriots, although most radical bourgeois revolutionaries feared the populace and tried to control them. In Boilly’s famous Portrait of the Actor Chenard in the Costume of a Sans Culotte (1792), Chenard is depicted wearing a stereotypical sans-culotte costume, probably the same one he wore that year on the occasion of the Fète de la Fédération. It was comprised of loose trousers, clogs, a short jacket (usually identified as a carmagnole, but possibly a military jacket, with the implication that it had been seized from an enemy soldier), and a tricolor cockade on his hat. Perhaps significantly, he did not wear the bonnet rouge or “liberty cap” that was often associated with radical sans-culottes. The sans-culottes are most famously associated with trousers.6 “But trousers pose a problem to the historian of material culture,” observes Daniel Roche; “one expects to find them, for the Revolution established them as the symbolic garment of the sans-culotte, but they never appear in the inventories of those who were to participate in the journées.” They were worn by sailors, rivermen, young boys, and “a few small street tradesmen,” but most working-class men in Paris apparently wore breeches, stockings, and shoes. “Certainly, the trousers of the workman . . . were destined to triumph over aristocratic breeches, but their early history remains obscure.”7 The bonnet rouge or red cap of liberty also plays a conspicuous part in the iconography of the French Revolution. Resembling the phrygian caps worn by freed slaves and convicts, the bonnet rouge was intended to remind wearer and viewer of the people’s new-found

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liberty. But whereas tricolor cockades were ubiquitous in revolutionary Paris, the bonnet rouge seems to have been worn by only a few radical revolutionaries, especially sans-culotte patriots, some of whom tried to force other people to wear the liberty cap. Most notoriously, in 1792, Louis XVI was made to don a liberty cap and drink a toast to the Revolution. Other sans-culotte patriots argued about whether all citizens should be “allowed” to wear it. Some of Marat’s supporters are depicting wearing the bonnet rouge in Boilly’s Triumph of Marat. However, most politicians, including members of the Convention, had a profound aversion to the red bonnet.8 As the Revolution became more radical, liberty of dress was increasingly restricted by a range of authoritarian prescriptions and proscriptions. The issue came to the fore in 1793 after a brawl between fishwives and members of the Société des Républicaines révolutionnaires (a revolutionary women’s club). The very next day, “a deputation of female citizens presented a petition in which they complained about women calling themselves revolutionaries who tried to force them to wear the bonnet rouge.” The Convention responded by passing a decree of the 8th Brumaire of the Year II (October 29, 1793), which reaffirmed liberty of dress, declaring that “No person of either sex can force any citizen or

Opposite: Louis Léopold Boilly. Portrait of the Actor Chenard in the Costume of a Sans Culotte, 1792, France. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/ Bridgeman Images.

Louis Léopold Boilly, The Triumph of Marat (1743–1793). Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France/Bridgeman Images.

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citizenness to dress in a particular fashion, each being free to wear such clothing or attire of his or her sex that he or she chooses, under pain of being considered and treated as a suspect and prosecuted as a disturber of the peace.”9 As the historian Lynn Hunt has shown, discussion at the National Convention revealed that: the decree was directed particularly against women’s clubs whose members were wearing red liberty caps and forcing other women to follow them. In the opinion of the deputies— at this most radical moment of the Revolution, the period of dechristianization—the politicization of dress was threatening to subvert the definition of the sexual order. Fabre d’Eglantine linked the liberty cap to the masculinization of women: ‘Today, they ask for the liberty cap; they will not be satisfied with that; they will soon demand a belt with pistols.’”10

Musée Rétrospectif des Classes (Paris, 1900). Image courtesy of Fashion Institute of Technology | SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.

A police ordinance of 16 Brumaire Year 9 (November 7, 1800) explicitly forbade Parisian women from wearing trousers without special dispensation. Théroigne de Méricourt had celebrated the fall of the Bastille by dressing “in white ‘Amazons’ with a round hat,” a masculine style of dress that seems to have included trousers, since she declared, “I was at ease playing the role of a man because I was always extremely humiliated by the servitude and prejudices under which men’s pride keeps our sex oppressed.”11 But the revolutionary ethos of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity worked against the rights of women, who were increasingly forced out of political participation. Female revolutions such as Olympe de Gouge and Madame Roland were sent to the guillotine and Méricourt to an insane asylum. During the first five years of the Revolution, fashion did not disappear, but people who looked too fashionable were liable to be insulted or assaulted. Rose Bertin and many other fashion professionals followed their clients into exile. Others stayed and tried to adjust to the new conditions. One dressmaker dropped the title madame and called herself citizenness, while renaming her shop the Maison Egalité. Fashion magazines disappeared for several years. Powder and cosmetics fell into disfavor as “aristocratic.” High-heeled shoes and feminine hats violated ideals of revolutionary simplicity. Dresses were given names such as the negligé à la patriote, redingote nationale, and déshabillé à la democrate. The “caraco of the people” (a simple jacket and skirt) was popular.12 For men also, the simple, “everyday fashion” of the people was advisable.

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Yet there was widespread paranoia that people who looked like sans-culottes might really be “counter-revolutionaries.” Jacques-René Hébert, the editor of Père Duchesne, raged against pampered muscadins who allegedly disguised themselves as sans-culottes. Occasionally, there was an element of truth to this. In 1793, for example, a middle-class acquaintance of Madame de la Tour du Pin disguised himself in “the rough frieze jacket known as the ‘carmagnole,’ sabots, and a saber,” pretending to be a “fervent demagogue,” while hiding aristocrats in his home.13 Chateaubriand escaped from France wearing the uniform of a member of the National Guard, and was soon wearing the uniform of an aristocrat in the Army of the Princes.14 The perceived unsuitability of popular dress contributed to the attempts to design a new costume for representatives of the French nation. Thus in 1793 or 1794, the Jacobin artist David designed a Greco-Roman costume with a tunic and large cape. It was probably never worn, although a later version, intended as the official uniform of the leaders of the Directory, had at least ceremonial use. The failure of these official togas is unsurprising, and ultimately less significant than the fact they were introduced at all. Clearly, middle-class revolutionaries were unhappy with the downward leveling implied by sans-culotte dress. Only one aspect of sans-culotte dress would ultimately prevail—trousers.

From Patriots to Incroyables and Merveilleuses The arrest and execution of Robespierre and his associates on 9–10 Thermidor (July 27–28, 1794) saw the Revolution enter a new phase popularly associated with the outré figures of the incroyables and their female companions, the merveilleuses. According to Louis Sébastien Mercier, the incroyables looked “so like the recent and amusing print which bears their names that truly I cannot look on it as caricature.” Images of the incroyables show young men with long, curled hair and earrings, wearing tight breeches and stockings, coats with wide lapels and high collars over flamboyant vests. Around their necks are enormous cravats. They hold walking sticks and spy-glasses. Female fashions were even more outrageous: “The women . . . all go in white. The bosom is bare, the arms are bare. The bodice is cut away and beneath the painted gauze rise and fall the reservoirs of maternity. A chemise of transparent linen gives a view of legs and thighs encircled with gold and diamond bangles. . . . The fleshcolored tights . . . excite the imagination and expose the shape and allurement without any reservation. And such is the day that follows the yesterday of Robespierre.”15 Popular histories of this period have been largely restricted to diatribes about the frivolity and immorality of Parisian society. In reaction to the horrors of the Terror, a segment of Parisian society supposedly threw themselves into a life of excess, epitomized by outrageous, indecent dress and participation in morbid “victims’ balls” attended by those whose relatives had been guillotined. In reality, the notorious Bals des victims probably never occurred.16

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Louis Léopold Boilly, Incroyable et Merveilleuse in Paris, 1797 (oil on canvas). Private Collection / Archives Charmet / Bridgeman Images.

And existing chemise dresses from the period are by no means as “transparent” as Mercier indicates. Recent scholarly studies have usefully complicated the old stereotyped picture of incredible, perfumed, marvelous, and gilded youth. The “seeming rebirth of Fashion,” which was “one of the most conspicuous—and commented upon—aspects of Thermidorian society,”17 developed out of a complicated socioeconomic and political milieu, in which a conservative (but still officially revolutionary) government was fighting a war on two fronts—against popular left-wing forces and against a royalist and religious right wing. The famous historian Georges Lefebvre argued that in its effort to stamp out Jacobinism, the Thermidorian government “organized the jeunesse dorée into armed bands filled with draft dodgers, deserters, shop boys, and law clerks encouraged by their employers.”18 The reference to draft-dodgers and deserters may have been a cliché, but young bourgeois and petit-bourgeois men were encouraged to fight Jacobins and sans-culottes. Sans-culottism in dress, speech, and behavior was now increasingly proscribed by the political authorities. There was a revival of high society and a veritable “war of symbols,” in which the “egalitarian and austere . . . conception of the revolution” lost to an aggressively ostentatious style. As historian Denis Wornoff puts it: The bonnets rouges and the sansculotte style were replaced by the deliberately foppish style of the jeunesse dorée.

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“Everyone attempted to rise above their present status.”19 These were the years of the “white terror,” so called to distinguish it from the radical or Jacobin phase of the Revolution. Fashionable young men (call them incroyables or jeunesse dorée) were released from popular pressure to conform to anti-fashionable (simple, patriotic) dress. They wore an exaggerated version of English coats and cravats, not because they were royalist émigrés who had just returned from England, but because the style was a development from prerevolutionary high fashion. Their long, curled hair and “tight” culottes were also a reaction against sansculotte style, just as their heavy walking sticks could be useful in street-fighting. “Politics were not confined to verbal expression,” writes Lynn Hunt. Symbolic forms of political practice were also significant. “Different costumes indicated different politics, and a color, the wearing of a certain length of trousers, certain shoe styles, or the wrong hat might touch off a quarrel, a fistfight, or a general street brawl.” Hunt quotes from a “typical” proclamation of 1797: “It is a contravention of the constitutional charter . . . to insult, provoke, or threaten citizens because of their choice of clothing. Let taste and propriety preside over your dress; never turn away from agreeable simplicity. . . . RENOUNCE THESE SIGNS OF RALLYING, THESE COSTUMES OF REVOLT, WHICH ARE THE UNIFORM OF AN ENEMY ARMY.” In 1797, the “costumes of revolt” referred to the clothing of “ROYALIST CONSPIRATORS.” But, as Hunt shows, by 1798, an illustrated political brochure was stressing the sartorial differences between good republicans, “the independents,” and militant sans-culottes, “the exclusives.” The clothing of bourgeois “independents” was a sign of their political virtue and moderation. It was clean and respectable, but not luxuriously aristocratic; they wore “close-fitting pants of fine cloth, ankle boots, morning coats, and round hats.” By contrast, the plebeian “exclusives” wore dirty and slovenly clothing, short jackets, coarse woolen trousers, and “outlandish hats.” Other categories included the “sell-outs” (les

Circle of Jacques-Louis David. Portrait of a Young Woman in White, c. 1798. Oil on canvas. Accession No.1963.10.118. Chester Dale Collection, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington.

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achetés), who “never had their own look”; the “systematics,” who changed their costume with the prevailing political winds; and the “fat cats” (les enrichis), who wore luxurious and counterrevolutionary dress.20 In Dandyism in the Age of Revolution, Elizabeth Amann suggests that the clothing of the incroyables could also express a desire to move away from the political symbolism that had been so long attached to every style of dress. She finds evidence of the depoliticization of clothing in contemporary plays such as Les incroyables, ou La Liberté des modes (1797). When the villain, significantly named Tribune, accuses the hero of wearing signes de ralliement [i.e. signs that he is a royalist counter-revolutionary], the hero retorts, “the rallying signs of fashion.”21 For the poor, however, it was a very hard time. In Death in Paris, 1795–1801, Richard Cobb describes the clothing of suicides and victims of sudden death who ended up in the Paris morgue. Many of the women who drowned themselves in the Seine “first of all put on what must have been pretty well the whole of their existing wardrobe, filling themselves out with skirt after skirt, bodice after bodice.” We don’t know whether they attired themselves to die, or whether they habitually wore all their clothes to keep them from being stolen. Their clothes are repeatedly described in the records as poor or wretched (mauvais): poor skirt, poor stockings, poor vest in different colors, “everything very poor.” But the monotony of such pathetic litanies is liable all at once to be broken with the description of some article or other of clothing that, even if it has seen better days, is still reminiscent of past luxury and of present timid pretension: a range of silks, some shot and shimmering, elaborate braiding, dulled, but still weighted in skilled craftsmanship, stuffs in complicated colours, immense handkerchiefs in bright, reassuring checks, canary-coloured waistcoats, with horn or moleskin buttons, even a few smart bottle-green redingotes with high collars at the back . . . a 36-year-old carpenter represents, no doubt intentionally, a symphony in blue: “veste de drap bleu, un gilet de velours de coton bleu rayé en lozange, un pantalon de coutil bleu,” a brilliant blue, not the pale colour of charity.22

The range of liveries seen before the Revolution had become broken and scattered. Elements from military uniforms—like brass buttons engraved with République Française and the embroidered frogs of Hussar jackets—appeared on the bodies of civilians, women, and children. Did their original owners die, were they robbed, did they sell their clothing piece by piece? Clothing of the past and present was jumbled together, occupational clothing and regional costume—the only thing missing was a cockade: Neither a tricolor nor a white, green, or black royalist cockade appears in the records.

The Empire of Fashion As Napoleon rose to power and French armies advanced across Europe, military uniforms increasingly influenced fashion in Paris. As Cobb puts it, “young men prominent in the

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Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, Year 9.

Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, Year 11.

cowardly ranks of the class ‘armies’ of the jeunesse dorée, who have absolutely no intention of risking themselves on any battlefield further away than the Palais-Royal, affect[ed] high military collars à la hussarde and tightly buttoned topcoats.”23 Napoleon’s own clothes tended toward uniforms, both civil and military, but even as First Consul, he recognized the importance of trying to revive the French textile and fashion industries and insisted that formal dress be worn at the Tuileries. When Napoleon crowned himself emperor in 1804 (wearing lavish imperial robes), he also officially re-established court dress in a form which was not only luxurious, but also fashionable. For women, court dress was essentially neo-classical in form, but utilizing silk

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Louis Léopold Boilly, Portrait of a Woman in a Cave, possibly Madame d’Aucourt de Saint-Just, 1805 (oil on canvas). Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France / Bridgeman Images.

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Louis Léopold Boilly, Portrait of a Man, possibly Monsieur d’Aucourt de Saint-Just, c. 1805 (oil on canvas). Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France / Bridgeman Images.

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Fashion plate from Observateur des Modes (c. 1820). Demi-cosack trousers. Vest with shawl collar. Blue coat. Black moire cravat. Cane. Top hat.

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and embroidery; for men, court dress combined military stiffness with aristocratic luxury. Although this obviously deviated from previous revolutionary aspirations towards equality of dress, it did provide much-needed support for the silk weavers of Lyon and other fashion and textile workers in Paris. In 1815, after the hundred days following his escape from Elba, Napoleon fell from power and the Bourbons returned. Many of the émigrés came back to France wearing English clothes; and there was apparently a brief attempt to reintroduce pre-Revolutionary court dress, but this was soundly rejected by the younger members of the court. Soon the Bourbon aristocrats were being dressed by fashion professionals like the celebrated Leroy of Paris, former dressmaker to the Imperial court. Social distinctions in dress were reinforced, but there was also a greater emphasis on distinctions of gender. After about

Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix, Liberty Leading the People, 28 July 1830, c. 1830– 1831 (oil on canvas). LouvreLens, France/Bridgeman Images.

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History “Bourgeois, if you want to get your hat back, it will be five sous!” A caracature by Beaumont for Le Charivari (1848) shows a “Vésuvienne” of the Second Republic.

1815, the high-waisted white neo-classical dress began to evolve into a new style: Waistlines dropped, skirts filled out, and the corset returned. Henceforth, color and decoration would be increasingly restricted to women’s fashions. When the Revolution ended, the empire of fashion, increasingly feminized, regained sovereignty, and Paris was once more its capital. It has been argued that the “ultimate inheritor of the playing out of the politics of revolutionary dress was the type of the blackclad bourgeois.”24 To a considerable extent this is true—and the bourgeois male would also adopt trousers. Another significant masculine style paired light-colored trousers with a dark jacket, white shirt, and cravat. The high-crowned hat had replaced the tricorne and bicorne for gentlemen, while workers tended to wear a cap.

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The storming of the Bastille had announced the first modern revolution, and it set the paradigm for subsequent revolutions. The reign of the Bourbons lasted only fifteen years, until the Revolution of 1830. Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People depicted the Revolution of 1830 as a united front of young bourgeois and working-class men, with the only female figure a bare-breasted abstraction. The result was a constitutional monarchy installing the Orleanist branch of the royal family. Eighteen years later, in February 1848, demonstrations led to the Revolution of 1848. Louis Philippe, “King of the French,” fled to England, and the Second Republic was proclaimed. During the Revolution of 1848, working-class women formed their own revolutionary clubs, not unlike those which had been created (and repressed) during the Revolution of 1789. As in the first French Revolution, so also in 1848, some women revolutionaries even adopted trousers and improvised National Guard uniforms, as can be seen in Beaumont’s caricatures for Le Charivari depicting a so-called Vésuvienne carrying a rifle and threatening a bourgeois. All over Europe, 1848 was a year of revolution. But everywhere, the revolution failed. In Paris, conflict soon broke out between bourgeois republicans and radical socialists, ending with the class warfare of the June Days, followed by the coup d’état that terminated the Second Republic. Yet Paris remained, in many hearts, the capital of revolution, and this, too, became part of its mythology.

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4 Fashion in Balzac’s Paris La toilette est l’expression de la société. Balzac, La Traité de la vie élégante, 1830

A

Karl Marx pointed out, the ruling ideas of any epoch are those of the ruling class, and this is no less true of fashion ideas. The fashions of the eighteenth century were essentially aristocratic, those of the nineteenth century bourgeois, but (and this is a very large but) nineteenth-century fashions continued to be strongly influenced by aristocratic standards of taste. Following the Restoration of 1815, Parisian high society, le Tout-Paris, was dominated by old aristocratic families with close connections to the Bourbon court. However, after the Revolution of 1830, which ousted the reactionary Charles X and installed Louis Phillipe as a constitutional monarch, the court lost much of its prestige. The “great notables” of the July Monarchy were a combination of the aristocracy (Orléanists, of course, but also Bourbon legitimists and Napoleonic nobles who adapted to the new regime) and those members of the upper bourgeoisie who formed part of the new ruling class. In La vie élégante ou la formation du Tout-Paris, 1815-1848, Anne Martin-Fugier demonstrates how high society opened to incorporate “the triple aristocracy of money, power, and talent.” To join the ruling class, however, it was not enough for a bourgeois to be rich, powerful, or talented, it was also necessary to acquire savoir-vivre, that elegance of manners and dress, also known as the je ne sais quoi, which would distinguish members of the elite.1 “Dress is the expression of society,” wrote Honoré de Balzac in his “Treatise on the Elegant Life,” which appeared in the royalist fashion magazine La Mode in 1830.2 The greatest novelist of the Restoration and the July Monarchy, Balzac was also a prolific journalist, who wrote little works such as Physiologie de la toilette, subtitled “On the Cravat, considered in itself and in its connections to society,” and contributed to veritable encyclopedias, such as The French Painted by Themselves (1840–42), which described Parisian types from the grisette to the femme comme il faut, and from the rag-picker to the rentier. (His contemporary, Sulpice-Guillaume Chevalier, better known as Gavarni, created s

Paul Gavarni, illustration for La Mode (c. 1830).

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images of these types, which form a visual complement to Balzac’s work.) Balzac is a very important source for understanding the role of fashion, both in society at large and in high society. Although he may have over-estimated the importance of dressing elegantly as a means of rising in society, he was correct in observing that Parisian elegance was inextricably connected to the redefinition of class and status in the modern era. Typically, he simply appropriated the aristocratic particle “de” as part of his personal self-promotion. As Shoshana-Rose Marzel observes, “Even if Balzac distinguishes aristocratic milieux from other rich milieux, from the vestimentary point of view, these differences are more the fruit of a personal investment than of a knowledge reserved to a social class.”3 Balzac was born at Tours in 1799, the year of Napoleon’s coup d’état and came to Paris when he was twenty. Like so many of his characters, he arrived wearing the provincial clothes that his mother had given him. Within a few years, however, he began ordering his clothes from Buisson, a well-known tailor on the rue de Richelieu: one month a walnutcolored redingote, a black waistcoat, steel-grey pantaloons; the next month black cashmere trousers and two white quilted waistcoats; later thirty-one waistcoats bought in a single month, part of a plan to buy 365 in a year. By the end of 1830, he owed his tailor 904 francs and his bootmaker almost 200—twice the sum he had budgeted for a year’s food and rent. But he believed that good clothes were a necessity for an ambitious young man from the provinces out to conquer Paris. Unfortunately, his contemporaries agree that Balzac was appallingly poorly dressed. According to the Baroness de Pommereul, Balzac was a fat man whose badly made clothes made him look even fatter. The painter Delacroix criticized Balzac’s sense of color. Madame Ancelot said that when Balzac was working on a book, his clothes were neglected and even dirty, and when he went into society he adopted an elaborate and bizarre style “which astonished his friends and which he laughingly called an advertisement.” He was famous for working in a slovenly dressing-gown and strolling along the boulevards carrying a magnificently eccentric jewelled cane. Captain Gronow, biographer of the famous Regency dandy, Beau Brummell, was surprised and disappointed at Balzac’s appearance: “Balzac had nothing in his outward man that could in any way respond to the ideal his readers were likely to form of the enthusiastic admirer of beauty and elegance in all its forms and phases. . . . [He] dressed in the worst possible taste, wore sparkling jewels on a dirty shirt front, and diamond rings on unwashed fingers.”4 Balzac himself admitted that only the social elite, who did nothing, had the leisure for la vie élégant, but he also argued that the artist (such as himself) “is not subject to laws” and could, therefore, be “elegant and slovenly in turn.”5

From the Provinces to Paris Balzac might have been fat, slovenly, and vulgar in real life, but he knew what the elegant man was supposed to look like, and he created a host of dandy characters, from Charles

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Grandet and Henri de Marsay to Eugène de Rastignac and Lucien de Rubempré. Indeed, Balzac created more than two thousand characters, and he described the clothing of almost every one of them in minute detail. He shows his characters’ vanity, their embarrassment, their self-consciousness, and their obliviousness to their clothed appearance, but he never once implies that they should concern themselves with more “important” things. Clothes were very important to Balzac. Not only do they place a character or type within a particular social and temporal setting, they also express his (or her) personality, ambitions, inner emotions—even destiny. “The question of costume,” argues Balzac, “is one of enormous importance for those who wish to appear to have what they do not have, because that is often the best way of getting it later on.”6 Lucien Chardon, the hero of Lost Illusions, was a handsome young man, by the standards of 1820. He was of average height, slender, young, and graceful. His facial features were Grecian; his complexion had “the smooth whiteness of a woman’s skin”; his hair was wavy and fair; he had an angelic mouth with coral lips and impeccably white teeth; he had the elegant hands “of a well-born man.” If this doesn’t sound feminine enough, we also learn that “Any man looking at his feet would have been tempted to take him for a girl in disguise, the more so because, like most men of subtle . . . mind, he had a woman’s shapely hips.” In short, although he was only a poor provincial, he had precisely the right type of body to wear the latest fashions. The fashionable silhouette—for men as well as women—was shaped like an hourglass, with a padded chest, cinched waist, and flared hips. Small hands and feet and delicate facial features were regarded as signs of refinement and aristocratic blood. As his friend David observed, “You look like a gentleman.”7 Standards of appearance in the provinces were not very strict: In his blue coat with yellow buttons, plain nankeen trousers, the shirts and cravats made by his adoring sister, Lucien is accepted in Madame de Bargeton’s salon. It also helps that he has adopted the aristocratic name “de Rubempré,” to which he was only very distantly entitled. Of course, Lucien is not really well dressed; he is guilty of wearing boots instead of shoes, but his sister soon saves the money to buy him elegant shoes from “the best shoemaker in Angoulême” and a suit from the best tailor. Nevertheless, he looks shabby in comparison with his rival, Monsieur du Chatelet, whose portly figure is clad in dazzlingly white trousers “with straps under the feet to keep the crease,” and a black coat “commendable for its Parisian style and cut.” Madame de Bargeton, age thirty-six, had learned to dress in Paris and returned to Angoulême with the reputation of being both fashionable and artistic. Lucien is ravished by the sight of her medieval hairstyles, oriental turbans and berets, and her rather theatrical attire. The other provincial ladies were also “consumed with the desire to be taken for Parisians,” but only succeeded in looking absurd in their “home-made dresses” in “incompatible color-schemes.” (Their husbands looked even worse.) Although Madame de Bargeton shines in comparison with these ladies, there are already hints that she is trying too hard to look artistic: Her turbans indicate literary pretensions, and her pink and white dresses are much too youthful. Precisely because she has no competitors, she has fallen into provincial bad taste.

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Fashion plate, Petit Courrier des Dames (1822).

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When she and Lucien run off to Paris together, each begins to be more critical of the other’s appearance: Lucien sees his mistress in a Paris salon where “[t]he proximity of several beautiful Parisian women, so elegantly and daintily attired, made him aware that Madame de Bargeton’s toilette, though possibly ambitious, was behind the times: Neither the material nor the way it was cut, nor the colours were in fashion. The hairstyle he had found so seductive in Angoulême struck him as being in deplorable taste.” Of course, she is thinking much the same thing about Lucien: “The poor poet was singularly handsome, but he cut a sorry figure. His frock coat, too short in the sleeves, his cheap provincial gloves and his skimpy waistcoat gave him a prodigiously ridiculous appearance in comparison with the young men in the dress circle.”8 Wandering through the Tuileries, watching the passers-by, Lucien discovers just how badly he looks: “In the first place, not one of these elegant young men was wearing a cutaway coat: If he saw one at all it was worn by some disreputable old man, or some poor down-at-heel, or a rentier from the Marais quarter.” Even his good looks do not help him: “Would any young man have envied him his slender waist, concealed as it was by the blue sacking he had hitherto taken for a coat?” His waistcoat is so embarrassingly short and provincial that he buttons up his coat all the way, to hide it. Only now does he understand the difference between morning and evening wear—the crucial importance of being dressed appropriately for the time and place. Moreover, styles that were acceptable, even fashionable, in the provinces have in Paris trickled down to the working class—and been abandoned by anyone with pretensions to elegance: “only common people were wearing nankeen trousers.” Elegant men wear white or patterned trousers that are stretched tight with foot-straps, not hanging loosely over their boots. Even his white cravat, which his sister had lovingly embroidered for him, turns out to be virtually identical to one worn by a grocer’s errand-boy—and his poor sister had thought it the height of fashion when she saw it worn by several gentlemen in Angoulême. Lucien realizes with horror that he looks like an uncouth shop assistant and, poor as he is, he rushes to the tailors of the Palais Royal, where he spends 300 francs “to re-equip himself from head to foot.” But when he goes to the Opéra that evening, the attendant sizes up Lucien’s “borrowed elegance” and refuses to let him enter. Nor does he favorably impress Madame de Bargeton when she finally escorts him in. In comparison with the dandy, Monsieur de Marsay, Lucien looks “starched, stilted, stiff, and raw.” De Marsay thought that Lucien was “dressed like a tailor’s dummy”—and, indeed, in clothes tighter than he had ever worn, poor Lucien felt rather like “a mummy in its case.” They all wore their clothes with such easy elegance, thought Lucien, whereas he felt as though he were dressing up for the first time in his life. Bitterly, he realized that his coat was too exaggerated, his waistcoat in bad taste—that he would have to go to a first-rate tailor. So the very next day, he goes to the German tailor Staub, to a new linen-draper, another shoemaker. Out of the 2,000 francs he brought to Paris a week before, 360 remain. As he writes to his sister, you can get waistcoats and trousers here for 40 francs (already far more expensive than in the provinces), but a good tailor charges at least 100.9

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It is typical of Balzac to mention names and prices. Indeed, there is some evidence that he deliberately promoted in his novels the shops he patronized—as a way of partially making up for the fact that he was always literally years behind in paying his bills: Charles Grandet, for example, came back from Paris with two suits by Buisson. But, beyond that, Balzac believed in the importance of tailors and their colleagues: “Rastignac understood the influence that tailors exercise on the lives of young men.”10 Men had not yet abandoned fashion, color, and luxury, although their clothing was inexorably moving toward sobriety. In the 1820s, the all-black uniform was worn mostly for formal evening functions. The revolutionary replacement of knee-breeches by trousers was only partially complete: Tight-fitting pantaloons were visually closer to knee-breeches than to the loose trousers of the working class. Near the end of Lost Illusions, Balzac describes Lucien in the evening fashions of 1823: Lucien was now being lionized; he was said to be so handsome. In conformity with the fashion reigning during this period, to which we owe the transition from the former ballroom breeches to the ignoble trousers of our day, he had put on black, tightfitting trousers. Men’s clothes were still cut close to the figure, to the great despair of skinny or misshapen people: Lucien’s proportions were those of a Phoebus Apollo. His grey openwork stockings, his elegant shoes, his black satin waistcoat, his cravat, everything in fact was scrupulously fitted, one might say moulded to his person. His fair, abundant, wavy hair enhanced the beauty of his white forehead, round which the curls rose with elaborate gracefulness. The beauty of his small, feminine hands was so enhanced by his gloves that one might have thought that they should never be seen bare. He modelled his deportment on the famous Parisian dandy de Marsay, holding in one hand his cane and hat.11

Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes (1823).

When Lucien was being lionized, “le lion” was the term used to describe the masculine leaders of fashion. In the annals of slang, it succeeded “le fashionable” and alternated with “le dandy.” There was, in fact, a mania for using zoological terms: “A dandy would call his mistress ma tigresse, if she were a well-born woman, and mon rat, if she were a dancer. His groom was mon tigre.” One of the novels of the July Monarchy opened with the words: “Le lion avait envoyé son tigre chez son rat.”12

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The Physiology of Fashion According to the scientific theories of the early nineteenth century, human society could be analyzed according to a biological model: There were literally different “species” of people, whose outward appearance corresponded to their inner character, just as the lion’s teeth showed his carnivorous nature. The characters in Balzac’s novels, like the personages in popular physiologies, were intended to correspond to the new urban types that flourished in the growing capital: the lion, the employee, the rentier (or stock-holder, who lived off his investments). Naturally, these people existed and, to a considerable extent, did wear distinctive styles of dress, although this is subject to a degree of satiric exaggeration. In the human genus, there were “a thousand species created by the social order,” wrote Balzac. And one of his collaborators noted that there were “innumerable varieties” of employees alone. But they insisted that a glance at his badly tailored suit and baggy trousers was sufficient to say, “Voilà un employé.”13 The appearance and habitat of each species were duly noted: “The rentier stands between five and six feet in height, his movements are generally slow; but Nature, attentive to the conservation of weak species, has provided the omnibus by the aid of which the majority of rentiers transport themselves from one point to another in the Parisian atmosphere, outside of which they cannot live.” His clothing receives the same treatment: “His large feet are covered with shoes that lace up, his legs are endowed with trousers in brown or in a reddish color; he wears checked vests of mediocre value. At home, he terminates in umbelliform caps; outside, he is covered by hats costing twelve francs. He is cravated in white muslin. Almost all these individuals are armed with canes.”14 Of course, Balzac himself was always armed with a cane—although a rentier who spent only twelve francs for a hat would never have carried a cane with a golden head studded with turquoise. Workers wore caps, while the bourgeoisie wore hats, but there were hats and hats. According to Balzac, a bohemian appointed to political office (under the July

Paul Gavarni, “The Sportsman,” (c. 1840).

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Monarchy) immediately changed his low, wide-brimmed hat in favor of a new hat whose design was “truly juste-milieu.” Retired imperial soldiers “took care to have their new hats made in the old military style,” reported another writer. Even without his hat, the Baron Hector Hulot was immediately recognizable as a veteran of the Napoleonic army: He stands with “military erectness . . . his figure, controlled by a belt,” wearing a blue coat with gold buttons, “buttoned high.” Dominated by his erotic obsession with Valérie Marneffe, Hulot is lured into abandoning all personal and sartorial self-respect, and ends up in filthy rags, wearing, perhaps, one of those shabby old hats worn by rag-pickers and sold on the street by the old-clothes man.15 Clearly, the audience for Balzac’s novels was able to recognize the types portrayed and to appreciate (better than we can today) the nuances of their dress. We may recognize, for example, that Cousin Bette dressed like a prototypical “poor relation” and “old maid” in a hodgepodge of cast-off garments and vestimentary bribes. But the modern reader may not fully appreciate the significance of Bette’s expensive yellow cashmere shawl and her black velvet hood lined in yellow satin. Who now remembers that yellow was traditionally the color of treason and envy? Yet, great as he was, Balzac could be over-simplistic in his use of clothing symbolism. Lucien’s mistress, the actress Coralie, openly proclaims her sexual passion when she first appears wearing red stockings. Conversely, Hulot’s virtuous and long-suffering wife habitually wears the white of purity. And the saintly prostitute, Esther Gobseck, dresses for her meeting with the banker, Nucingen, in bridal white, even wearing white camellias in her hair. Real people do not utilize such a transparent and unidimensional language of clothes, any more than bad guys wear black hats. Much more subtle is his description of the Princesse de Cadignan dressing in shades of grey, so as to convey (falsely) to d’Arthez that she had renounced the hope of love and happiness. Balzac certainly knew that clothing can lie. Indeed, he pays particular attention to the clothing of people who are not what they seem to be. Valérie Marneffe has four lovers, but she usually dresses like a respectable married woman, in simple, tasteful fashions. According to Balzac, “These Machiavellis in petticoats are the most dangerous women”—far more to be feared than honest demi-mondaines.16 His villains frequently resort to disguises. In Lost Illusions, the master criminal Vautrin is dressed as a Spanish priest: His hair was “powdered in the Talleyrand style. His black silk stockings set off the curve of his athlete’s legs.” In César Birotteau, the repulsive scoundrel Claporan normally wears “a dirty dressing gown, opening to show his undergarment,” but when he goes into society he wears elegant clothes, perfume, and a new wig. Like criminals, police spies adopt innumerable disguises: In A Harlot High and Low, we learn that Contenson “could turn himself out stylishly when there was need,” although “he cared as little about his everyday dress as actors do about theirs.”17 The streets themselves were a kind of theater. In his “History and Physiology of the Boulevards of Paris,” Balzac argued that “Every capital has its poem . . . where it is most particularly itself.” For Paris, it was the boulevards. Whereas, “in Regent Street [there is] always the same Englishman and the same black suit, or the same Macintosh!” in Paris there

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was . . . “an artistic and amusing life of contrasts.” On Parisian boulevards, “one observes the comedy of dress. Many men, many different outfits, and many outfits, many characters!” On the boulevard St Denis alone, one saw “a variety of blouses, torn suits, peasants, workers, lunatics, people who make of a not very clean toilette, a shocking dissonance, a very conspicuous scandal.” If some places revealed “the inelegant and provincial masses . . . badly shod,” other stretches of boulevard were “a dream of gold,” jewels, and rich fabrics, where “everything . . . over-excites you.”18 The 550 meters of the boulevard des Italiens were especially fashionable and animated. According to Edmund Texier, “The promenade [along the boulevard des Italiens] . . . is a tranquil river of black suits, sprinkled with silk dresses . . . a world of pretty women and gentlemen who are sometimes handsome but more often ugly or uncouth.” A lion with wild and messy hair was followed by a well-dressed man trying to pose as a baron. “The dandy displays his graces, the lion his mane, the leopard his fur—all exhale the smoke of ambition.” The “majority” of clothes “have not been paid for.” Meanwhile, not far away, “The lions of the boulevard de Gand, more sober than their brothers from the Sahara, live exclusively on cigars and meaningful glances, on politics and idling. Hunger . . . pushes them . . . to the asphalt, theater of their exploits.”19

The Working Woman as Artist, Aristocrat, and Erotic Fantasy Although Balzac’s heroes usually had flashier mistresses, like actresses and duchesses, other writers contended that the “most incontestable Parisian” woman was the grisette, a figure who held a special place in the pantheon of Parisian types, and in the history of Paris fashion. She did not exist in other countries, claimed Jules Janin, nor even elsewhere in France. In his Physiology of the Grisette, Louis Huart defined her as “a young girl sixteen to thirty years old who works all week and has fun on Sundays. Her job: she would be a seamstress, a flower-maker, a glove-maker, a milliner.”20 The term was eighteenth-century, and referred to her coarse grey dress; but although Mercier spoke of her, the grisette really only entered Parisian folklore during the 1820s and 1830s, when she appeared with her student lover in Murger’s Scenes of Bohemian Life and in erotic prints like Milliners Rising and Student Days. According to Huart and Janin, her trademark was not the grey wool dress, but rather the little pink hat with ribbons “and other such cheap charms.” Despite her poverty, her “humble” and “cheap” clothes, she was nevertheless “pretty” and “smart.” In the mythology of loose women, the grisette was the predecessor of the more mercenary lorette of the July Monarchy and the notoriously extravagant grande cocotte of the Second Empire. Unlike her successors, the grisette was not a kept woman or a courtesan, but a working woman. This was a crucial element in the stereotype.

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Paul Gavarni, “Grisette,” Les Français peints par eux-mêmes (1840–1842).

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In real life, dressmakers and seamstresses worked from nine in the morning until eleven or twelve at night and occasionally on Sunday. Alternating with this crushing work schedule were long periods of unemployment.21 Except for the most skilled workers, wages were very low. As a result, many working-class women sporadically turned to prostitution to survive. However, in the literature of mid-nineteenth-century Paris, we find a noticeable romanticization of the poor grisette. In The French Painted by Themselves, Jules Janin dwelt at length on the grisette’s poverty: She was “poor (Heaven knows how poor)” but also “touching and respectable,” “ever laboring and busy”—and happy to perform her task: “to clothe the fairest portion of the human race.” “These little girls, children of the poor, . . . become the allpowerful interpreters of fashion throughout the entire universe.” The “romance” and “poetry” of female labor were favorite themes in nineteenth-century literature, the more so when the women worked in a “luxurious” and “artistic” trade like fashion: “What more agreeable work than to have, without cease, between your hands, under your eyes, velvet, silk, flowers, feathers.” This was a portrait of the working woman as artist and as erotic fantasy, and even as a kind of natural “aristocrat.” The ubiquity of the concept was such that Janin actually praised the grisettes as “our elegant duchesses of the street—our countesses who walk on foot— our fine marchionesses who live on the labor of their little fingers—our gallant aristocracy of the workshop and counter.” In Janin’s view, it was natural that “these pretty little countesses of the rue Vivienne” should be attracted to the law and medical students who flocked to Paris to study and revel. It was equally natural (though sad) that, having graduated, the middle-class student should abandon his “little friend” for “a few acres of land or a few bags of money, that his provincial bride brings him as her dowry.” Rather implausibly, he added that, occasionally, a “virtuous” grisette might marry “a great lord,” and exchange “her humble garments, her simple neckerchief, and worn shawl, for diamonds, cashmeres, and embroidered dresses.”22 In fact, despite the very large numbers of women in the sewing trades, probably at least as many women worked as domestic servants, but this job was harder to romanticize, more obviously drudgery. Factory workers, laundresses, tradeswomen, and shopkeepers also received less attention than “the workers of elegance,” whose poverty and hard work could be given a spurious gloss by virtue of the glamor of their profession.

Paul Gavarni, The Worker’s Wife (c. 1840).

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Eugène Lami,”The Milliner,” Les Français peints par euxmêmes (1840–1842).

The milliner was even more fascinating than the ordinary grisette. In another chapter of The French Painted by Themselves, Maria d’Anspach maintained that “The grisette is only a worker, the milliner is an artist.” She constantly invented new models of hats and decorated them artistically with ribbons, flowers, and feathers, creating a “harmonious ensemble,” sometimes even “a masterpiece.” Although poor, “she loves all that is beautiful and distinguished. The comme il faut is her religion . . . to which she clings like a Rohan to his coat of arms.”23 This comparison with one of the greatest noble families of Europe was intentional, for milliners were perceived as the ultimate aristocrats of the working class. Significantly, we find no apotheosis of the tailor comparable to that of the milliner— or even the grisette. The tailor appears in physiologies as a humorous type, not as an “aristocrat” of elegance.” “The milliners are the aristocracy of the workwomen of Paris, the most elegant and distinguished,” agreed Octave Uzanne at the end of the nineteenth century. “They are artists. Their ingenuity in design seems limitless.”24 Clearly, the word “aristocracy” is being used in a special way, implying that the milliner is a member of what might be called “the new aristocracy of art.” One of d’Anspach’s milliners is made to say: “Oh! why do we no longer live at the time when lords loved milliners so much, they were pleased to make them great ladies? They married them. Our seigneurs are the dandys who come to look at us through the shop windows, write us very beautiful letters, but do not marry us. [Yet] bankers, Russian princes, and my lords sometimes visit fashion workshops as well as artists’ studios, and if they buy a picture in one, they sometimes choose a pretty woman in the other.”25 Cinderella fantasies obviously bore little relation to reality. Perceived by middle-class observers as “the industrious bees of fashion” or “the legion of laborious ants,” whose clothing, though “humble,” indeed “cheap,” was nevertheless “pretty” and “smart,” how did the thousands of women in the Paris clothing industries regard themselves? Working-class women in Paris probably did take pride in their

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appearance, but they also labored under appalling conditions in a city that had periodically risen up in strikes and revolutions. “The Revolutionary March of the Dressmakers” included the lines: “What does the little delivery girl demand/Of the House of Worth or of Paquin?/ More money, less work!” According to Uzanne, there was at least one “not very successful strike” by late nineteenth-century dressmakers. But he observed that “The poor girls were soon obliged to return to their work. . . . No deputy came to their assistance. . . . Our democracy, based as it is on the suffrage, could not trouble itself about the fate of women who did not have the vote, and from whom there was nothing to fear.”26

La Parisienne and Le Dandy For generations of French artists and writers, the Parisienne was not merely a female inhabitant of Paris. Taxile Delord’s Physiology of the Parisienne (1841) bluntly states: “La Parisienne is a myth, a fiction, a symbol.” But Delord also argued that the Parisienne could be found “in all the places where women show themselves”: at “balls, concerts, theaters, and promenades.” Of course, not all the women in Paris were Parisiennes: Fully five-sixths of the women in Paris were “provincial in spirit and manners” Only the true Parisienne had a distinctive, graceful and spirited elegance.27 In La Femme à Paris (1894), Octave Uzanne argued that: “A woman may be Parisian by taste and instinct . . . in any town or country in the world.” However, “In every class of society, a woman is plus femme in Paris than in any other city in the universe.”28 The “Parisian Lady” is “essentially a modern creation,” wrote Balzac. The “Great Lady” of the past no longer existed, or, rather, she might exist, living quietly in her family home in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, but she no longer mattered. “La femme comme il faut—this woman proceeding from the ranks of the nobility, or put forward from the bourgeoisie, coming indifferently from all parts, capital or province, is the type of the present time.”29 It was enough to say: “The Parisienne is dressed by Palmyre . . . She orders her hats from Herbeaux.” Certainly, the great couturières of the July Monarchy—Mesdames Vignon, Palmyre, and Victorine—dressed many of Balzac’s female characters, just as real tailors like Staub and Buisson dressed his heroes. But fashion alone did not create the Parisienne: “Provincials put on clothes, the Parisienne dresses.” The Parisienne’s distinguishing characteristics were “taste and grace.. . . The je ne sais quoi! . . . that captivates and subjugates men, pushes them to marriage, to suicide, to madness.”30 According to “Ce Que C’est Qu’une Parisienne” by Léon Gozlan, the Parisienne’s every caprice became a law obeyed “everywhere on earth where one finds a salon.” Because foreigners lacked taste, they relied on the Parisienne to give particular clothes and accessories “the consecration of taste, the baptism of fashion.” The Parisienne was “the striking justification of the superiority of France over all other nations.”31 And what about her male counterpart? “What is the Parisian?” According to Paris and the Parisiens: au XIXe siècle, “He is le Français par excellence.” After all, “Paris belongs

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Fashion plate by Numa, (c. 1845).

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to all the world. . . . Each can come with his baggage of intelligence, industry, or talent.”32 And yet, in many respects it seemed that to be an elegant Parisian dandy was to be an imitation Englishman. Reading Balzac and his contemporaries, we constantly find evidence that dandyism came to France from England. In 1823, the year that Lucien conquered Paris society, the magazine La Pandore complained about the mania for English fashions: “Le fashionable . . . has made of his valet de chambre a groom, and a djaky of his coachman.” He drinks tea even though it irritates his nerves, because he must imitate the “gentlemen of London.” Naturally, he must employ only an English tailor to make his redingote.33 Yet the French seemed confused about precisely what they were copying. Were they supposed to admire the English gentleman-dandy, as epitomized by George “Beau” Brummell (1778–1840), who became famous for his understated style: an immaculate white shirt, perfectly-tied cravat, buff breeches or pantaloons, and dark-blue cutaway jacket. Balzac enthusiastically approved of “BRUMMEL!” (even if he misspelled his name and neglected Brummell’s focus on clean linen). Or should they model themselves on the aristocratic, horsey sportsman (or “centaur”), as Balzac also indicated in his “Treatise on the Elegant Life”? Or should they wear clothing inspired by literature or history? As Ellen Moers observed: “Anglomania made the dandy and the romantic one and the same, though the two had scarcely met at home.”34 Balzac’s fictional dandies, Lucien de Rubempré and de Marsay, imitated Beau Brummell’s severely correct style of dress, but de Marsay’s name is clearly derived from the “butterfly dandy,” the Anglo-French Count d’Orsay, whose taste in dress tended toward pastel silks, jewelry, and perfume. To complicate things further, in La Traité de la vie élégant, Balzac argued that “Dandyism is a heresy of elegant life.” Indeed, he became quite abusive: “Dandyism is an affectation of fashion. In playing the dandy, a man becomes a piece of furniture for the boudoir, an extremely ingenious mannequin that can sit upon a horse or a couch, that bites or sucks on the end of a walking stick by habit—but a thinking being . . . never!”35

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5 The Black Prince of Elegance Eternelle superiorité du Dandy. Qu’est-ce que le Dandy? Baudelaire, Mon coeur mis à nu, n.d.

I

poet Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867) who did the most to create our image of the dandy: dressed in black, self-constructed, elegant, and ineffably cool. Even today, the dandy plays an important role in fashion, although dandyism has been redefined to embrace a diversity of individuals far beyond the heterosexual white man-about-town.1 In Balzac’s era, fashionable elegance or dandyism was primarily a social phenomenon, involving elite men who dressed with good taste. More influential for aesthetic and philosophical theories of dandyism was Du Dandyisme et de George Brummell (1845) by Barbey d’Aurevilly (1808–1889). Ostensibly a portrait of “Beau” Brummell as the Ur-dandy, d’Aurevilly’s book is a passionate refutation of Carlyle’s picture of the dandy as a mere “Clothes-wearing Man.” D’Aurevilly himself was an unclassifiable romantic eccentric, who dressed all his life like a lion of the 1840s, complete with a lace jabot, and looked nothing like an English dandy.2 But his picture of dandyism was extremely sophisticated and dandiacal. Dandyism “is not a suit of clothes walking about by itself!” argued d’Aurevilly. “On the contrary, it is the particular way of wearing these clothes which constitutes Dandyism.” The dandy wears his clothing “like armour” with an “air of elegant indifference” and sangfroid. “Incredible though it may seem, the Dandies once had a fancy for torn clothes. This happened under Brummell. They had come to the end of impertinences . . . when they hit upon this dandiesque idea, which was to have their clothes torn . . . so that they became a sort of lace—a cloud. They wanted to walk like Gods in their clouds! The operation was difficult and tedious of execution; a piece of pointed glass was employed for the purpose. There you have a true detail of Dandyism, where clothes go for nothing, in fact they hardly exist.” And in a striking phrase, hidden in a footnote, d’Aurevilly writes: “These Stoics of t was the

Opposite: Emile Deroy (1820–46), Portrait of Charles Baudelaire, 1844 (oil on canvas). Château de Versailles, France/ Bridgeman Images.

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the boudoir drink their own blood under their mask and remain masked. For Dandies, as for women, to seem is to be.”3 The greatest theorist of dandyism, however, was Charles Baudelaire, who was also himself a dandy. Emile Deroy’s 1844 portrait of Baudelaire shows a slender, elegant figure clad in velvety black with a white cravat like a necklace, and with dark wavy hair down to his shoulders. He had the face of a “young god,” recalled Théodore de Banville, “a truly divine countenance uniting all elegances, all strengths, and the most irresistible seductions.” He resembled “a Titian portrait come to life, in his black velvet tunic, pinched in at the waist,” remembered Hignard. At other times he wore plain black broadcloth, in suits of his own design. He looked, said LaVavasseur, like “Byron dressed by Beau Brummell.”4 Baudelaire cared nothing for Brummell, but he knew d’Aurevilly and was indebted to his ideas. “Rereading the book Du Dandyism . . .” wrote Baudelaire in his Salon de 1846, “the reader will clearly see that dandyism is a modern thing, springing from causes completely new.” He returned to the subject of dandyism in his famous essay “The Painter of Modern Life” (1863) and dealt with the subject sporadically in his intimate journals, where he wrote the cryptic lines, “The eternal superiority of the Dandy. What is the Dandy?”5

Opposite: Emile Lévy, Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly,1881. Oil on canvas. Inv. MV6369. Photo by Franck Raux. Chateaux de Versailles et de Trianon, Versailles, France. © RMNGrand Palais/Art Resource, NY.

Baudelaire the Dandy Charles Cousin remembered Baudelaire at twenty: “crazy about old sonnets and the newest painting, with his polished manners and conversation full of paradoxes, leading a bohemian life and a dandy to boot, a dandy above all, with the whole theory of elegance at his fingertips. Every fold of his jacket was the subject of earnest study.” Baudelaire’s insistence on black clothing impressed Cousin, as it did all the poet’s friends: What a miracle that black suit was, always the same, no matter what the season or the time of day! The dress coat, so gracefully and generously cut, its lapels constantly fingered by a beautifully manicured hand; the beautifully knotted cravat; the long waistcoat, fastened very high by the top button of the twelve and negligently gaping lower down to reveal a fine white shirt with pleated cuffs, and the corkscrew trousers fitting into a pair of immaculately polished shoes. I shall never forget how many cab fares their varnish cost me!6

The ideal dandy, wrote Baudelaire, is “rich and idle”; his “solitary profession is elegance.” When he came of age in 1842, Baudelaire established himself in a stylish apartment at the Hôtel Lauzun on the Ile-Saint-Louis. One of his neighbors was Roger de Beauvoir, a well-known dandy, whose dress and lavish apartment were featured in La Mode. With an inherited income one-tenth that of Beauvoir’s, Baudelaire strove to emulate his style of life, but he quickly ran through all his income and part of his capital. In 1844, horrified at his mounting debts, Baudelaire’s family had him declared financially incompetent, thus bringing to a close his brief period as a rich dandy.7

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Thus, it was only between 1842 and 1844 that Baudelaire could afford to devote considerable time and money to his appearance. During that period, he specifically rejected both the foppish style of the fashionable Right Bank lions and the flamboyance of the Left Bank bohemians. Dandyism in its Right Bank manifestation had definite social and political connotations, being in part a statement of aristocratic superiority. In practice, most lions adulterated pure Brummellian simplicity in the English style with doses of old-fashioned French aristocratic display. Meanwhile, on the Left Bank, the bohemians mounted a different sort of revolt against the bourgeoisie. Their clothing was often more or less deliberately slovenly and self-consciously artistic. If spotless white linen was the sign of bourgeois respectability, the bohemians would wear dirty shirts—or no shirts at all. In place of the top hat, they wore broad-brimmed Quakerish hats, plumed hats, berets, or caps. Their medievalism expressed itself in unorthodox dress, their frequent poverty in motley clothes. Living on an island in the middle of the Seine, Baudelaire was also symbolically situated halfway between Left Bank bohemia and the fashionable Right Bank neighborhoods. In many respects himself a bohemian, a member of the intellectual and artistic subculture of Paris, Baudelaire nevertheless rejected much of the bohemian way of life, including its style of dress. Yet neither in dress nor in attitudes did he resemble the Jockey Club dandies of the Right Bank, whom he regarded as barbarians. In fact, his clothing was designed to set him apart from the bourgeoisie, the bohemians, and the conventionally elegant elite comprised of a mixture of aristocrats and wealthy bourgeois. At this time, despite the darkening sartorial palette, black was far from being the only color men wore. Both lions and bohemians retained a fondness for color, even if only in the form of a bright waistcoat. According to the magazine Le Dandy: Journal special de la coupe pour messieurs les Tailleurs (1838): “English black is the shade most worn, followed by blue, court green and dragon green; acorn and dark olive are reserved for demi-toilette. Riding or morning suits are in a very bright green color.” And again, the same year, we read that, “Dark blue is the color adopted this winter for dinners and visits. For evenings and balls, black and brown are always exclusively adopted.” “The black English suit with silk buttons is always required for grande tenue . . . [although] one also permits, at a ball, fantasy suits [in] burned chestnut, golden bronze, [and] cornflower blue, with metallic buttons that are an agreeable diversion from the severity and monotony of black.”8 But Baudelaire insisted on black: “always the same, at every hour, in every season.” At the beginning, he occasionally used an accent of color, like the pale pink gloves and the cravat of red (sang de boeuf ) that Nadar recalled. He may even have had one blue suit. Later, however, according to LaVavasseur, he wore all black, including a black cravat and a black waistcoat. He felt that black looked more grave, more serious and severe, and that it was more appropriate to “an age in mourning.” Others, like Alfred de Musset, also believed that “This black clothing that the men of our time wear is a terrible symbol . . . of mourning.”9 Rather than rejecting this doleful style, Baudelaire embraced and exaggerated it. In addition, he designed all his clothes himself and insisted on the same meticulous attention to details that later almost drove his publishers mad. Even in an era when clothes

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were made to measure, he was known for demanding fitting after fitting. “Costume played a large role in Baudelaire’s life,” wrote Champfleury. He “wore his tailor out” trying to get coats “full of pleats,” since “regularity horrified this nature full of irregularities.” When he was finally satisfied, he would tell the tailor, “Make me a dozen suits like this!” Another anecdote (almost certainly based on d’Aurevilly’s Du Dandyisme) states that he “glasspapered his suits so that they should not look too new.”10 “I knew him when he was very rich and relatively poor,” wrote Banville, “and I always saw him, in the one and the other situation, as detached from material things, and superior to the caprice of circumstance. . . . His toilette, like his manners, were always those of a perfect dandy.” But other witnesses saw the evidence of poverty. Toubin remembered him as wearing “a red cravat—although he was not a republican—rather loosely tied, and one of those sack overcoats that had been in fashion some while back, which he found useful to dissemble the gauntness of his frame.” Sometimes he was reduced to wearing a worker’s overall on top of black trousers: “artisan above, dandy below.”11 After he lost control of his finances, Baudelaire became not simply déclassé, but truly poor, wearing “two shirts under a pair of torn trousers and a jacket too threadbare to keep out the wind” and with holes in his shoes.12 He cut his beautiful long hair and shaved his moustache and beard, explaining to Théophile Gautier that “it was puerile and bourgeois” to retain such “picturesque” elements of appearance.13 If many bohemians continued to regard him as a dandy, upper-class writers like the Goncourt brothers characterized Baudelaire as a “sadistic Bohemian,” with a “correct and sinister” appearance. In a diary entry of October 1857, they wrote: “Baudelaire had supper at the next table to ours. He was without a cravat, his shirt open at the neck and his head shaved, just as if he were going to be guillotined. A single affectation: his little hands washed and cared for, the nails kept scrupulously clean. The face of a maniac, a voice that cuts like a knife, and a precise elocution that tries to copy Saint-Just and succeeds.”14 This hostile picture is nonetheless revealing. The poet who wrote, “I am the wound and the knife . . . the victim and the executioner” might have recalled both a victim of the guillotine and the terrorist Angel of Death. Ink-stained fingers would have been merely the affectation of artiness, just as a cravat would have been a sign of social status. Unlike Balzac, whose sporadic dandyism depended on wealth (or credit) and a fashionable setting, such as a duchess’s salon, Baudelaire required neither, since he never attempted to pose as a dandy for the fashionable world.

Baudelaire on Dandyism As early as the eighteenth century, Diderot had argued that, “When a society’s clothes are mean, art should disregard costume.” This became even more of an issue in the nineteenth century, when contemporary fashion was widely regarded as artistically inferior to the clothing of the past. Already in the 1840s, while still a student, Edouard Manet denounced

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Diderot’s position as “quite stupid,” and argued that “We must accept our own times and paint what we see.” So did the Realist critic Champfleury, who called for paintings of “present-day personalities, the derbies, the black dress-coats, the polished shoes or the peasants’ sabots.”15 Baudelaire also urged artists to “look at” the “mysterious grace” of modern fashion. If modern man had abandoned the fabulous costumes of earlier eras in favor of a black uniform, then (he argued) artists must learn to “create color with a black coat, a white cravat, and a grey background.” “Although M. Eugène Lami and M. Gavarni are not geniuses of the highest order, they have understood all this very well—the former, the poet of official dandyism, the latter the poet of a raffish and hand-me-down dandyism.”16 Later, he wrote of the artist and “dandy-flâneur” Constantine Guys, “When Monsieur G sketches one of his dandies . . . nothing is missed.” Who but a dandy could fully appreciate “his way of wearing a coat or riding a horse.”17 In both “The Heroism of Modern Life” (1846) and “The Painter of Modern Life” (1863), Baudelaire describes dandyism as “a modern thing.” It appears “when democracy is not yet all-powerful, and aristocracy is just beginning to fall.” Baudelaire described the modern man’s dark suit in ambiguous terms: Was it “the garb . . . of the modern hero” or “a uniform livery of affliction [that] bears witness to equality”? The “symbol of a perpetual mourning” is the “necessary garb of our suffering age.” “But all the same,” he asks, “has not this muchabused garb its own beauty?” “The dress-coat and the frock-coat not only possess their political beauty, which is an expression of universal equality, but also their poetic beauty, which is an expression of the public soul—an immense cortege of undertaker’s mutes (mutes in love, political mutes, bourgeois mutes . . . ). We are each of us celebrating some funeral.”18 What does he mean by characterizing the frock-coat as a “political” symbol? It is all the more surprising that the poet of dandyism “chose to fight with the insurgents in the June Days” when “all respectable Paris, all fashionable society, all the intelligentsia of the Left Bank, stood against him on the side of Order.” As T. J. Clark writes, “Does a dandy fight, or talk politics, or believe? Baudelaire in 1848 did all these things.”19 Years later, Baudelaire dismissed his participation in the June Days as an “intoxication,” motivated by a desire for vengeance and destruction. “Can you imagine a Dandy speaking to the people,” he asked himself, “except to mock them?” And yet he clearly remained politicized even after the bourgeoisie put down the workers, and even after Napoleon III came to power. Indeed, he may even have resisted Napoleon’s coup: “My rage at the coup d’état. How many bullets I exposed myself to! Another Bonaparte! What a disgrace!”20 Baudelaire’s last and fullest explication of dandyism appeared in Le Figaro in 1863, when he defined it as “a new kind of aristocracy . . . based . . . on the divine gifts which work and money are unable to bestow. Dandyism is the last spark of heroism amid decadence.” Dandyism does not . . . consist, as many thoughtless people seem to believe, in an immoderate taste for the toilet and material elegance. For the perfect dandy these things are no more than symbols of his aristocratic superiority of mind. Furthermore, to his eyes, which are in love with distinction above

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all things, the perfection of his toilet will consist in absolute simplicity. . . . It is a kind of cult of the self . . . a kind of religion.21

But what exactly did it mean when Baudelaire described dandyism as “a kind of religion,” a “doctrine of elegance and originality,” and “a cult of the self”? When he wrote that the “passion” for dandyism “is first and foremost the burning need to make of oneself something original,” he almost certainly did not mean that the dandy’s goal was “to be original.” That would be “a naive, Romantic, and Bohemian ideal” (as Ellen Moers, the pioneering historian of dandyism, correctly emphasizes). Rather, out of his own being, the dandy created an original work of art, not through self-indulgent artistry, but by stoically emphasizing the uniquely modern elements of style. The perfect dandy was a kind of artist who created—himself.22

The Triumph of Black Baudelaire was, at one and the same time, both highly original and very much a product of his own time. The triumph of black—the cornerstone of his personal dandyism—was the primary characteristic of bourgeois male clothing in the nineteenth century, which also emphasized an elegant simplicity of dress symbolizing the wearer’s personal distinction. Baudelaire was unusual in “mixing together . . . the aristocratic and bohemian versions of outsiderness, distinction, and rejection.” But there were many juste-milieu bourgeois who also tried to establish “social differentiation through refinement, subtlety, renunciation, and in-groupness of taste, when taste [was] no longer simply the inherited, bone-bred prerogative of a small, hereditary aristocracy.” As Linda Nochlin memorably put it: Anyone could appreciate rich, elaborate dress, “that is, any old nouveau-riche industrialist or nouveau-middle-class greengrocer,” but only a self-conscious and sophisticated elite would feel that “less is truly more.”23 Black was “less” in as much as it signified the absence of color, but it was also “more” because its symbolism was so rich and multifaceted. Contemporaries agreed that, “black for us has become the symbol of sadness and mourning. It matters little whether those associations of ideas be purely conventional, or that they result from a spontaneous and general sentiment among men; it is sufficient that they be accepted.”24 But the history of black in men’s clothing revealed a range of associations, from elegance to authority, respectability, strength, and power. Even its associations with satanic evil could have had an illicit attraction.25 More than a century later Quentin Tarantino’s film, Reservoir Dogs, would include the following lines: MR PINK:  Why can’t we pick out our own color? JOE:  I tried that once, it don’t work. You get four guys fighting over who’s gonna be Mr Black.26

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For nineteenth-century men, the link between black and power rested predominantly on issues of class in a rapidly changing society. However, since meaning in fashion is always relational, to the extent that black was becoming increasingly associated with men, it also signified masculine power. By mid-century, “the eternal black suit” had become so dominant that the tailors’ magazines complained. “When will we be delivered . . . from this costume which says nothing and can say nothing, which only lends itself to insignificant modifications . . . incapable of animating the genius of our art?” demanded Fashion-Théorie (1862). “Each time that a new season arrives, we hope for the fall of this sombre tyrant of the salons, but it is always victorious and seems to come out of these struggles more powerful than ever.” At least some tailors believed that they had been “vanquished” by female prejudice: “Women admit us to their receptions . . . only in the black suit, because rigged out this way, we are frankly ugly, and we serve as a foil to set off their beauty.”27 La Génie de la mode (1862) agreed: “The poverty of this costume next to the brilliance, richness, and simplicity of women’s dress, becomes more and more shocking.” But they persisted in hoping that the end was near: “The black suit—the suit of the officer of funereal pomps, of the maitre d’hôtel, of the cook in his Sunday best—will no longer be worn for serious ceremonies or for mourning. This will be, with a few fantasy exceptions, the suit of the humble solicitor and the livery of the underling.”28 The hope would not be fulfilled. Nor could the triumph of the black suit plausibly be blamed on women. The tailors blamed the black suit for their economic decline, but in reality they were suffering because of the rise of ready-to-wear suits. Another tailors’ publication, the Journal des Modes d’Hommes, suggested in 1867 that the revolutions of 1830 and 1848 have both had a very great influence on the tendency to equality by means of a relative uniformity of costume. [But] in a nation that exits from these crises to enter a phase of order, of liberal and regular [progress] . . . general culture brings [a sense of] proportion and good taste in costume. . . . From the corporate [and] functional, costume becomes individual. . . . There is neither the uniformity [of revolution] nor caste-like distinctions. It is no longer the personage who dresses, it is the man.29

This analysis sums up well what might be called the bourgeois individualist character of modern clothing, and is as applicable today as in the nineteenth century. During the various French revolutions, clothing became temporarily more sober and “egalitarian,” but this tendency was qualitatively different from the soberness of modern bourgeois male dress, which depended on subtle small differences to establish social distinctions. “Men are not equal, and women still less so.” Thus began one of the innumerable nineteenth-century guidebooks dedicated to teaching the reader how to be elegant by

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applying “the old traditions of French politesse . . . to modern practices.” As the author saw it: “The distinctive character of our age is . . . the combat between . . . the need for equality which devours all pride . . . and the need of luxury which overturns all classes.”30 In this way, savoir-vivre, the knowledge of manners, language, and dress, became an artificial dividingline, separating the Ins from the Outs. “Savoir-vivre is the masculine je ne sais quoi.”31 A man unused to hunting would look “stupid” in riding clothes. Even physical qualities supposedly conformed to the “laws of elegance.” Just as a “fine, elegant horse” looked different from a “thick, peasant horse,” so also would the elegant man be physically distinctive. Although poverty and thinness were related, excessive weight did not demonstrate high status: “A fat man or woman can, perhaps, be magnificent, superb, imposing, etc. . . . They are not elegant.” Fatness indicated a coarse and sensual character, contrary to elegance. Conversely, children and animals might be “graceful,” but they were never elegant, since elegance was, above all, an acquired and disciplined characteristic.32

James Tissot, The Circle of the Rue Royale, 1868. Oil on canvas. Paris, Musée d’Orsay Photo: Patrice Schmidt. © Musée d’Orsay, dist. RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY.

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Bertall, Illustration for Comédie de notre temps (1874).

The significance of elegance was inextricably connected with questions of class, but definitions of class were themselves in a period of flux, which may help explain why the Anglophile cultural ideal of le gentleman (and le dandy) assumed a growing significance that was expressed by the rapid adoption of the modern man’s dark suit. Great Britain had the world’s most advanced capitalist economy, as well as a tightly unified political state at the nucleus of an expanding empire, all of it under the direction of a ruling class that combined elements of the landed aristocracy with elements of the commercial and industrial elite. The gentleman ideal was elitist but less so than the idea that aristocrats

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were by blood different and superior to commoners. A person could, after all, become a gentleman—or at least his son could. “A beautiful suit well worn inspires confidence. Why? Because it speaks of money, of credit, and of taste.” The right suit correctly worn represented, not the triumph of democracy or equality, but class distinction, as this had been redefined in the aftermath of the Revolution. In the past, elegance had been “relative.” It applied to the upper class as a whole, more than to any given individuals. But with the “confusion of our modern times,” and the (perhaps necessary) “mixing of classes,” elegance had become “absolute” and “individual.” Although “the bourgeoisie is none other than the people—who have worked in order to buy a private income and a black suit,” only the true gentleman knew how “to wear the suit correctly.”33 Fashion writers increasingly emphasized the importance of detail and occasion-specific clothing behavior. In La Comédie de notre temps (1874), Bertall wrote a large section on men’s clothing in which he noted that the black suit was “par excellence, the clothing of evening. The same suit, the black trousers, the same white cravat, which are the supreme and inevitable elegance under gaslight, are burlesque and ridiculous in the daytime.” Only notaries, businessmen, and other such employees persisted in wearing a black suit and white cravat before dinner. The dark suit that was fashionable in the daytime must look noticeably different in cut and shade from stark black evening wear. Bertall devised a kind of modern physiology of the man’s suit, distinguishing between those associated with different occupations, status groups, and personality types. A successful merchant, an old employee, a serious politician, and a young rich “swell” took what was basically the same suit and created with it a variety of different looks.34 Some French scholars have suggested that fashion simultaneously “recuperated and neutralized” dandyism, since a little dandyism in all (men’s) fashion killed true dandyism, which is “condemned to be radical or not to be.”35 Certainly, the fashionable dandy with his “uniform of elegance” was not the same as the outsider dandy as envisioned by Baudelaire. But there are still other forms of radical dandyism. Baudelaire insisted that, “Woman is the opposite of the Dandy,” because she is “natural” and “vulgar.” Yet elsewhere he praised women’s use of fashion and cosmetics to transform themselves into divinely artificial beings. Logically, there was no reason why women could not be dandies, and ultimately Baudelaire’s work would be used to theorize female dandyism. Coco Chanel, for example, is often cited as the “first” female dandy. Dandyism has also been crucial to the construction of queer identity. Fréderic Monneyron cites d’Aurevilly’s “For Dandies, as for women, paraître c’est être,” and suggests that dandies were not just proclaiming themselves a new aristocracy but also asserting their right to be as elegant as women. However, just as they rejected the colorful, decorative clothing worn by the pre-Revolutionary aristocracy, so also did they reject, for themselves, its contemporary manifestation in women’s fashion. “It is in their relation to clothing and not in the clothing itself that they identify with Woman.”36

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At the fin de siècle, a new kind of “decadent” dandy style arose, which reintroduced elements of eccentricity and femininity into the masculine wardrobe as coded signs of seduction, androgyny, and homosexuality.37 Among the well-known dandies of the late nineteenth century were homosexuals such as Jean Lorrain and Count Robert de Montesquiou. Because d’Aurevilly wore exaggerated 1840s-style fashions and was surrounded by young men, rumors circulated that he wore corsets and was secretly gay, to which he allegedly replied, “My tastes lead me there, my principles permit it, but the ugliness of my contemporaries disgusts me.”38 In Les Diaboliques (1874), he created ambiguous characters such as the “haughty, effeminate” Count de Savigny who dressed like a “dandy” in “a trim, black frock coat” with the addition of brilliant sapphire earrings, which expressed his “disdain for the taste and ideas of the day,” and h is female companion, a tall, muscular woman “dressed entirely in black. . . . Like a human panther.”39 Not everyone agreed that the dandy was a gentleman. According to one etiquette book, the dandy “exaggerates the rules, makes them ridiculous; what he wants is the triumph of the bizarre, of the conspicuous [singulier] over the natural.”40 As a French journalist wrote in 1859:

Opposite: Gustave Caillebotte, Man on a Balcony, Boulevard Haussmann, 1880 (oil on canvas)/Private Collection/ Photo © Christie’s Images/ Bridgeman Images.

[The dandy is] the Black Prince of elegance, the demi-god of ennui, looking at the world with a glassy eye . . . Indifferent to the horse that he mounts, to the woman that he greets, to the man that he approaches and at whom he stares for a moment before acknowledging him, and wearing written on his forehead—in English—this insolent inscription: What is there in common between you and me? 41

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6 Fashioning the Parisienne J’ai sous les yeux une série de gravures de mode. Ces costumes presentent un charme d’une nature double, artistique et historique. Baudelaire, Le peintre de la vie moderne, 1863

T

Paris with fashion was often mediated by the image of the Parisienne, inspiring Patrice Higgonet to develop an equation: “Paris = La Parisienne = fashion.”1 As we have seen, the Parisienne was a literary figure in innumerable physiologies and novels. But the visual arts also helped fashion the Parisienne. Indeed, the image of “the chic Parisienne” has been ubiquitous in both high art and the mass media, where it “functions as a stereotype of French fashion and femininity that supported both the consumer economy and a French identity of national superiority.”2 In the nineteenth century, before photography was widely utilized in the press, fashion illustration played a central role in the creation of the image of the Parisienne as a modern, fashionable woman. The fashion plate is a minor art form. A history of print-making described it as “this pleasant genre in which the French are particularly distinguished.”3 Yet the humble fashion plate also played a role in “the vanguardists’ search for images to define the real and contemporary.”4 In his essay, “The Painter of Modern Life,” Baudelaire begins by describing the experience of looking at a set of fashion plates from the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries: he identification of

I have before me a series of fashion plates . . . which have a double-natured charm, one both artistic and historical. They are often very beautiful and drawn with wit; but what to me is every bit as important, and what I am happy to find in all, or almost all of them, is the moral and aesthetic feeling of their time. The idea of beauty which man creates for himself imprints itself on his whole attire, crumples or stiffens his dress, rounds off or squares his gesture, and in the long run even ends by subtly penetrating the very features of his face. Man ends by looking like his ideal self.5

Opposite: Original watercolor by Héloïse Colin Leloir.

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Fashion was the key to modernity, Baudelaire argued, because it epitomized the “transitory” element in beauty. It was simply “laziness” that led artists to “dress all their subjects in the garments of the past . . . the costumes of the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, or the Orient.” The draperies of Rubens or Veronese will in no way teach you how to depict moire antique, satin à la reine, or any other fabric of modern manufacture, which we see supported and hung over crinoline or starched muslin petticoat. In texture and weave these are quite different from the fabrics of ancient Venice or those worn at the court of Catherine. Furthermore the cut of skirt and bodice is by no means similar: the pleats are arranged according to a new system. Finally, the gesture and bearing of the woman of today give to her dress a life and a special character which are not those of the woman of the past.6

You simply could not paint modern individuals if you did not have an intimate understanding of their dress. However “ugly” modern garb might initially appear, it was the artist’s duty to find the “mysterious element of beauty” that was all its own. No one was more dedicated to this task than the fashion illustrator. Some five hundred fashion illustrators, both male and female, have been catalogued in France from the eighteenth to the early twentieth centuries. Unfortunately, it is difficult to find information about particular individuals. Often only their names are known, or even less, as in the case of the talented B. C., who did some fine plates for the Journal des Demoiselles. There is, however, information on one family of fashion illustrators—the Colin sisters—who were collectively “responsible for many of the most charming fashion plates of the midnineteenth century,” and whose careers extended from the July Monarchy well into the Third Republic.7

The Colin Sisters

Opposite: Alexandre Colin, Héloïse Colin dessinant dans la campagne nîmoise; au fond, la tour Magne, 1836. Oil on canvas. Paris, Musée Carnavalet. © Musée Carnavalet/RogerViollet/The Image Works.

Historically, relatively few women have become artists, and those who did were often the children of artists, who had access to training at home, at a time when art schools were closed to female students. Yet as Julie de Marguerittes observed in 1855, any visitor to the Louvre would see middle-class girls painting.8 The Colin sisters—Héloïse, Anaïs, Laure, and Isabelle—were daughters of Alexandre-Marie Colin (1798–1875), a painter and lithographer, whose brother Hubert was a sculptor and whose sister Virginie was a painter of miniatures. Even Alexandre Colin’s first wife (the girls’ mother) was a painter. Many of their ancestors were also artists, the most famous being Jean-Baptiste Greuze, whose uplifting genre scenes were admired by Denis Diderot. Père Colin’s studio was a center of artistic activity in Paris. A supporter of the Romantic movement, he was a close friend of Delacroix, Géricault, Gavarni, Gautier, de Musset, and Devéria, many of whom visited his atelier, which contained an excellent collection of

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antique costumes suitable for use in historical paintings. According to his great-grandson, Georges Gustave Toudouze, Alexandre Colin favored the fashions of the Romantic style. He and his friends draped themselves in damask and brocades, and wore seventeenth-century ribbons and Cavalier hats over hair cut à la Charles VI. Growing up in such a milieu, it is not surprising that the Colin girls, along with their half-brother Paul (the child of Alexandre’s second wife), should all become not merely interested in costume but also proficient painters and engravers by the time they reached adolescence. Indeed, between the ages of fourteen and twenty, all four girls had received medals at the Salon, and their paintings were favorably reviewed.9 They also began to produce illustrations for the burgeoning fashion press. The eldest of the Colin sisters was Héloïse (1820–1875), who married the religious painter, Auguste Leloir, who did works like Coronation of the Virgin for Notre-Dame-de-Lorette in Paris. Their first son, Louis, became an artist and won the Premier Second Grand Prix de Rome with a work entitled The Death of Priam, Killed by Achilles. Their second son, Maurice Leloir, was a painter, historian, and author of the Dictionnaire du costume. Héloïse Leloir found her niche in the world of popular illustration, depicting characters from novels such as The Count of Monte Cristo and The Three Musketeers. The bulk of her work, however, was done for the fashion press. Fashion journals multiplied rapidly from 1830 to 1870, and there was a constant need for fashion illustrations. Louis-Joseph Mariton was a hairdresser who, in 1834, launched the fashion magazine Le Bon Ton, which became very successful; within a dozen years Mariton had become the proprietor of nine fashion magazines. Héloïse Colin Leloir’s prints were distributed to Le Follet, La Sylphide, Le Journal des Demoiselles, Le Magasin des Families, La France Élégante, Le Petit Messager des Modes, La Mode Illustrée, and others, as well as the English magazine, La Belle Assemblée. It was a common practice for foreign fashion magazines to enter into an agreement with a French publisher to purchase the right to reproduce the French fashion plates (which tended to be of higher quality than those in other countries). With copyright laws little enforced, some prints were simply pirated by foreign journals. In neither case, of course, did the artist-illustrator receive additional payment. However, there is indirect evidence that Héloïse Leloir may have done work on her own for the fabulously successful Berlin publication, Die Modenwelt, which had more than a dozen foreign editions. In these cases, her signature reads “Héloïse Colin,” presumably to ward off objections from her usual publisher. Héloïse was very close to her sister, Adèle Anaïs Colin (1822–1899). The two frequently worked together and have styles so similar that, without seeing the signature, it is difficult to distinguish their pictures. In 1845, Anaïs Colin married the architect and engraver Gabriel Toudouze, a native of Brittany, but he died in 1854, leaving her with three small children to support. In addition to illustrating books, Anaïs Toudouze was “one of the most prolific and certainly the most popular of all the later fashion-plate artists.” She produced “drawings, watercolors, and fashion engravings” for “almost all the fashion journals of her time.”10

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She must have been proud of her fashion illustrations, because she kept many of the originals, and after her death, her grandson donated them to the Musée de la Mode et du Costume. We know less about the third Colin sister, Laure (1827–1878), who did fashion illustrations for a dozen magazines—to say nothing of those like Godey’s that stole her images (see Chapter 1). She also married a painter, Gustave Noël, and had a daughter, Alice, who became a ceramic painter and miniaturist. Alone among the four sisters, Isabelle Colin gave up painting when she married an engineer named Hippolyte Malibran. Meanwhile, the Colin sisters’ younger half-brother, Paul Colin, became a marine painter and engraver. He married Sarah Devéria, daughter and niece respectively of the painters Achille and Eugène Devéria, whose scenes of modern life pleased Baudelaire. Anaïs Toudouze’s first son, Gustave, became a novelist, and his son, Georges Gustave, wrote Le Costume français. Her second son, Edouard, became a painter and won the Premier Grand Prix de Rome. Among his works is the somewhat risqué painting, Salome Triomphant. Her daughter, Isabelle Toudouze (1850–1907), became a talented fashion illustrator and flower painter. Her work will be seen later in this chapter. Even these sketchy biographical details tell us something about the lives of several ordinary Parisian women. Far from being restricted to home and family, they were active participants in both the fashion industry and the world of art. Their careers indicate, however, the ways in which women artists were pushed in different directions from the careers of their fathers, brothers, and sons. There were also male fashion illustrators, though, such as Jules David (1808–1892), who collaborated with the publisher Adolphe Goubaud on Le Moniteur de la Mode from its beginning in 1843 until David’s death in 1892. There were eight foreign editions of Le Moniteur de la Mode, and David drew all the fashion plates, some 2,600 of them.

Anaïs Colin Toudouze, illustration for Le Conseiller des Dames et des Demoiselles (December, 1855).

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Edouard Toudouze, Salomé Triomphant, 1884. This painting was exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1884.

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How to “Read” a Fashion Plate Not only fashions but also fashion plates changed over time. Those from the first decades of the nineteenth century often show a man and a woman together. Later sexual segregation was the norm, with images of men mostly restricted to tailors’ journals, while fashion magazines showed women and children. The number of figures in any given fashion plate vary from one to eight or more, although there are usually two or three. Sometimes there are topical settings, but often the setting is barely sketched in. Despite these variations, fashion plates often share certain characteristics. For example, each figure keeps her distance, so as not to obliterate the costumes of her companions. The fashion plate had its own conventions, which may at first seem incongruous, as Arnold Bennett’s gentle spoof of the genre indicates: The print represented fifteen sisters, all of the same height and slimness of figure, all of the same age . . . and all with exactly the same haughty and bored beauty. . . . One was in a riding habit, another in evening attire, another dressed for tea, another for the theatre; another seemed to be ready to go to bed. One held a little girl by the hand. . . . Where had she obtained the little girl? Why was one sister going to the theatre, another to tea, another to the stable, and another to bed? . . . The picture was drenched in mystery.11

Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, (1804).

Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, (1827).

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Anaïs Colin Toudouze, Le Follet (c. 1845). “Dresses by Camille.”

Watercolor by “Numa,” (c. 1848).

Fashion illustration from Petit Courrier des Dames (July 20, 1830). Image courtesy of Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, FIT Library Dept. of Special Collections and FIT Archives, New York, NY, USA.

Héloïse Colin Leloir, Fashion plate for La Mode Illustrée (c. 1868).

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Fashioning the Parisienne Jules David, original watercolor from which a fashion plate was made (c. 1879).

We find this description amusing because we know that the figures are not intended to represent real people. They are not sisters, the little girl is no one’s daughter. They are mannequins, whose function is limited to wearing clothes, whether evening dresses, riding habits, or tea-gowns. Every element in the fashion plate is subordinate to the goal of showing off the latest fashionable clothes to the best advantage on generically attractive female figures. Just as automobile advertisements from the 1950s stressed the latest design elements, such as streamlining, fins, or boxy “hips,” so also do fashion plates emphasize and exaggerate fashionable details. A fashion plate of the mid-1880s, for example, will emphasize a long slender waist, created by the cuirasse corset, and the triumphant mass of the skirt swept over the new high bustle. The figures pose so as to emphasize the fashions’ key features: the overall silhouette and the novelties of design and decoration that made these particular dresses à la mode. If this necessitated some rather awkward positions, so be it. The figures were not intended to interact with one another but simply to be in proximity. Other aspects (such as the trimmings) are usually precise and highly detailed to ensure that the image is useful as well as attractive.

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Fashion plate by the illustrator known as B.C. Journal des Demoiselles (c. 1885).

La Mode Illustrée (first published in 1860) led the way with larger plates, topical settings, and multiple editions, having either 12, 26, or 52 colored fashion plates per year. Interiors and gardens are popular settings. Women may be shown receiving guests, having tea, sewing, showing off new jewelry, or engaged in some suitably genteel activity, such as playing the piano or embroidering. But they are also shown outside: window-shopping, visiting an art exhibition, or dispensing charity to the poor. Because some fashion illustrators kept their original sketches and watercolors, we can trace how fashion illustrations were made. Some of Anaïs Toudouze’s sketches have neatly penciled annotations, indicating which colors were to be used for each article of clothing.

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Héloïse Colin Leloir, Fashion plate for La Mode Illustrée (c. 1875).

This may indicate that the magazine’s editor sent the clothes to the illustrator’s house to be copied. After preliminary pencil sketches, in which the illustrator decided on a composition, he or she produced a sketch in graphite and watercolor. Later, some fashion illustrators, like August Sandoz, occasionally worked from photographs. One of his sketches, in the Musée de la Mode, has penciled-in editorial comments instructing him to eliminate the cleavage he had daringly sketched in!

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Jules David, original watercolor (1887).

“The Latest Fashions.” Illustration from Le Moniteur de la Mode (May 1887).

The translation of the drawing into print form brought its own characteristics, as the lines drawn in graphite were replaced by the darker, heavier lines of the engraving. The shading and tone of the watercolor also had to be given black-and-white equivalents in the forms of tiny lines and dots. Occasionally, the artists themselves would make the engravings, but this task was usually delegated to professional engravers. In the next stage, the original color wash was replaced by colored ink, which was applied to the prints by teams of young women. Probably each of them added only one color, before passing the print along to a fellow worker. Each worker applied solid blocks of color without tonal variation. Although the amount of labor involved in hand-coloring fashion plates seems prodigious by today’s standards, at the time it represented a leveling effect necessary for mass production. We can also see here the extent to which illustrators like the Colin sisters were highly skilled workers, in comparison especially to these teams of colorists. But even with the better fashion plates, something of their exquisite miniature quality was inevitably lost when the original watercolor was reproduced in the harder, crisper print medium.

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La Vie Parisienne One thing fashion-plate mannequins never did was to lie down, or sprawl, like odalisques, across the page. That was left to the figures in La Vie Parisienne, a racy paper aimed at men and presumably at women of the demi-monde. The magazine’s subtitle listed: “Elegant manners-fads-fantasies-travel-theater-music-fashions” (later also “sport”); and although fashion was mentioned last, it was probably the most important. La Vie Parisienne did not have fashion plates. Instead it had centerfolds and miscellaneous illustrations, which frequently featured risqué fashion themes, such as underwear and corsets. “How They Go To Bed,” for example, dealt with nightgowns. (“They,” of course, refers to women.) The undeniably phallic “How They Eat Asparagus” was censored. During the 1860s, when censorship was fairly strict, the focus was on outerwear—ball dresses, décolletage, fantasy costumes. In the centerfold “Dresses and Coiffures. Memories of the Ball,” there is the comment: “Is it a dress or a maillot? . . . Costume extra tight-fitting.” Then, in the later 1870s and especially after 1881, government censorship relaxed, and first lingerie and then nudity was shown more often. This was also the beginning of the great era of erotic lingerie, when colorful, silk underwear began to come into fashion.

“Modes & Confections, 1877,” from La Vie Parisienne.

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Bertall, illustration from La Comédie de notre temps, 1874.

The centerfold dealing with the Salon of 1877 dealt exclusively with paintings of women—or, rather, as the title had it, “Modes and Confections, 1877.” Thus, the well-known painter Carolus-Duran was described as “our eminent . . . Couturier,” and his picture of a lady lounging on a sofa was said to be dedicated “to the profit of the [silk] workers of Lyons.” “The grande toilette of M. Carolus-Duran caused a sensation: 75 metres of silk to make it!” Manet’s Nana, the picture of a courtesan in her boudoir, was described as a “little sketch of an intimate toilette. Corset by Mme X. Lingerie by Mme Y.”12 A similar joke appears in Bertall’s La Comédie de notre temps, in which two ladies are shown looking closely at a painting in an exhibition, and one says, “I tell you, that’s a dress by Worth. I recognize his touch.”13 Bertall, in fact, occasionally did cartoons for La Vie Parisienne, but more importantly he shared with Marcellin and others at La Vie Parisienne a certain irreverent approach to social and sartorial phenomena that was wholly lacking in most women’s magazines. Caricatures of fashion blunders vied with the magazine’s text, which often featured fawning descriptions of “a charming new fashion inaugurated by the Countess Shouvalof at her little morning reception at the Russian Embassy in London,” or of an opera costume “worn by the young baroness de J.” In fact, La Vie Parisienne is full of what were probably paid announcements masquerading as impartial editorials: “The lingerie of Mme Albert Leblanc is poetry, dream, the perfume of Parisienne dress.”14 Most of the fashion commentary, however, could be characterized as a social and erotic physiology, somewhat in the tradition of Balzac. A series of illustrations shows the different toilettes worn in a single day, whenever possible with an emphasis on the sexual body. Moreover, the particular scenes—going down to breakfast, riding in a carriage, arriving at the theater—always focus on a man and a woman together. The text makes the sexual connection explicit, between, for example, a dressing-gown and post-coital pleasure: 10 o’clock in the morning—Peignoir . . . opening over a skirt decorated with cherry-colored satin bows. Sleeves . . . exposing the arms, white silk stocking. . . . Dips a biscuit in her hot chocolate and finds life good.

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He: Grey trousers, velvet jacket, night shirt; reads the newspaper, does not understand the necessity for constitutional laws, confuses all the amendments, and thinks that if the [parliamentary] deputies were amorous, France would find herself doing marvelously well.”15

It is not just that this particular peignoir is more luxurious and physically revealing than the usual dressing-gown. The woman’s entire body language is relaxed, as she leans back (supported by a light morning corset) and lifts her legs up and slightly apart. Both all the silky frothy fabric and all the exposed flesh indicate sexual abandon. The brunette maid who kneels at the blonde woman’s feet, gazing adoringly at her, was a standard figure in advertisements and some fashion plates; but here she plays the role of a proxy lover, as she slips a white and cherry stocking onto a naked leg.16 At eleven o’clock, the hairdresser arrives and the lover departs. At noon, the woman comes downstairs for lunch in an indoor dress with a train; and the lover returns, wearing an informal blue suit. He kisses her hand. The descriptions of their day clothes receive only marginally more attention than their luncheon menu of cutlets, jellied chicken, paté de fois gras, salad, and English pastries. At one, they go outside to the garden, she in a walking dress and a short coat trimmed with the fur of a Siberian wild-cat, he in a Scottish cap. Notice that she has had to change her dress, whereas he only adds the appropriate accessory. At three, they go out visiting, she in a fairly formal black striped dress, he in equally formal afternoon attire—a black redingote, high collar, top hat, and so on. At six, the sun sets in the Bois de Boulogne, and they ride home in a carriage. Somewhere or other along the way she has changed her dress again. He wears “the same costume as at 3 o’clock [but with] 200 louis less in his wallet.” A little later they arrive at the theater, and he helps her take off her coat of grey velvet and blue fox. Underneath she wears a form-fitting dress with a pearly bodice and a skirt of black velvet with white satin flounces. His black suit and black cravat “tied simply in a rosette” are not actually shown, since he is still wearing his overcoat. At the theater, “They amuse themselves and laugh like fools, then stroll around the foyer to see who’s there, and to tell themselves that no one is as happy as they.” At 11:00 p.m. they go to a ball, she in a white ball-gown, low-cut in back

La Vie Parisienne (1875).

La Vie Parisienne (1875).

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and tight over the hips, but no more so than was really fashionable then. This is a relatively realistic illustration. He is in a black suit, this time with a white cravat. His hat, which he holds under his arm, has his monogram in diamonds. They don’t stay long, however; preferring their own company, they hurry home.17 Different fashions served to mark off the stages of the day, from intimate to informal, from formal daytime to formal evening occasions. However, although middle- and upperclass people certainly did change several times a day, they seldom changed this often. Implicit in all these changes is the subject of dressing and undressing, and with such an amorous couple, presumably also a series of sexual encounters punctuating the day. The maid putting on the lady’s stocking, and the lover taking off her fur coat, are emblematic of the day’s multiple striptease. Much of the text of fashion magazines like La Mode Illustrée was a straightforward response to the readers’ questions: “Some of our subscribers who live in the country, but in proximity to a city, have asked me to indicate to them which dresses can be worn in the country without inconvenience, and in the city without oddness.” By contrast, La Vie Parisienne brashly declared that “the recipe for making the new fashions” is to “take a woman and wrap her once in a length of satin, twice obliquely in gauze, three times in a veil of muslin. Add 20 metres of flower garlands.” When the poet Stephane Mallarmé wrote and edited La Dernière Mode in 1874, he used a truly unique voice. For example, when a reader asked whether a female bicyclist should wear trousers or a skirt, Mallarmé replied: “Faced with your question, I feel like a pedestrian in front of a steel-horse, trying to get out of the way, who is bowled over, pierced by the dazzle. However, if your purpose is to show legs, then I prefer a slightly raised skirt, vestige of the feminine, rather than mannish trousers.”18

Fashion and Modernity Traditionally, art critics and historians have argued that avant-garde painters in the nineteenth century were uniquely inspired by the direct observation of reality. Emile Zola was one of the first of many to insist that “[The Impressionist painters’] works are not unintelligent and banal fashion plates, nor drawings of current events similar to those published in illustrated journals. Their works are alive, because they are taken from life and because they are painted with all the love that they feel for their modern subjects.”19 Impressionists supposedly looked at the world around them and painted what they saw. But the issue is more complex than this. Beginning during the “media explosion” of the July Monarchy, a vastly expanded range of images appeared in the popular illustrated press, including a gallery of stereotyped female figures. When Baudelaire invoked his “cult of images,” he almost certainly meant to include these images of the modern city’s inhabitants.20 Research has demonstrated that

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advanced artists grew up seeing popular illustrations (including fashion prints) and were influenced by their style and iconography. The rise of the Parisienne as a genre subject for popular art helped to define the image of the modern woman. The fashion plate dealt in a particular way with a restricted set of themes, yet although its technique, presentation, and subject matter were stereotyped, the iconographical tradition and general pictorial sources of the fashion plate were shared with other types of art. The classic essay on this subject is Mark Roskill’s “Early Impressionism and the Fashion Print,”21 in which he demonstrates the influence of the fashion plate on Monet’s work. A painting like Femmes au jardin (1866–1867), for example, takes one of the most popular fashion-plate subjects—women in a garden—and treats it in true fashion-plate style. The setting, of course, is an obvious extension of the interior feminine sphere, and it is not surprising to see a painting of pretty young women in fashionable dresses. It is rather more surprising, however, to see the same model in a variety of different dresses. Roskill suggests, convincingly, that it was not merely a dearth of models or a lack of money to hire them that led Monet to use his mistress Camille as the model for all the figures in the painting. After all, there was already a precedent in fashion illustration for the use of interchangeable and virtually identical figures. Moreover, the way the figures are painted is in accordance with fashion-plate conventions. To begin with, there is the “stiff artificial character” of their poses; and the “psychological disconnection between the figures”—an arrangement originally designed to show as much as possible of every dress. To those familiar with fashion-plate conventions, “the artificial stances of separately posed figures would not appear peculiar and incongruous, but rather conform to well-established imagery.” The dresses form clear and rather flattened silhouettes, like two-dimensional cut-outs in the shallow space of the painting. Within each shape, attention is paid to pattern and textile, “the appeal of the materials.” The “typical coloring of the fashion print is also relevant in this respect.” In short, the costumes “assert” themselves. But not only do they stand out from the background, the skirt silhouettes are also so arranged as to lock the figures together. Now some of this use of shapes may have come from Japanese prints, but fashion plates were undoubtedly a more immediate source for the conventions of “arrested poses and graphically rendered textiles.” Incidentally, the three main dresses used in Femmes au jardin also appear in Déjeuner sur l’herbe. But this does not necessarily mean that Camille owned these dresses, especially in light of their poverty at the time. Nor does it seem that Monet simply copied them from fashion plates. Since one of Bazille’s letters mentions renting a green satin dress that Monet then borrowed, it is likely that all the dresses were rented in Paris, which itself throws an interesting light on nineteenth-century fashion behavior. Eugène Boudin’s Beach Scene also looks very much like the sketch for a fashion plate: We see the clothing both in general outline and in detail. Moreover, we see it from several angles—and as the eye moves from left to right, it seems as though the three primary figures are turning slowly like fashion models on the runway. The positions and spacing of

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Opposite: the figures only make sense in terms of a fashion display. The woman in the dotted fabric is Claude Monet, Femmes au not really talking to the woman with the parasol; they are too far away from each other for Jardin, 1866–1867 (oil on that. Rather, they face each other so that we can see the side and back of the first dress and canvas). Musée d’Orsay, Paris, the front of the second dress. France/Bridgeman Images. The central figure (the only woman who stands) presents us with a perfect view of the construction and arrangement of her fashionable costume. Her seaside hat has long streamers—which in England were known as “follow me, boys”—and which here blow gently in the wind, carrying the eye down her jacket bodice with its figure-flattering trim and decorative buttons. The skirt and bodice were separate garments, although usually made of the same material. This particular example is the popular double skirt, whose overskirt has been looped up and caught in place with ribbons. The figures form a sort of frieze, as each flat triangular silhouette locks into the next. The surface pattern rises to a gentle peak with the standing woman and fades away on the right with the two background figures—also a common feature in “real” fashion-plate art. Auguste Toulmouche, a student of Gleyre, specialized in pictures of lovely ladies. A contemporary said of his work: “It’s pretty, charming, highly colored, refined—and it’s nauseating.”22 His Woman and Roses (1879), for example, is heavily dependent on fashion illustration—from the slender elongated figure to the precious pose, the sweet colors, and the detailed representation of the dress itself. The dress, of course, is quintessentially late 1870s, with its long, skintight bodice moulded over a cuirasse corset. At this time, the bustle was rapidly (although temporarily) disappearing. But in place of the back protuberance were a variety of other embellishments, including poufs and trains that were intended to render the figure more “graceful.” Toulmouche has positioned the figure perfectly to display all the most fashionable features of her dress, in much the same way that Isabelle Toudouze Desgranges positioned her figures in a fashion Afternoon dress. White cotton piqué and black cotton cording. 1867, USA. The plate of 1882. Museum at FIT. Photo © The Museum at FIT.

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Eugène Boudin. Beach Scene, 1865; graphite and watercolor on paper; Saint Louis Art Museum, Museum Purchase 109:1939.

Isabelle Toudouze Desgranges, fashion plate from La Mode Illustrée (1882).

Opposite: Auguste Toulmouche, Woman and Roses, 1879 (oil on canvas). Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts, USA/Bridgeman Images.

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The most surprising example of an avant-garde painter who was influenced by fashionplate imagery is Cézanne, who actually copied at least two fashion plates from La Mode Illustrée of 1871. As John Rewald puts it: “When he fell short of inspiration, which did not happen often, he thought nothing of copying the insipid ladies in these plates, infusing them with a strange and dramatic power.”23 What did Cézanne see in fashion plates? Certainly not the fashionable details that preoccupied the painters of elegant life (like Toulmouche), since he omitted most of these. On the other hand, he was interested in the positions and gestures of the figures, the way they lifted a skirt or gestured with a parasol. Perhaps for a shy provincial young man, fashion-plate figures may have looked seductively feminine and quintessentially Parisian.

Paul Cézanne, La Promenade, c. 1871. Private Collection, Japan. Photograph © All rights reserved, courtesy Sotheby’s, London.

Fashion plate from La Mode Illustrée (1871). Courtesy of The Irene Lewisohn Costume Reference Library, The Costume Institute, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image © The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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“At the Cabinet des Étampes—In Search of the Fashions of the Past” by François Courboin from Louis Octave Uzanne’s Fashion in Paris (1898).

Octave Uzanne once observed that, “An ancient fashion is always a curiosity. A fashion slightly out of date is an absurdity; the reigning fashion alone, in which life stirs, commands us by its grace and charm, and stands beyond discussion.”24 There is much to be said for this. But Baudelaire was probably right to insist that “All fashions are charming, or if this seemed too absolute, say, if you prefer, ‘All were once justifiably charming.’ You can be sure of being right.”

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7 Capital of Luxury and Fashion Je suis un grand artist, j’ai la couleur de Delacroix, et je compose. Une toilette vaut un tableau. Hippolyte Taine, Notes sur Paris (1867)

W

Benjamin famously described Paris as “the capital of the nineteenth century.” London was then unquestionably more advanced both politically and economically, but as Benjamin noted, “Paris is acknowledged as the capital of luxury and fashion.”1 And fashion, especially luxury fashion, was a highly visible aspect of capitalism: “Within this new system, wealth rather than rank as such became important, but also the ability to deploy wealth, through fashion, as a form of social capital.”2 Fashion was then performed according to certain conventional procedures in specified places. As Benjamin put it: “Fashion prescribes the ritual according to which the commodity fetish demands to be worshipped.”3 The Paris we see today is, in large part, the “New Paris” constructed during the Second Empire (1852–1870), when Napoleon III’s Prefect of the Seine, Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann, leveled entire neighborhoods to the ground to make way for a monumental city of grand, new buildings and broad, straight boulevards. “Paris demolished is one of the questions of the day,” observed contemporaries. To some, the city appeared to be “a mosaic of ruins,” but others admired the “New Paris” as an example of the “supreme coquetry of great cities.” A fashion metaphor was frequently used: “Paris makes her toilette and wants to show herself to foreigners in her great finery.”4 Just as the old Paris of Balzac disappeared under “Haussmannization,” so also were old-school couturières like Madame Palmyre and Madame Camille overshadowed by the rise of the first grand couturier, Charles Frederick Worth, who established himself as “the King of Fashion.” Worth is historically important because he transformed the couture from a craft (couture) into a creative industry (grande couture), which was the predecessor to what we now know alter

Opposite: Charles Frederick Worth, Woman’s Dress: Evening Bodice, Day Bodice, and Skirt. French c. 1866–1868. Silk satin with lace and silk tulle. Evening Bodice Center Back Length: 13 inches (33 cm) Skirt Center Back Length: 72 inches (182.9 cm). 125th Anniversary Acquisition. Gift of the heirs of Charlotte Hope Binney Tyler Montgomery, 1996. 1996-195a–c. Photo courtesy of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

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as haute couture. From being a person who sews dresses, the term “couturier” became redefined by the 1860s as “a person who directs a fashion house, who creates designs.”5 Worth saw himself as an artist, and even wore a beret so as to resemble Rembrandt. Just as a painting bears the signature of an artist, he came up with the idea of the couturier’s griffe—a stamped signature on a label sewn into the interior of a dress, the origin of today’s designer label or logo. Although Worth’s pretensions to be an artist were controversial, the association between haute couture and art would eventually become widely accepted. Worth’s gender also contributed to his notoriety. As one of his clients, Valérie Feuillet, explained to a friend: “Yes, it is a man now, who dresses the fashionable ladies.”6 Worth’s initial fame rested in part on his status as couturier to Napoleon III’s consort, the Empress Eugénie. But although closely associated with “the Imperial Masquerade,”7 Worth’s success and influence continued long after the fall of the Second Empire.

Worth, Father of Haute Couture Charles Frederick Worth was born in England in 1826. At the age of twenty, he moved to Paris, where he worked as a shop assistant and then as head clerk at Gagelin’s, a fashionable clothier. In 1858, Worth opened his own couture house at 7 rue de la Paix, in partnership with Otto Gustave Bobergh, the son of a banker. Worth’s big break came two years later, when he attracted the attention of the very stylish Princess Metternich, wife of the Austrian ambassador. Ugly but quintessentially chic, calling herself “le singe à la mode” (the fashionable monkey), Princess Metternich was a leading trendsetter at the Imperial court. Worth had his wife go to the Princess’s house, carrying with her an album of dress designs. In her memoirs, Princess Metternich described what happened when her maid delivered the designs, saying that their creator wanted to make a dress for her, at any price she chose. At first she was nonplussed: “An Englishman who dares to design the dresses of Parisian women, what a strange idea!” But she liked the “charming” and “ravishing” designs, and agreed to buy two dresses for 300 francs each. One of them, a white-and-silver ball gown, she wore to court. The Empress admired it and asked who had made it. “An Englishman, Madame, a rising star in the firmament of fashion.—And what is his name?—Worth.—Ah, well, replied the Empress, a star must have satellites. Please have him call on me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.” So Worth’s career was made and the Princess never again bought a dress for 300 francs. Indeed, his clothes became “expensive, horribly expensive, monstrously expensive!” But so extraordinary were his clothes that he became “our master.”8 The Spanish-born Empress Eugénie was not a true fashion leader, like the Princess Metternich, although her coquetry and love of dress earned her the nickname “Falbalas I.” However, her patronage certainly helped Worth, and within a surprisingly short time,

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he had acquired an international clientele ranging from European royalty and wealthy Americans to famous actresses and courtesans. Nevertheless, the mythology surrounding Worth has obscured the fact that the Empress and her ladies also continued to patronize other fashion professionals. Indeed, contrary to popular belief, the famous Portrait of the Empress Eugénie Surrounded by her Her Ladies-in-Waiting (1855) does not depict dresses designed by Worth. Worth is important, because he was the first “grand couturier.” Prior to Worth, “there already existed . . . skillful and well-known couturières who dressed women of the highest society.” Among the couturières of reknown were Madame Palmyre, Madame Clementine Bara, Madame Rosalie Prost, and Madame Eugènie Gaudry. However, “on the whole, the couturière was an executant who strove to interpret her clients’ desires for elegant clothes. Worth’s idea essentially consisted (and it is this that is the innovation) in asserting his authority as a creator, and proposing that women choose from a series of models, which are then executed according to demand, to the measurements of the clients.”9

Franz Xaver Winterhalter, Portrait of the Empress Eugénie Surrounded by Her Ladies-in-Waiting, 1855 (oil on canvas). Chateâu de Compiègne, Oise, France/ Bridgeman Images.

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Portrait of Frederick Charles Worth. The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y.

Worth thus transformed the couture from a small-scale craft to big business and high art. The emphasis shifted from making the garment, which was left to the (usually female) employees of the couture house, to designing the garments and running a fashion business (which was increasingly in the hands of men). Worth sometimes created individual garments, and there are many accounts of how he was “inspired” to create a particular look for an individual client, but, more often, clients chose from among a selection of his designs. In either case, he positioned himself as an “artist” and as much of a celebrity as his clients. He even told the Princess Metternich that it was he who had invented her.10 The rise of the male dressmaker in the second half of the nineteenth century was initially quite shocking, because the job of making clothes for women had long been virtually a female monopoly. By the mid-nineteenth century, in France, women in the paid labor force were overwhelmingly employed in the textile and garment industries. In Paris, “garmentmaking was the largest employer of women,” and by 1860, of the 112,000 working women in Paris, fully 60,000 were employed in needlework, and thousands of others in related 11 métiers de la mode. Women continued to work in fashion, but they were increasingly subordinate to men. In 1863, for example, Charles Dickens published an article on “Dress in Paris,” which informed readers: “Would you believe that, in the latter half of the nineteenth century, there are bearded milliners, man-milliners, authentic men, like Zoaves, who with their solid fingers, take the exact dimensions of the highest titled women in Paris, robe them, unrobe them, and make them turn backwards and forward before them, like the waxed figures in hairdressers’ shops?”12 Pierre Larousse’s Grand dictionnaire universal du XIXe siècle (1866–90) observed that “under the Second Empire . . . we see . . . the unspeakable singularity of men—are they really men?—presiding over the toilettes of . . . women of the highest society, creasing gauze over the bosoms of princesses, placing ribbons and flowers on the bodices of duchesses. . . . This is a trend which, we sincerely hope, will not become the custom.”13 The tailors’ magazine Journal des Modes d’Hommes also struck out at “these bearded

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couturiers” who were beginning to replace female dressmakers. It was not right, they argued, that, “men dress women today.” Not only did they lack feminine “innate taste,” but they had no right to encroach on the “arts and industries” that provided a living for so many women.14 The reasons for the rise of the “bearded couturier” have much to do with general socio-economic trends that affected nonfashion industries as well. As the organization of work became more clearly professionalized, larger in scale and more industrialized, men came to dominate the upper ranks of even hitherto female professions (midwives were replaced by doctors, for example). Meanwhile, women filled the ranks of unskilled or semi-skilled labor: Skilled male weavers were replaced on the new power looms by women and even children, just as female secretaries supplanted male clerks. At the same time, the duties of these female workers became far more circumscribed and routine. The development of capitalism meant, in practice, the feminization and proletarianization of much of the labor force. “My work is not only to execute, but above all to invent,” declared Worth. “Creation is the secret of my success.”15 Not surprisingly, Worth’s contemporaries mocked his pretensions. Hippolyte Taine’s description of a couturier transparently based on Worth portrayed him lounging on a divan, smoking a cigar, and ordering a client to “Walk, turn; good, come back in eight days and I will have composed an outfit that will suit you.” A society lady comes to order a dress and he asks, “Madame, who has recommended me to you? In order to be dressed by me you have to be introduced.” To anyone astonished at this attitude, the couturier responds, “I am a great artist; I have Delacroix’s sense of color, and I compose. A dress [une toilette] is worth as much as a painting.”16 “We have all of us been dreaming of that gown, without knowing it. Monsieur Worth, alone, has the art of creating a toilette as elusive as our thoughts.” So wrote the great French poet, Stéphane Mallarmé, who composed, virtually single-handed, an entire fashion magazine, La Dernière Mode in 1874, utilizing both male and female pseudonyms, including Marguerite de Ponty and Miss Satin (fashion and shopping), Ix (theater and books) and Le

Charles Frederick Worth, caricature by Bertall from La Comédie de notre temps (1874).

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Monsieur Redfern with his female assistants and model. From Les Créateurs de la mode, 1910.

Chef de bouche chez Brébent (food). It is Miss Satin, who urged readers “Go to M. Worth’s establishment in a two-horse carriage, attracted by the news of the Master’s three new creations,” one of which she described: “Picture (you can if you try) a long skirt with a rep train, of the most ideal sky-blue—that blue so pale, with gleams of opalescence, that one sometimes sees, like a garland, round silvery clouds. . . .”17 In his novel, The Kill (1871), Emile Zola describes a fictional couturier who is obviously based on Worth: “the illustrious Worms, the genius tailor before whom the queens of the

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Second Empire fell to their knees.” Among them is the adulterous (and incestuous) Renée Saccard, who often visits his atelier with its fragrance of “flesh and luxury.” There, the couturier “had Renée stand in front of a mirror . . . and knitted his brows in meditation while the young woman, in the grip of emotion, held her breath and tried to remain motionless. After a few minutes, the master, as if seized and shaken by inspiration, painted in bold, rapid strokes the masterpiece he has just conceived, spitting out his description in sharp, brief sentences: ‘Montespan dress in pale gray faille . . . The trains describing a rounded basque in front. . . . Big bows of gray satin catching it up at the hips. . . . And to top it all off, a puffed pinafore of pearl gray tulle, with the puffs separated by strips of gray satin.’” Unless, of course, the well ran dry, in which case, he told her to return another day. The novel ends with Renée dying, in debt to Worms for 257,000 francs.18 Historians have interpreted the empire of Napoleon III in terms of a masquerade—as a bit of play-acting, both ominous and farcical, in a make-believe court filled with loose women, foreigners, and adventurers. Napoleon III was a dictator, obsessed with Napoleon “the great,” who tried to clothe his regime in the trappings of legitimacy. Sometimes this took the form of insisting that Eugénie (herself obsessed with Marie Antoinette) wear “political dresses” made from Lyons silk. More generally, it involved maintaining a court that imitated the hierarchy and protocol at other royal and imperial courts. However, attendance at court events was always very mixed. Those in attendance at the House of Worth were equally miscellaneous, comprising demimondaines and rich Americans as much as aristocrats and royalty. Joseph Primoli, a nephew of Princess Mathilda, visited the House of Worth with his mother in 1868. After commenting on Worth’s fame and the costliness of his clothes, he assessed the clientele: “At Worth’s, the faubourg Saint Germain sits between two kept women.”19 In her memoirs, the wealthy American Mrs. Moulton vividly portrays the importance of clothing at the parvenu French court, where guests were expected to wear a different outfit on every occasion. In 1866, for a week’s visit at the Palace of Compiègne, Mrs. Moulton brought twenty dresses: “Eight day costumes (counting my travelling suit), the green cloth dress for the hunt, which I was told was absolutely necessary, seven ball dresses, five gowns for tea.” It appears that most of her dresses were by Worth. When she and her husband were invited to Compiègne again, two years later, Mrs. Moulton’s father-in-law refused to let them go. Although he was immensely rich, he thought it was simply too expensive. Eventually, however, he backed down, and Mrs. Moulton happily rushed off to see Worth about this visit’s clothing. She wrote to tell her mother what she was bringing: Here is the list of my dresses . . . (the cause of so much grumbling): Morning Costumes. Dark blue poplin, trimmed with plush of the same colour, toque and muff to match. Black velvet, trimmed with braid, sable hat, sable tipped and muff. Brown cloth, trimmed with bands of sealskin, coat, hat, muff to match. Purple plush, trimmed with bands of pheasant feathers, coat, hat to match.

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Grey velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, chinchilla hat, muff and coat. Green cloth (hunting costume). Travelling suit, dark-blue cloth cloak. Evening Dresses. Light green tulle, embroidered in silver, and for my locks, what they call une fantaisie. White tulle, embroidered with gold wheat-ears. Light-grey satin, quite plain, with only Brussels lace flounces. Deep pink tulle, with satin ruchings and a lovely sash of lilac ribbon. Black lace over white tulle, with green velvet twisted bowls. Light-blue tulle with Valenciennes. Afternoon Gowns. Lilac faille. Light café au lait with trimmings of the same. Green faille faced with a blue and a red Charlotte Corday sash (Worth’s last gasp). A red faille, quite plain. Grey faille with light blue facings.20

Occasionally even Mrs. Moulton grumbled about the cost of dresses by Worth. For a fancy dress ball at the Tuileries, Worth assigned her the dress of a Spanish dancer, a rather ordinary costume of yellow satin and black lace: “Worth told me that he had put his whole mind upon it. It did not feel much heavier for that. . . . Some compliments were paid me, but unfortunately not enough to pay the bill.” 21 She may have been disappointed that her dress was less magnificent and fascinating than others at the ball. (As a relative nonentity, she was simply assigned a costume by the great couturier.) Masquerade balls and fancy-dress parties were extremely popular at the French Imperial court, perhaps as a type of escapist fantasy. At one such ball, the Empress was dressed as the wife of a doge of Venice of the 16th century. According to Mrs. Mouton, “She was literally cuirassé in diamonds and glittered like a sun goddess. Princess Mathilde looked superb as Holbein’s Ann of Cleves. She wore her famous collection of emeralds, which are world known.” Ever outrageous, the Princesse de Metternich chose to come as the Devil in a black velvet suit with jet horns and clawed gloves (by Worth, of course). The notorious demimondaine and Italian spy, the Countess de Castiglione, came as Salammbô, the heroine of Flaubert’s erotic historical fantasy—in a black velvet gown slit up to the thigh, revealing glimpses of her legs. “Never has one seen an apparition more curious, fantastic, and stunning!” recalled the Princess Metternich. “But what incredible beauty!”22 Had Castiglione not been the Emperor’s mistress, she would probably not have been admitted. It was illegal for women to wear trousers in public, unless they had obtained written permission from the Prefect of Police. Permission was difficult to obtain, although a bearded woman was given a permit, as was the successful animal painter Rosa Bonheur, along with Margueritte Boulanger, another of Napoleon III’s innumerable mistresses, who was apparently allowed to wear men’s clothing in order to facilitate her entrance into the

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Tuileries. At fancy dress balls, however, women might wear “Turkish trousers,” men’s attire, or very short skirts with impunity. As the cocotte in one popular illustration says, “It’s fun to be a man!”

Pierre-Louis Pierson, Elvira, 1861–1867, printed 1940s. Gelatin silver print. New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY.

From the Boulevards to the Barricades Most scholars today no longer believe that the “new and magnificent boulevards”23 were strategically designed to hinder revolutionary street-fighters from erecting barricades. However, 80 percent of the population of Paris was working class, and anxiety about

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Fashion plate featuring masquerade costumes from Le Monde Elegant (1865).

Fashion plate featuring costumes for fancy dress balls from Journal des Demoiselles (1865).

Unidentified fashion plate depicting fancy dress costume (c. 1885).

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Unidentified print of a woman in trousers smoking (1850).

“It’s fun to be a man” declares the caption of a caricature by Grévin from Les Parisiennes (1872).

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revolution was widespread among the ruling classes. As one fashion magazine put it in 1854: Paris was “the paradise of luxury and pleasure, the capital par excellence of the fashionable world, the queen of civilization. Above all, Paris amuses itself.” And yet, the writer hinted, Paris amuses itself despite catastrophe and revolutions: “The day after the Terror, didn’t Paris have its bal des victimes?”24 The Second Empire was launched on the ruins of the Revolution of 1848. After almost two decades of dictatorship, the Empire ended equally catastrophically. Having provoked the Franco-Prussian War, Napoleon III surrendered to the Prussians and abdicated. As the Prussians moved on Paris, the newly formed French government prepared for a siege, hoping that they could tie down the invaders until help arrived from the provinces. It never came. The siege of Paris began on September 19, 1870. Weeks turned to months. The wealthy left Paris. Worth closed his couture house. The poor starved. On January 28, the government agreed to all of Bismarck’s demands—Prussian troops paraded in triumph down the ChampsElysées. The members of the government and most of the rest of France wanted peace, and they preferred to reach an agreement with the Prussians than to continue dealing with an increasingly radicalized Parisian population—for, despite all they had suffered, working-class Parisians wanted to fight on. The government moved its headquarters to Versailles, and sent troops into Paris to disarm the working-class neighborhoods. On the night of March 17–18, fighting broke out between government troops and the populace of Montmartre, and a revolutionary Commune was proclaimed in the city of Paris. Among the Communards was a group calling themselves the Union des Femmes Pour la Défense de Paris et les Soins aux Blessés. Organized by a friend of Karl Marx, Elizabeth Dmitrieff, it included many female garment workers, including the seamstresses Anna Mallet, Marie Leloup, and Jeanne Musset, the hat-maker Angelina Sabatier, and the dressmaker Blanche Lefebvre.25 Among their goals were cooperative workshops and equal pay. With normal clothing production in disarray, any garment workers sewed National Guard uniforms. The clothing worn by women in Paris also changed during the Commune, as documented by the American newspaper, Every Saturday, which was covering the situation in France; on March 11, 1871, it published a striking illustration captioned “Before the Capitulation—A Stroll on the Boulevards, Paris.” It depicts a crowded street scene in front of the Grand Hotel and the Passage Jouffroy. The majority of pedestrians are soldiers; also visible are a waiter, a newsboy, an African, a working-class woman wearing a headscarf, a destitute woman collapsed on the street, a bourgeois woman in a fur-trimmed coat and carrying a muff—and next to her another woman dressed in full trousers tucked into high boots. The remainder of her ensemble consists of a military-looking jacket decorated with braid or frogging, a woman’s hat, and dangling earrings. She appears to be speaking to a bearded man, also in the kind of vaguely military attire that blossomed during the siege of Paris. Under normal circumstances, a woman could never have openly worn trousers on the street.

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With the proclamation of the Commune, Parisians who had just ceased being bombarded by Prussian artillery were now assaulted by right-wing French forces based at Versailles. The class war that followed resulted in the death of some 20,000 Communards or suspected revolutionaries, and the exile of thousands more to prisons as far away as New Caledonia and Devil’s Island. The dressmaker Blanche Lefebvre—she who had “loved the Revolution as one loves a man”—was killed on the barricades on May 21.26 Even a political reactionary like Edmund Goncourt was horrified by the ferocity of the bourgeois forces who captured and often unilaterally executed anyone who looked like a revolutionary, including a woman “wearing the uniform of a National Guard.”27 Wealthy Parisians and foreign tourists returned to the city. Worth reopened his couture house. In the immediate aftermath of the French defeat and the bloody suppression of the Commune, there was a certain amount of hypocritical cant about how luxury-loving cocottes had contributed to the “decadence” of French society. The discourse on fashion

“Before the Capitulation— A Stroll on the Boulevards, Paris.” Illustration from the American newspaper Every Saturday (11 March 1871).

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urged women to avoid the “vulgar” styles associated with the Empire in favor of “good taste.” The period of Napoleon III’s dictatorship had coincided with the appearance of the crinoline and the discovery of aniline dyes, resulting in a fashion for voluminous skirts and brightly-colored fabrics, which, in retrospect, seemed vulgar, although at the time they had seemed gay and pretty. Eventually, these jeremiads faded, although memories of the Empire often featured fashion. In 1872, for example, finding himself on the rue de la Paix, Edmond de Goncourt observed the carriages of society people swarmed around a doorway labeled Worth, prompting the thought, “Paris is still Paris.”28 Thus, Worth appeared as the very incarnation of the Empire.

Shopping in Paris Yet Worth lived until 1895, well into the Third Republic. His sons ran the business, very successfully, from the mid-1880s until the 1920s. Worth’s belief in the artistry of fashion proved equally long-lived. In La Vie Parisienne (1890), a centerfold on “les Coulisses de la Mode” included a satiric image and description, “CHEZ LE GRAND COUTURIER,” in which the couturier insisted, “It’s art! Great art!” while another voice observed that “from time to time certain great ladies obtain an original masterpiece.”29 Worth was the most famous couturier of the nineteenth century, but there were grandes couturières, as well, such as Madame Jeanne Paquin (1869–1936). Indeed, “The Revolutionary March of the Dressmakers” began with the lyrics, “What does the little delivery girl demand/Of the House of Worth or of Paquin?/A little more salary/Less work to do.” Although couturiers have received the lion’s share of historians’ attention, “there were many players in the business of fashion in Paris,” as Françoise Tétart-Vittu, has pointed out. In particular, she has been instrumental in drawing attention to the importance of the dessiniteurs industriels (industrial designers), who invented outfits and sold their sketches to ready-to-wear manufacturers and department stores, which promoted them through the fashion press and mail-order catalogues. Some industrial designers were employees of manufacturers who sent them “from Lyons or Alsace to Paris, [where] their mission was to determine what Parisians on the boulevards were wearing and what was on display in the windows of wholesale houses.”30 Under the Third Republic, the production of clothing continued to develop in two directions: toward grand couture (the exclusive productions of great dressmakers like Worth) and confection (the mass production of ready-made clothing). Even corsets were massproduced in standardized sizes, although the fit was inferior to that of custom-made corsets. Being looser, men’s clothing was easier to mass-produce than women’s. Department stores sold women’s loose-fitting jackets and coats ready-made, but dresses tended to be sold mi-confectionées (only partly sewn together), so the purchaser or her dressmaker could make sure they fit perfectly. Even if a woman simply bought fabric at a department store

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Capital of Luxury and Fashion Jean Béraud. Workers leaving the Maison Paquin, in the rue de la Paix, c. 1900 (oil on canvas). Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images.

Girl employees of famous dressmaking shops, Paquin and Worth, Paris. Stereoscope card. Underwood & Underwood Publishers, 1907. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris.

and had it made into a dress, she or her dressmaker would utilize commercially-produced fashion prints and patterns. Ready-made clothing contributed to the democratization of French fashion, as the increasing availability of fashionable clothing to people of all classes, together with rising incomes, contributed to a greater uniformity of appearance. Fashion was primarily associated with urban life, but over the course of the nineteenth century, even working-

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class women in rural areas could buy cotton calico fabric and dress patterns or even ready-to-wear garments, like the “dress of flowers” that Jules Michelet extolled.31 Nevertheless, we should not exaggerate the muchdiscussed uniformity of fashion. Some department store clothes were very expensive and ultra-stylish, appealing even to couture clients, such as the artist Marie Bashkirtseff and salon hostess Nina de Callias. And poor people still had recourse to second-hand clothing. The pleasures of shopping had long been a recognized part of Parisian life, but the types of stores changed over time. For a long time, many of the best shops were off the street in arcades or passageways, such as the passage des Panoramas. “The next stage in off-street shopping was the bazaar, in the form of a large building filled with galleries and stalls set around an open nave.” As early as the 1830s, “the architectural format of the bazaar had been adapted for big stores under single ownership, called magasins des nouveautés, literally ‘novelty stores,’”32 precursors of the department store. In his novel Au bonheur des dames (1883), Emile Zola described with horrified fascination the excitement and anger caused by the rise of huge department stores, Seamstresses at a couture house, 1890s, from A. Alexandre, Les Reines d’Aiguille (1902).

François Courboin, “The Salon of Madame Callot,” (1901).

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veritable palaces, devoted to shopping as a leisure activity. Department stores were, indeed, extremely controversial and many small shopkeepers bitterly accused them of destroying their businesses. Philip G. Nord, author of Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment, argues that it was “not the rise of the department store,” per se, that damaged small local businesses, but rather urban and economic change, more generally, especially the Haussmanization of Paris, which transformed the geography of shopping and the “Great Depression” of the 1880s and 1890s. However, the department store was a “symbol” of the development of big capital.33 Françoise Tétart-Vittu also points out that many fashion shops had “artistically decorated store windows” like department stores, and that department stores “were not so different from the large, specialized fashion houses (the future purveyors of haute couture) that remained above street level. Located on the ‘noble’ floor of a new building or former private mansion, and reached by a graceful staircase, these maisons consisted of a series of comfortably furnished room,” including the waiting room, show room, fitting room, and rooms devoted to particular accessories.34 Paris continued to have shops of various sizes and specialties. Millinery shops, for example, co-existed with department stores and couture houses, collectively making Paris a shopper’s paradise. The artists of the period frequently depicted aspects of shopping—

Luis Jimenéz y Aranda. Le Carreau du Temple, Paris, 1890 (oil on canvas). Private Collection © Arthur Ackermann Ltd., London/ Bridgeman Images.

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History Edgar Degas, The Millinery Shop, 1879/86. Oil on canvas. 39 3/8 x 43 9/16 in. (100 x 110.7 cm). Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Larned Coburn Memorial Collection 1933.428. The Art Institute of Chicago, Photography © The Art Institute of Chicago.

from Degas’s millinery shops with their artistic milliners to Tissot’s shopgirl being eyed by a bourgeois man through the attractively-decorated shop window. Whereas most shops carried only a small and limited stock, however, department stores bought in bulk—and all manner of objects and confections. It may not sound impressive that a single store would sell umbrellas, stockings, silk, ready-made clothes, and so on, but previously the customer would have had to go to several stores, each selling a particular item. Traditionally, you entered a shop, asked to see, say, a length of silk, and haggled over the price. The department stores had fixed prices and, since they bought in quantity, the prices tended to be significantly lower. Some of the shops in the Palais Royal also had fixed prices, but those were luxury shops with fixed, high prices. Browsing was strongly discouraged in the old-fashioned shops, but in the department stores, customers were encouraged to wander, “just looking.” An undesirable side-effect was shoplifting, which was redefined for middle-class customers as “kleptomania.” The layout of the store was designed to entice the customer into a labyrinth punctuated by splendid displays. The customer was also lured in with sales and specials. But the first

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An illustration from the Almanach de La Vie Parisienne (1868) shows ladies looking at a display of Léoty corsets.

thing that caught the attention of the passer-by was the window-display. Such displays already existed at smaller stores and were a feature of the various universal exhibitions, but they were an especially prominent aspect of the department store. Zola’s characters are drawn irresistibly to each window, seduced and astounded by the complicated, overwhelming array of beautiful objects: “Above, umbrellas posed obliquely, seeming to form the roof of a rustic cabin; underneath, silk stockings, hanging on a line, showing the rounded profile of calves, some sprinkled with bouquets of roses, others in all shades . . . the flesh-colored ones whose satin texture had the softness of a blonde’s skin.”35 But the next window—”an exhibition of silks, satins, and velvets”—was even more ravishing, and the young heroine murmurs in astonishment: “Oh! That faille at five francs sixty!” Even the

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Frederic Lix & Auguste Deroy, “The New Staircase in ‘Au Bon Marche,’” from Le Monde Illustré, c. 1875. Private Collection/Bridgeman Images.

most sophisticated customer would be overwhelmed by “a waterfall of fabric . . . falling from above and spreading out over the floor. Limpid satins and tender silks gushed forth . . . silks as transparent as crystal, Nile green, Indian blue, May pink, blue Danube.” Then came the damask, the brocade, the velvet, forming “a still lake where reflections seemed to dance. . . . The women, pale with desire, leaned forward, as if to see their reflections.”36 The department store was a world in itself, with a staircase almost as grand as that in the Opéra, with tea-rooms, children’s rooms, lingerie displays that looked “as though a group of pretty girls had undressed, layer by layer, down to the satin nudity of their skin.” There

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James Tissot, The Shop Girl, c. 1883–1885. Oil on canvas. Art Gallery of Ontario. Gift from Corporations’ Subscription Fund, 1968, 67/55. © 2016 Art Gallery of Ontario.

were rooms where men, “even husbands,” could not enter, but the prohibition was almost unnecessary, since, then as now, the department store was an overwhelmingly feminine world. The garçons de magasin, the salesmen, formed the primary exception. According to Zola, those at the Bonheur des Dames were dressed in livery of green coat and trousers, a vest striped in yellow and red. Period illustrations show salesmen and saleswomen in sober black suits or dresses. Unlike traditional merchants, department store staff were instructed never to push, wheedle, or bargain. There was no need, for “beyond the murmur of the crowd” lay the vast city of Paris—”so vast it would always supply customers.”37

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8 The Theater of Fashion Nous savons donc beaucoup de gré à mademoiselle Nathalie des sacrifices qu’elle fait pour ses costumes; de beaux habits sur de jolies femmes, rien n’est plus charmant. Théophile Gautier, theater review, 1839

B

oth modern fashion and the modern city emphasized the libido for looking, and the geography of Paris served as a stage on which to act out the drama of seeing and being seen. Indeed, the subject of fashion in Paris almost requires some kind of dramatic analogy, because it seems that fashion can only flourish in a particular kind of dramatic setting where knowledgeable fashion performers and spectators interact. The presence of spectators has “a stimulating effect on the performers,” and all players develop an “eye for fashion consciousness.” Rivalry increases, as everyone is potentially a performer, but at the same time the “rules” are mostly maintained, preventing fashion anarchy and leading to the creation of new styles.1 Nor do these theatrical terms imply that the actors were engaged in some duplicitous charade. In anthropologist Victor Turner’s words, they were “making it, not faking it.” What they were making was the cultural significance of modern fashion. Fashion only acquires meaning, however, within the context of particular sites, where fashion performers and spectators interact and fashion is displayed to greatest effect. Writers on Paris emphasized that fashions “moved and had their being” there in “haunts of elegance” and pleasure. The arcades of the rue de Rivoli were “set up like theatre scenery in a transformation scene,” while the boulevards were “a dream of gold” where “everything . . . overexcites you.”2 Among the places and spaces of fashion, two are always mentioned: the theater and the racetrack. Clearly, fashion and pleasure were linked, for men as well as women. The guidebook Les Plaisirs de Paris (1867) warned readers to

Opposite: Mary Stevenson Cassatt. Woman with a Pearl Necklace in a Loge, 1879. Oil on canvas 32 x 23½ inches (81.3 x 59.7 cm) Framed: 42 x 333∕8 x 43∕8 inches (106.7 x 84.8 x 11.1 cm). Philadelphia Museum of Art. Bequest of Charlotte Dorrance Wright, 1978, 1978-1-5.

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“deprovincialize yourself before you emparisienner.” Men who wish to dress in le dernier chic must read the fashion journals and patronize the tailors used by the “gentlemen of the club and turf,” tailors such as Humann-Kerkoff, Renard, Dusantoy, and Pomadère. Delion makes good hats, Sakowski boots, and Jouvin gloves. “Go ahead!” the author urged (in English), enjoy the “high life” of Paris—and by high life, I mean the demimonde.” “Just remember, you will only have success with the loose ladies of Paris when you are properly dressed. If you look like a provincial, they will just laugh at you.”3

Performing Fashion “The success of plays is certainly not purely literary,” declared the Vicomtesse de Renneville, a well-known fashion reporter for the Gazette Rose: “In most cases the theatre can be certain of big crowds when sumptuous dresses can be seen on stage. . . . Hardly has the rumour gone round that in a certain play new toilettes will be shown, than a considerable part of the population is in a frenzy of excitement—dressmakers, modistes, makers of lingerie and designers.” Audience members were also eager to see the dresses worn on stage, because actresses had long been among the most important “arbiters of elegance.”4 Indeed, it was widely believed that superior costumes could save even a mediocre play. Men in the audience also noticed the actresses’ clothing, but usually only insofar as it accentuated their physical charms. As Théophile Gautier observed in a theater review of La Gitane at the Gymnase in 1839, “We are very grateful to mademoiselle Nathalie for the sacrifices that she made for her costumes, since there is nothing more charming than pretty clothes on pretty women.” As Anne Martin-Fugier notes in her history of French actresses, mademoiselle Nathalie changed costumes four times over the course of a rather short play, and the actress was almost certainly responsible for the cost of these costumes. Hence the “sacrifice” to which Gautier alludes.5 When two attractive actresses, Blanche Pierson and Céline Montaland, performed at the Gymnase theater, Le Monde Illustré (1867) reported: “Women in the audience look at her [Pierson] and say, ‘That dress is evidently from Madame Laferrière [a noted dressmaker]. No one else could make such a skirt. And the hat! It is ravishing!’ Men look through their glasses and murmur under their breath, ‘I don’t know. The blonde is softer, but the brunette is more spirited. But maybe . . . Well, the blonde has a stunning mouth. And the curls on her neck. Wow!’”6 Because most actresses had to pay for their own stage costumes, which could cost more than they were paid, they often had to rely on male “protectors” for financial assistance. As the journalist, Pierre Véron, observed, even a truly great actress would be vulnerable: “Today, a Rachel who does not have a wardrobe designed by Worth runs the risk of being disdained and ignored among the cheap chorus girls.”7 Actresses were frequently said to epitomize the beautiful and elegant Parisienne. Yet they were also often dismissed as high-class prostitutes. As Lenard R. Berlanstein writes

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Georges Clairin. Sarah Bernhardt in the Role of the Queen in “Ruy Blas” by Victor Hugo, 1879 (oil on canvas). Bibliothèque de la Comédie Française, Paris, France/ Bridgeman Images.

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Anaïs Colin Toudouze, fashion plate from Le Conseiller des Dames et des Demoiselles (1857).

in his book on French theater women, “Touted as ‘the most beautiful women of Paris’ and able to employ the most prominent designers,” actresses were “well positioned to set fashion.” However, respectable women were not supposed to admit that they imitated actresses. “Thus, a Charles Worth dress that Sylvie Arnould-Plessy wore on stage in 1867 had been copied by department stores so many times that the actress needed a new gown for the revival two years later. Yet the inspiration for the ready-made dress had to remain a secret, if an open one.”8 It is fascinating to learn that the actress’s Worth dress was copied by department stores, but Berlanstein’s conclusion is problematic. Two years is a lifetime in fashion, and since actresses were supposed to wear the latest styles, Arnould-Plessy would almost certainly have had to buy a new gown even if it had not been copied. Certainly by the turn of the century, famous actresses were increasingly acclaimed as fashion leaders, perhaps because their celebrity gradually outweighed their notoriety. Some reviews focused much more on the beauty and luxury of the costumes than on the play itself: “The elegance of the evening clothes reaches a degree difficult to surpass. Our pretty artists set an example for us; they make an assault on luxury. At the Vaudeville, Mademoiselle Dorziat . . . is dressed with a richness that costs millions.” The writer then segues into a lengthy description of specific costumes, including a robe d’intérieur, a dinner dress, a ball gown, etc.9 Not only were their stage costumes described and illustrated in the fashion press, but the actresses themselves were often interviewed about their fashion preferences. It was said of certain actresses that: “If they were entrusted with Racine or Corneille they prefer Paquin or Doucet.” Madame Réjane, for example, favored the couturier Jacques Doucet, while Mademoiselle Eve Lavallière chose Paquin. Eleonora Duse collaborated closely with Jean Philippe Worth; once she sent him a telegram, complaining, “When you do not help me the magic leaves my roles.” Conversely, Sarah Bernhardt quarreled with Worth when she refused to use only his dresses on stage.10 In 1905, Réjane was quoted as saying that as soon as she read her part, she imagined how she would dress, and although she said that she spent a great deal on her costumes, she wore them in real life as well as on-stage.11 As their value both to designers and to theater management increased, it seems that stars were sometimes able to negotiate contracts obliging the theater management to pay for their dresses; designers may also have offered a discount. People did not only go to the theater to see the performances on stage. The audience itself was also on display. Many paintings depict this, including the frontispiece

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for this chapter Mary Cassatt’s Woman with a Pearl Necklace in a Loge (1879). Another painting by Cassatt, At the Opera (1880) shows a woman looking through her opera glasses—not at the stage, but across at another box. In the distance, a man is looking through his opera glasses at her. Similarly, Renoir’s Le Loge (1874) shows a gentleman looking up through his opera glasses. Innumerable illustrations also depict women in private boxes at the theater or opera. Attending the theater was a social ritual, and there were fairly strict rules concerning who could sit where and what they were supposed to wear. Not only were there differences between theaters, there was also considerable clothing variation within any one theater— from court dress to workers’ blouses—depending on whether the spectator was in a private box or the orchestra pit. The Ins and Outs of Paris; or, Paris by Day and Night (1855) by Julie de Marguerittes reported that the “higher spheres” of the opera were divided into

Eva Gonzales, A Box at the Italians’ Theatre, 1874. Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France/ Bridgeman Images.

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Eugène Lami, illustration of a box at the opera from Jules Janin’s American in Paris (1844).

private boxes, where “it is mauvais ton to have more than two ladies in one box, as the display of grace and draperies would be impeded. . . . In these boxes the toilettes are decidedly ball, or even court costumes. . . . Above, in the second tier, are simpler dresses.  .  .  . Below, in orchestra and pit, are none but men. . . . [B]etween the paradise of the boxes and the pandemonium of the pit [is] the amphitheatre,” filled with dowdy provincials and ignorant foreigners.12 Meanwhile, the little “theatres of the boulevards,” like the Gaîté, were “the domain of the people—the true Parisian, hard-working, barricade-making people. The blouse prevails. The women, though needy, are coarsely clad.” The men had “unshaven beards” and “look as if they might have pistols in their belts,” worried Marguerittes. Somewhat more prepossessing was the Odéon, a “large, handsome” theater in the Faubourg Saint Germain, which had an audience of “students and grisettes.” The young working girl might wear “a barege shawl (16F) or a print bonnet (10F).” Of the student at mid-century, Marguerittes wrote: “There is a peculiarity, an exaggeration of costume which is unmistakable. In undress, he is tawdry and slovenly—in grand tenue, he is dressed as those impossible gentlemen in the prints of the fashions.”13 Certain theaters were particularly fashionable. The Paris Opéra was “one of the temples of fashion,” and in his book The American in Paris, Jules Janin referred confidently to the popular illustrations of this scene: “Even now I hear Eugène Lami, the tempter, calling me to the splendid enclosure. ‘Come,’ says he, ‘come, the [foyer] is brilliant with light; the ladies are beautiful and well-dressed.’”14 The original opera was on the rue Lepelletier, near the Boulevard des Italiens, in the heart of the fashionable district. A guidebook of 1867 described it as “the most beautiful theatre of Paris,” but noted that it was soon to be replaced by the even more “immense and superb monument that is being constructed on the Boulevard des Capucines.”15 This building, magnificent or ostentatious, depending on one’s taste, was designed by the architect Charles Garnier and ultimately cost 65 million francs. It had a poor stage, but excellent audience visibility. The enormous foyer of opera and the even more splendid staircase provided the ideal setting for fashionable display. Indeed, the stairs of the Opéra Garnier would be the setting for fashion photographs, films, and défilés in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Because the theater was still regarded as slightly sinful, many young women simply did not attend until after they married, so that their “innocence” would not be compromised. If they did attend, girls and young women who were not married wore very different clothes than

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their married sisters. Marguerittes wrote: “Look—do you not see that box? There are two ladies. Both young, both graceful, both pretty, both exquisitely dressed; but oh, how different they are!” one wears a dress “in the most recent fashion, open in front . . . the swelling bosom just perceptible” accessorized with “handsome bracelets [and a] jewelled lorgnette . . . all this reveals a woman in the first few years of her married life. Now look at her sister. The dress of sober-colored silk, high to the throat . . . no bracelets . . . no flowing shawl.” She wears white, pink, or blue, “the only three colors allowed to girls—white, the color of innocence; pink, the insignia of youth; and never worn by any woman over thirty; and blue, the color consecrated to the patroness of young girls, the Virgin Mary. . . . Her eyes are modestly cast down, or immutably fixed upon the stage.”16 Unlike men, whose clothing styles changed with age, education, and experience, a woman was defined by her relationship to her natal family or her family by marriage. Fashion for demoiselles was supposed to make them look “quietly unobtrusive” and virginal. Their mothers were intended to look like “animated and elegant editions of themselves, looking five years older.”17 Since the daughter seldom found her own husband, she did not use fashion to make herself sexually attractive to men. Fashion, eroticism, and charm were all supposed to emerge after marriage, under the influence of the husband. Until then, the mother was her daughter’s best advertisement, as well as the guardian of her sexual innocence. Although prostitution has existed throughout history, a visible demimonde only became a prominent feature of Parisian life under the Second Empire. By the second half of the nineteenth century, the famous grandes horizontales were as notorious for their sartorial splendor as for their amatory abilities. In La Femme à Paris (1894), Octave Uzanne described the dress of the demi-mondaine: “her clothes must always be in the fashion of the day after tomorrow and never that of yesterday.” Once she had a liaison, her clothes become even more important, since “The men of the world who form a liaison . . . with a horizontale . . . keep a woman as they keep a yacht, a stud, or a sporting estate, and they require of her everything that can augment the reputation of their fortune and improve their chic in those circles where one is observed and esteemed according to the scale on which one lives. Thus, they are more susceptible to the toilettes of their fair friend than even to her beauty or

“Le grand escalier” in Le nouvel Opéra, by Charles Nuitter. Image courtesy Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (2928-944).

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youth. . . . What they want of her is neither love nor sensual pleasure, but the consecration of their celebrity as viveurs.”18 The status value of clothing was more important for a mistress than for a wife. The feminine author of Le Code de la mode complained bitterly: “The ravishing promenades of the Bois de Boulogne . . . the racetrack, . . . the theatre, . . . [every place] whose principal attraction is the splendor of costumes—the two worlds mix, those of honest women and courtesans.” Turning to address the male readers directly, she asks: “In good faith, what do you love in those whom you prefer to your wives? Is it beauty? Spirit? Talent? Poor, poor people! In that case, your wives are . . . superior to your mistresses.” No! she concludes, “It is those flashy dresses . . . which seduce you” (dresses, moreover, which you forbid your wives, for reasons of economy). Their jewels, their make-up, their “strange but real brilliance . . . fascinates your eyes and your imagination.”19 Alice Ivimy wrote A Woman’s Guide to Paris (1909) to give advice on the places where American and British women could safely and pleasantly go alone. “In selecting a night to go to the theatre,” she advised, “remember that Sunday and Monday are considered the people’s days, and you will see no elegant toilettes.” On the other hand, if you chose the right evening to attend a little theater like Les Capucines, you would see a “light drama” and a “very fashionable audience.” To go there, “you must make a more or less elegant toilette; the tailor-made is not admissible. On the other hand, a décolletée dress would not be correct.” And if you were so adventurous as to go to a music hall like the Olympia, the Moulin Rouge, or the Folies Bergère, “It is very important to be quietly though well dressed for such entertainments.” Such places were “the haunt and hunting-ground of the demi-monde.” During the entr’acte, when the audience promenaded through the foyer, demi-mondaines swept about “in gorgeous dresses and the latest of millinery.” It was better not to look too fashionable! In fact, a woman “would undoubtedly enjoy the spectacle more if accompanied by a friend.”20

Illustration from Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris (1894).

Opposite:

At the Races According to Octave Uzanne, “In France sport is synonymous with the turf.” And he quoted another French writer to the effect that “Sport implies three things, either simultaneous or separated: open air, betting, and the application of one or several physical qualities.”21 In

Pierre Auguste Renoir. A Box at the Theatre (At the Concert), 1880 (oil on canvas). Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts, USA/ Bridgeman Images.

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Opposite: Giuseppe De Nittis, Races in the Bois de Boulogne. In the Forum (Le Corse al Bois de Boulogne. Nella tribuna), 1881. Detail. Right panel of a triptych. Pastel on canvas. Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, Rome, Italy/Mondadori Portfolio/ Bridgeman Images.

France, sport also implied fashion, not only in the sense that it was fashionable to engage in certain sports, but because prestigious sports required particular costumes. The riding habit announced the wearer’s status as a modern-day chevalier. Even spectator sports were transformed into a species of fashion parade. As a journalist for La Vie Parisienne noted in 1864: “At Longchamp, a good many chroniclers gladly give up the jockey’s cap and jacket to see only the dresses and hats of the famous Parisian ladies.”22 But why were equestrian sports so fashionable? And why was clothing such an important element in Parisian sporting behavior? The prestige of le sport (like the word itself) was an English import and the expression of a longstanding aristocratic Anglomania. In imitation of the English, the French had organized private horse races as early as the reign of Louis XV. After the Restoration, equestrian sports were fashionable in large part because of their aristocratic associations. The racetrack at Longchamps opened in 1827 and that at Chantilly shortly thereafter. La Mode praised the “rich dandies” who were promoting the sport, and suggested hopefully that with “a few more amateurs of the race as passionate [as this], the English will be able to count us among their rivals.” In 1833, La Société d’encouragement pour amélioration des races de chevaux en France—better known as the Jockey Club—was founded and took charge of organizing the races. There were three meetings every year: in April, early June, and September or October. Each lasted six days, and attracted enormous crowds. According to one history of racing, “Les sportsmen whom one also calls gentlemen-riders (gentilshommes cavaliers) do not disdain to take their place among the jockeys.” Of course, the great sportsmen à la mode tended to own the horses, not ride them, while the Jockey Club itself was primarily known as the most exclusive male social organization in Paris.23 But racing also had the potential for becoming a more general type of commercialized leisure and social display. During the July Monarchy, Jules Janin proudly asked, “Where will you find a more animated sight [than at] the promenade of Longchamp?” On racing day, there was intense competition “of elegance, of luxury. . . . People are no longer there merely to exhibit themselves but to be judged.” People were as interested in the contest of fashions as in the contest of horses on the turf. Janin maintained that among the crowd were “the milliner and seamstress,” proud to see their handiwork displayed. The racetrack at Chantilly was less fashionable than Longchamp, but was still “very brilliant.” Moreover, the rules there were less strict than at Longchamp, and “beautiful persons who . . . are unaccompanied” were less likely to be ostracized—although they were supposed to sit in the reviewing stand at the left, leaving the one on the right to ladies. 24 Under the Second Empire, the racetracks at Longchamp were rebuilt and new reviewing stands erected. Other spectators watched the races standing on chairs or seated in carriages. The races were a popular theme for artists and writers. Emile Zola’s fictional courtesan Nana watches the Grand Prix at Longchamp, seated prominently in a fine carriage and surrounded by masculine admirers. “She was wearing the blue and white colours of the Vandeuvres stable in a remarkable outfit. This consisted of a little blue silk bodice and tunic, which fitted closely to her body and bulged out enormously over the small of her

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back, outlining her thighs in a very bold fashion.”25 The man-about-town Arsène Houssaye emphasized the stylishness of the Second Empire courtesan: “The ladies of society and the demi-monde began to rub shoulders at the charity balls and at the races. At first glance they were the same women dressed by the same dressmakers, with the only distinction that the demi-mondaines seemed a little more chic.”26 As couturiers became more sophisticated in their promotional techniques, the racetrack became a favorite setting for another sort of professional fashion display. Already under the Second Empire, Worth insisted that his wife appear there in his latest creations, although according to her son, she was embarrassed to be a step ahead of the current style. Alice Ivimy also gives a full picture of the racetrack as fashionable rendezvous: “You will find all the leaders of fashion displaying the latest creations of the Rue de la Paix. You need not hesitate to stroll about and gaze your fill . . . these women have come on purpose to arouse your admiration. . . . In fact . . . the most striking and audacious gowns are worn by ‘mannequins’ or dressmakers’ models who are paid to be stared at.” And she concludes: “There are two attractions for women on the race course; I think it is true to say that the first and strongest is fashion and the second is sport.”27

A Ride in the Bois de Boulogne Formerly a royal forest, the Bois de Boulogne became one of the most fashionable parks in Paris. During the Second Empire, lakes were dug and fine carriage-roads established—with soft tracks alongside for horseback riding. Cafés and restaurants were built, and the racetrack at Longchamp was completely refurbished. Everywhere there were people walking, riding in carriages, and on horseback. According to La Vie Parisienne, for many people going to the Bois was the principal occasion of the day: The elegant woman thought it was boring to take a carriage ride in the Bois, but she went because it was the fashion. The young married girl would have preferred to rent a horse and go riding, but her mother insisted they circle the lake in a carriage. Mademoiselle KISMIKWIK, the courtesan, always appeared wearing a dark carriage dress, set off with a bouquet of violets.28 Clothing that was acceptable for an afternoon carriage ride in the Bois might be unsuitable and provocative in the morning or on foot. Thus, the Parisienne of the 1880s was firmly instructed that, “One does not wear sparkling stones on foot in the street. The only earrings permitted are enamel flowers, turquoise, opals, etc.; but one must not exhibit diamonds, rubies, sapphires, [or] one would be taken for a foreigner, and an exotic foreigner at that, or for a questionable woman.” The correct street dress was “without superfluous ornament,” of sturdy material, and short for ease of walking. The correct gloves and hat, perhaps a coat and muff, solid little boots, and little or no jewelry. This very important ensemble was reproduced “in richer materials for going to the Bois or on visits.” Thus, for a walk in the avenue des Acacias (the most fashionable promenade in the Bois), a person like the

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Charles Émile Auguste Carolus-Duran, Equestrian Portrait of Mademoiselle Croizette, 1873 (oil on canvas), Musée des Beaux-Arts, Tourcoing, France / Bridgeman Images.

Baroness de K. might wear “a damask skirt the color of scorched earth” with “drapery à l’anglaise,” a bodice of the same color with collar and cuffs of Indian muslin and old lace, and a “very original and tasteful . . . suede bonnet trimmed with otter.” Bracelets might be worn, when walking “the thousand metres recommended by hygiene.”29 The hour to go to the Bois changed according to the season, and varied according to one’s activity. Afternoon was generally correct for a carriage ride, but the fashionable hour for horseback riding changed in the second half of the century from afternoon to morning. Horseback riding was already a popular recreation for women under the July Monarchy, and the scene was depicted in numerous fashion illustrations. It became ever more popular later in the century, when women began to be permitted to ride unchaperoned. Many artists dealt with this theme, which was regarded as typically modern and attractive. Renoir’s painting A Morning Ride in the Bois de Boulogne (1873), for example, shows a typical Amazon, accompanied by a young boy who is probably her groom. Carolus-Duran also painted an Equestrian Portrait of Mademoiselle Croizette (1873). Pictures of Amazons

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Fashion plate by Le Francq from Le Salon de la Mode (1889).

“depict fashionable young ladies who are representative of specific types, and who therefore speak of the human condition in a new modern idiom.” A number of artists regarded the female riding habit as an especially modern style of self-presentation.30 The riding habit was, of course, a quasi-masculine ensemble, consisting of a severely tailored jacket bodice and a voluminous trained skirt (sometimes worn over chamois under-trousers which were buttoned onto the riding corset). Due to the complicated cutting and tailoring of the suit, it was usually made by male tailors who specialized in riding habits. In accordance with the masculine style, serious horsewomen wore plain wool suits in dark colors, such as blue or black (occasionally, dark brown, bottle green, or claret). The general fashion trend of the 1870s, toward a highly decorated and self-consciously “feminine” look, temporarily affected some riding habits, but this was not usually considered to be in good form. Riding habits were supposed to be masculine; this had been true as early as the reign of Louis XIV, and the style was only strengthened by succeeding generations of Anglomania. By the midnineteenth century, the costume à l’amazone also included the ultimate symbol of upper-class masculinity: a man’s “high silk hat,” which was worn “with or without a veil.”31 The fact that a veil might obscure the woman’s vision apparently was never an issue. The hazards of riding in a long skirt did receive some attention, and eventually the so-called “safety skirt” was invented (probably in England). But until the early twentieth century, there was seldom any question that équestriennes would wear skirts. Moreover, since the sixteenth century, European women rode side-saddle, so the actual shape of the skirt was very long and somewhat asymmetrical. (When walking, the amazone had to carry a length of skirt over one arm.) Thus, despite the apparent “masculinity” of the riding habit, both the skirt and the manner of riding were distinctively feminine. It was really only in the early twentieth century that a few Frenchwomen began to ride astride, wearing a split (or “culotte”) skirt, in the “American style.” In striking contrast to the fossilization of riding apparel, the nineteenth century hunting costume frequently included a short skirt and/or breeches. Fashion plates and other popular illustrations frequently showed women hunters striding along, rifle in hand. La Vie Parisienne found their trousers titillating, of course, but most people seem to have considered them perfectly respectable. Why was there this distinction between riding habit and hunting costume? Perhaps in part because the hunter appeared in the country, most likely on the private grounds of a chateau, in the company of her social peers and

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such underlings as could be counted on to show respect when confronted with bizarre costumes. Riding, however, was an urban as well as a country pastime; people could even rent horses in the Bois de Boulogne. Thus, despite its appearance of exclusivity, horseback riding was necessarily a more public exhibition. Moreover, the riding habit had become set in a conventional mold as early as the eighteenth century—had become, in effect, a kind of uniform—and all attempts to modify it were greeted with scorn. Fossil though it might be as a type of sportswear, the riding habit was almost certainly the origin of a new (and still crucially important) type of clothing: the woman’s tailored business suit. The Americans seem to have been in advance of the French, for it appears that American women eagerly adopted the tailored suit from the 1860s on, and increasingly after the 1880s—whereas as late as 1901 the French fashion magazine Les Modes was still describing the tailored suit as a revolutionary development: “The great 89 of feminine costume has been the tailored suit” (1789, of course, being the year the French Revolution began). “It has triumphantly remedied the abuses of the old regime [such as vulgar overdecoration]. . . . Only this ‘89 has found its Dixhuit Brumaire, that has put it back a step.” (Here the reference is to Napoleon’s rise to power.) “Gentlemen have not fully appreciated the tailored costume. They have found it too closely resembling their own.”32

Paris All A-Wheel By 1895, “all Paris [was] a-wheel,” and women could “unblushingly don man’s dress, or something alarmingly like it.” Bicycling was also initially a private, upper-class affair. As Arsène Alexandre told the American readers of Scribner’s magazine: “Fashionable women first tried the bicycle in the country in the grounds of the chateau.” There they had more leeway to experiment with short skirts and bloomers, since “What would have been in Paris a sinful outrage to the prejudices of good society became possible behind one’s own gates. One is not always upon dress parade in the country.” The Paris streets posed a “serious obstacle” to the would-be bicyclist, and not only because of the “danger in the crowd of vehicles and the rush and confusion of the boulevards” (not to be underestimated by anyone familiar with Paris traffic). At least as important, however, were social and psychological considerations: Madame, who likes to be noticed and admired when she takes her walks abroad, does not like to think that she attracts attention because of her bicycle costume and wheel. . . . So she rides to the Bois in her coupé, and meets the groom who brings her bicycle. The man, if he can ride, follows at a respectful distance, and the return to town is made in the same discreet manner. Often a party of friends meets daily for a spin of a dozen miles, leaving their bicycles at the gates of the Bois and finding cloaks in their carriages. Thus Mme Menier and Mme de Camondo, two of the most distinguished amateurs of the sport, follow this practice.33

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An illustration from Octave Uzanne’s book La Femme à Paris (1894).

The Bois provided at least a semiprivate setting for unorthodox fashion display, although some aristocratic bicyclists tried to organize, in the corner of the Bois, a special “bicycle rink for the exclusive use of society ladies . . . where the fashionable world a-wheel will feel at home.” There were already a few rinks such as the Vélodrome Buffalo, near Neuilly, and the Vélodrome de la Seine, but “the company is apt to be mixed.” One rink in the Champs-Elysées was better, “thanks to high prices,” and women could “take their lessons and practice without too much publicity” there. By the 1890s, women bicyclists increasingly wore bloomers in public. This development was possible for bicycling, as it was not for horseback riding, in part because bicycling was a new sport. Since there already existed a recognized and prestigious equestrian costume, calls for reform easily went unheeded. But when the bicycle appeared, there was no traditional feminine costume for it. According to Scribner’s magazine, “When the bicycle craze began there were no women’s dresses . . . just imagine one of the leaders of society going to her dressmaker and requesting a suitable costume to ride a steel wheel. . . . So the first costumes were mostly home-made affairs, designed by the riders and made up by work-women.” By 1895, certain tailors specialized in bicycle outfits, and they were easy enough to obtain: Already the skirt is fast going; another step and it will be but a memory. Here is the orthodox and really fashionable costume: very full knickerbockers, the folds falling below the knee, the appearance being that of a skirt, and yet without the skirt’s inconvenience; the waist may vary, but the most popular, especially with slim-waisted women, is that known as the Bolero. And above all a man’s cap or hat, in warm weather of straw, at the other seasons of felt. The stockings may be of fine wool, black or dark blue; silk stockings are tabooed, and any color but black or dark blue, such as striped or “loud” colors, is considered deplorable.

Soon the traditional fashion advice on how to dress à l’amazone was accompanied by information on dressing for la bicyclette. The colors were similar, black and dark blue, although there was somewhat greater choice for bicycling. The bicycling cap, however, was far less formal than the équestrienne’s top hat, and some bicyclists wore a blouse “rather resembling an elegant bathing costume.” Significantly, the majority of French writers agreed that “short trousers” were the usual nether garment.34

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Bloomers, indeed, seem to have been far more commonly worn in Paris than in England or the United States (despite the apparently greater athleticism of the Anglo-Saxons). And this was so despite the fact that many fashion writers strongly disliked the costume, regarding it as ugly and unfeminine. But unlike the case in England, where ladies seldom wore bicycling bloomers, in France bicycling in trousers became “really popular and at the same time really fashionable.” Everyone wore bloomers, from “the great ladies of the land” to the “pretty” middle-class bicyclists who “have added one charm more to the Bois de Boulogne.” Very likely, this was precisely because bloomers were presented in France as a fashionable item (rather than as a quasi-feminist statement). The reverse side of the coin was that trousers, per se, were still not acceptable. Even in 1895 (when bicyclists in bloomers were frequently seen pedaling through the Bois de Boulogne), “pseudo-bicyclists in trousers” caused a scandal by “promenad[ing] on the boulevards” without any bicycle. The Prefect of Police entered the scene once again, this time to forbid the women from wearing trousers unless they were on a bicycle.35

Jean Béraud, Chàlet du Cycle in the Bois de Boulogne, c.1900. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images.

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9 The Private Life of Paris Dans ces sphères élevés le role de la femme est tout de charme et de seduction. Elle n’a d’autres devoirs à remplir que ceux qui lui sont imposés sous le nom des devoirs de société. Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris (1894)

Fashion played an important role not only at public venues such as the theater but also in the private life of Paris. Indeed, among bourgeois and aristocratic women, most socializing took place in private or semi-private settings. Important social events, such as the “white ball,” were for insiders only. Mere tourists would not see the débutante at her first ball, wearing a symbolic white dress: “She has worn this chaste and poetic white on the day of her first communion; and she will wear it when she comes to the foot of the altar, to unite her life with that of the man she marries. This evening, it seems to be a sort of uniform . . . the color of hope . . . [and] innocence.”1 The salon was an especially important social institution at which the mistress of the house received visitors. According to “The Code of Elegance and Bon Ton” in La Grande Dame (1894), a woman never received on her “day” until after 4 p.m. To receive earlier was “sovereignly bourgeois.”2 Most ladies could be found at home on their day between 5 and 7 p.m. Since tea and pastries were served then, there was overlap with the highly fashionable and much-imitated English ceremony known in France as le five o’clock tea. Both were predominantly social gatherings for women, although there were often also men in attendance. The hostess received her guests wearing a reception dress or robe d’intérieure, sometimes known as a tea-gown, while her guests wore afternoon dresses or a costume de promenade. By the later nineteenth century, a group of ladies might also decide to meet at a smart tea-shop or pâtisserie, and by the 1920s, certain patisseries held a thé dansant

Alfred Stevens, The Cup of Tea, c. 1874–1878. Oil on panel. Musée royal de Mariemont, Morlanwelz. © Musée royal de Mariemont— Photo M. Lechien.

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every day at five. Tea might also be served at an evening soirée, when, of course, evening dress was de rigeur. Because it was the duty of the mistress of the house to maintain relations with relatives, friends, and colleagues of her husband, she also held dinner parties and sometimes opened her salon after dinner, at which time there might be musical performances.3 Although the Impressionists are famous today for having been the first to paint what Baudelaire called “the heroism of modern life,” other, more academic painters such as Alfred Stevens also prided themselves on being modernists. “A man is not a modernist because he paints modern costumes. The artist in love with modernity should, first of all, be impregnated with modern sensations,” wrote Alfred Stevens in his Impressions on Painting (1886). Yet if we investigate why so many of Stevens’s contemporaries perceived him as “a painter of modernity,” the issue of fashion constantly recurs. Certainly by 1855, Stevens had found his subject: He “applied the brilliant resources of his superior art to the representation of the modern woman, especially the Parisienne.” His “eternal model” was “the woman of the world, dressed in velvet, satin, or silk . . . in all her artificial splendor.”4 The American expatriate artist Mary Cassatt was also famous for her paintings of welldressed Parisiennes: According to one of the New York papers, her subject was “The Modern Woman as glorified by Worth.”5 The two artists dealt with many of the same themes: the cup of tea, woman with a fan, mother and child, the visit, and so on. But if we compare their treatment of, say, the cup of tea, it is clear that they approached their subjects very differently. A fashion plate by Anaïs Colin Toiudouze depicts yet another version of the same scene. The way each of them dealt with fashion is revealing of broader differences in artistic style, personal temperament, and images of the modern woman. Stevens’s painting, The Cup of Tea (which dates from about 1874) shows three young women in sumptuous and décolleté evening gowns. One of them sits in an embroidered armchair, idly stirring her tea, while behind her two other women lean slightly forward and exchange significant glances. One of the standing women has her hands on the other’s shoulders, and appears to be on the verge of telling her something. The implication is that their conversation concerns the preoccupied and somewhat unhappy looking woman in front of them. Although the blonde standing woman holds a teacup and saucer in one hand (and a closed fan in the other), the theme is not simply friends having tea together: The women’s poses and expressions indicate that something is happening to the seated women beyond what is immediately illustrated. The soirée potentially offered a field for romantic intrigue, and Stevens stresses this aspect of the social gathering. Stevens’s treatment of fashion in this painting focuses emphasis on the seated woman’s dress. Meticulous attention is paid to the sheen of the material and to the multiplicity of details, the trimming and the lace. Furthermore, the dress is shown in its entirety, from a medium distance and glowing against the dark background. The skirt is carefully arranged to form a sweeping curve of material. In addition, although the front of the blonde woman’s dress is hidden behind the chair, she is positioned in such a way that there is a clear sideview of her skirt; Stevens lavishes attention on the “pouf of fabric that is tied back and

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draped over her derrière. As art historian William Coles says of a similar dress (in Stevens’s The Reader), this was the type of “richly fashionable costume to which Stevens could do full justice. He made the costume of his age—particularly the height of the Second Empire and the decade following—historical, as it were, by using it and documenting it in modern pictures. But he did not do so as a mere reporter of fashion, but as a painter who thoroughly understood and appreciated the wealth of colors and textures offered to his eye and brush by the splendid fabrics and costumes of the day.”6 Stevens’s use of fashion in his art was not, perhaps, quite as “serious” and painterly as Coles implies. In a sense, he uses fashion as a purely decorative element, in the same way that he very frequently uses pieces of oriental art: because they are beautiful and chic objects. His attention to detail, for example, is as close to that of the fashion illustrator as to that of the history painter; he brings the painting of contemporary history close to that of sentimental genre painting. The dresses in The Cup of Tea are not really integrated into the composition, but seem somehow autonomous, related neither to the wearers nor to the interior. Stevens appears to be conscious of them as beautiful objects, which he collects and arranges for their decorative effect. Some of the same models, dresses, and furniture reappear in works such as Cruelle certitude, Désespéré, and Après le bal (or La Confidence), which also share a note of unhappy love.7 The compositional structure of The Cup of Tea both emphasizes and isolates the dresses. On the other hand, Stevens’s attention to furniture and room details is uncharacteristic of fashion-plate art, which barely sketches in these relatively unimportant—and potentially distracting—features. Stevens also uses fashion in this painting to impart information about his subjects: to tell a story. In this, as in much of Stevens’s work, the anecdotal element is conspicuous. Stevens almost always painted girls and young women, but not in their “accurately observed daily life.” Rather, he habitually infused his scenes with emotional overtones, being concerned with “woman’s life, her caprice, her dream, her desire, her consolation; all that her senses desire and love”—and, specifically, “those fabrics, those adornments, those thousand exquisite nothings purchased at Giroux.”8 Thus, he directly linked emotions (often explicitly romantic or sensual) with personal adornment and fashion. For Stevens’s women, life seemed to revolve around love and fashion. Stevens’s models were intended to represent elegant beauties, but one can not simply assume that they represented upper-class Parisian women, such as those painted by Winterhalter. For although Stevens’s women are presented “under an aspect of perfect propriety,” no husband is ever present, and there are often indications of a love affair (such as a letter). They may even represent women on the edge of the demimonde: “That woman is, physically, close to the type of celebrated beauties of the Second Empire who inflamed Paris in its yearly period of pleasures and luxury.”9 Or at least, this may be true of a few of them, such as the woman in Memories and Regrets. (The paintings of mothers show respectable upper-middle-class women.) The absence of a “bourgeois air” is explainable by Stevens’s emphasis on the erotic ideal more than the complementary domestic ideal; even here he shows only young, pretty mothers.

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Anaïs Colin Toudouze, fashion plate from Le Conseiller des Dames et des Demoiselles (1855).

The fashions that Stevens painted would not, by themselves, lead viewers to assume that his figures were courtesans—and contemporaries seldom drew such conclusions. But sexual attractiveness was at the heart of his image of femininity. For the women that Stevens portrayed (whether in the great world, the world, or the half-world), fashion was crucial, because it served to increase their sexual attractiveness. He seems to identify feminine beauty with elegance. Certainly, he uses fashion to help produce figures that reflect the current, fashionable ideal of beauty. Anaïs Colin Toudouze’s treatment of the tea party for the fashion magazine Le Conseiller des Dames et Demoiselles (December 1855) was rather different. Four pretty young women sit or stand around a tea table. They are positioned as if posing for a photograph. The women are not shown full length (which is somewhat unusual for a fashion plate), but we see most of the two front figures and the torsos of the other two. Because the date is 1855, it is not necessary for us to see more than two skirts anyway—one flounced, the other a plain checked fabric—for although the skirt is certainly a prominent design element (expanded as it is over a crinoline), there is not much in the way of draping or cutting that we need to examine in detail. It is far more interesting to pay attention to variations on the bodice. There is the gauzy white bodice, the modest décolletage of which is partly belied by the visual effect of plunging mauve “shoulder straps,” with sleeves consisting of flounces interspersed with mauve bows and ribbons. There is the expensive-looking black lace bodice trimmed with dark green ribbons that match both skirt and cap. There is the relatively plain purple bodice, which would today be considered wildly extravagant and must even then have been thought beautifully constructed, with its fluttering triangular torso, flounced pagoda sleeves, and lace collar and cuffs. A neat little gold bow at the throat is echoed by flowing hair ribbons. But the hostess has perhaps the prettiest bodice—the only one that is rather low-cut, of pale blue silk with a square décolletage and short sleeves—and covered with a little sleeveless “jacket” of white lace in a large medallion pattern. The hostess stands looking down at the woman in mauve, gently touching her arm to offer her a cup of tea. Unfortunately, her guest is gazing into the distance with an ethereal expression. The woman in black lace stirs her tea, her tiny hands holding an equally diminutive cup. Only the plump woman in purple looks at her hostess with an adoring expression. Of the room, we see nothing except the little tea table and its accessories, an extra chair, and the faint outline of a curtain over a window.

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The women look as pretty as porcelain dolls. If their heads tilt slightly back, their eyes open; if they look down, their eyes begin to close. Perhaps they look a little too sweetly insipid for modern tastes, but their candy-box delicacy was the ideal of the 1850s, and their clothes are very beautiful indeed. Their calm serenity is timeless and reassuring. It comes as something of a relief, in fact, compared to the arrogant sangfroid of fashion models of a century later. The mauve lady’s gentle expression might conceivably be romantic in origin, but she might simply be thinking of something vaguely pleasant. There is no story here, no slice of life, no anecdote (romantic or otherwise) to tell that might disturb the viewer’s meditation on the clothes themselves. All is calm, beautiful, and luxurious. Like Anaïs Colin Toudouze, Alfred Stevens used fashion to idealize and stylize the female body, to make it more “beautiful,” as well as to give an impression of opulence and personal chic. Whether or not he was conscious of the influence of fashion plates on his work, the similarities—in silhouette, function, and obsessive detail—are obvious in retrospect. But so are the differences. The eroticism of his figures does not necessarily imply any sexual impropriety, but rather the appraising eye of the flâneur, always ready to see and appreciate feminine erotic beauty. For Stevens observes the women in The Cup of Tea in the manner of a gentleman observer at the soirée. Male art critics of the Belle Epoque seem to have regarded his pictures in much the same way, admiring the way cashmere shawls were draped over the models’ “svelte forms.” The Stevens woman, perhaps, “a blonde woman who stirs her tea,” wearing “a dress slightly undone, allowing one to see the blonde, tender flesh,” spends her time like an “unhappy lover.” “She dreams, smiles, prays, cries, thinks of someone who is absent or of someone who is supposed to come, thinks of her pleasures, of her beauty.”10 This image of fashion and beauty is in striking contrast to their portrayal in the work of Mary Cassatt. Perhaps in part because she was herself a woman, she seems to have viewed fashion (and womanhood) in a different, often a more casual and matter-of-fact way. Certainly, fashion could increase a woman’s apparent attractiveness, but it did not determine it. There is, in her work, an apparent lack of interest in using dress to create an image of fashionable and artificial eroticism. More often than Stevens, Cassatt places herself vis-à-vis her models in the position of a friend, someone who is also, say, drinking tea. This difference, of course, is not absolute or simple; Stevens also was sometimes in the position of a friend, and Cassatt notoriously romanticized the state of maternity, but viewers of their paintings were definitely presented with two different perspectives on the modern woman. Whereas Stevens almost always shows young women dressed in the height of fashion, Cassatt varies her emphasis on fashion—and varies the fashions that she portrays—according to the situation. Thus, the women’s dresses in Cassatt’s The Tea (c. 1880) are stylish but discreet afternoon dresses. The woman in the dark blue wears a hat and gloves, and is presumably the visitor. Her companion, in brown, might be the hostess or another guest, but she is also in afternoon dress, not loose at-home attire—still less an actual tea-gown. When comparing artists’ treatment of fashion, it is necessary to beware of attributing to

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Mary Stevenson Cassatt, The Tea (c. 1880). Oil on canvas. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Massachusetts, USA/M. Theresa B. Hopkins Fund/ Bridgeman Images.

differences of temperament or intention what were often simply differences in fashion itself. Thus, the simplicity and severity of these dresses by Cassatt is partly explainable by the dominant style of daytime fashion in the early 1880s. Nevertheless, differences in current modes aside, Cassatt clearly treats fashion differently than Stevens does. To begin with, she portrays her figures in greater close-up: As half-figures rather than full-figures, their costumes are almost automatically emphasized less. Unlike Stevens, she does not include the entire fashion ensemble in her composition. Indeed, the women themselves only occupy the left-hand side of the picture, and are balanced on the right by a beautiful silver tea service. (By contrast, the tea service in Stevens’s picture is barely noticeable, placed off in the shadows at the left.) Cassatt’s studied “casualness” of arrangement (in fact an artful formal structure) in this case also results in a de-emphasis of dress. As the inclusion of the tea service shows, Cassatt also includes beautiful objects in her paintings, but they seem more obviously to serve specific formal functions and are not primarily decorative items. She treats fashion also more as a formal element in a closely-knit composition, subordinating it to problems of organization, design, and color arrangement. In The Tea there is less emphasis on details of dress and more on the use of clothing as pattern and close form, as broad areas of color with clear contours. The women’s dresses form shapes that interlock with other shapes and patterns. Thus, the rounded forms of the women’s bodies are echoed in the curves of the sofa, while the brown and dark blue dresses are contrasted with the flowered chintz upholstery. One woman’s small, round hat radically breaks the pattern of vertical stripes on the wallpaper. The formal use of fashion is even more striking in some other Cassatt works, such as the prints The Letter and The Fitting, wherein clothing and interiors are locked into flat patterns. Nevertheless, just as it would be a mistake to overemphasize the anecdotal, decorative, and academic use of fashion in Stevens’s work (some of his paintings, like The Ladybug, are looser in brushwork, more “intimate” and “friendly” in character, and closer to Cassatt’s style), so also would it be misleading to argue that Cassatt uses fashion solely as a formal element, with no reference to her use of fashion as a means of imparting information and creating a particular atmosphere. Cassatt was not an abstract painter. She chose to paint particular people in specific settings. As the writer and critic Joris-Karl Huysmans wrote about The Tea, “Here it is still the

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bourgeoisie . . . a world also at ease, but more harmonious, more elegant.”11 (More elegant, that is, than the work of some of her contemporaries.) Her subjects were also elegant: Many were friends and relatives, others models for whom she bought, on occasion, dresses by Madame Paquin. It is clear, however, that they belonged to a somewhat different social group than the women painted by Stevens. Stevens’s women appear to be wealthier and seem to lead a more active social life. This is apparent not only in the differences in fashion but also in the different interiors in which the figures are placed. Cassatt and her models wore stylish and expensive dresses, but Stevens’s models often wore extremely fashionable dresses borrowed from the wardrobes of the Princesse de Metternich and other court ladies.12 Uzanne distinguished carefully between the various class fractions in Parisian society: His picture of “la bourgeoise parisienne” seems to describe Stevens’s women, while he had another category of “middle bourgeoisie” that appears to correspond to the social class portrayed in the work of Cassatt. The life of the Stevens woman is characterized by events in high society, while Cassatt’s work illustrates the proper and fashionable but predominantly domestic existence of middle-class women. Fashion played various roles in women’s lives, of greater or lesser importance, depending on the particular woman’s immediate situation—her age was as significant as her class. It was regarded as highly unsuitable, indeed ludicrous, for older women to dress like young women. Unlike Stevens, Cassatt also painted little girls and older women: The subject of Lady at Tea Table (1885) is an older woman, and it is appropriate that fashion should be a less conspicuous element in her persona. Rather than presenting herself in fashionable, upto-the-minute dress, the sitter chose to wear an elegant but essentially timeless black dress with old-fashioned but expensive white lace cuffs and a white lace cap. Although the portrait is of an American woman, her clothes were very similar to those regarded as appropriate for older Frenchwomen, who appeared, once in a blue moon, in contemporary fashion plates. A third painting by Cassatt, The Cup of Tea (1880–1881) emphasized to a greater degree the charm of a particular dress and its role in the enhancement of female beauty. The picture shows Cassatt’s sister, Lydia, sitting in a striped armchair, holding a cup of tea. Behind her is a platter of white hyacinths. Lydia wears a shell pink dress, long gloves, and a pink bonnet. Huysmans noted approvingly that Cassatt “added to this tender, contemplative note the fine sense of Parisian elegance.”13 Lydia, of course, was a young American woman, not a true Parisienne; but, like her sister, she had lived for years in France and wore Parisian fashions. It is also possible that Huysmans was sensitive to the sensuality of brushwork and color that was a part of Cassatt’s work, and that was so different from Stevens’s kind of sensuality. The obvious sexual undertones in Stevens’s work would have been odd, indeed, in the work of a woman painter. But Cassatt also paid attention to aspects of the sartorial sexuality that Stevens emphasized—such as the themes of décolletage, déshabillé, and the relationship between fabric and skin. What a woman did each day helped determine the clothes she wore. According to Uzanne, the “great lady” of the aristocracy and the financial world (the high bourgeoisie) led a life of soirées, balls, receptions, and visits to the theater, to see her friends, to promenade.

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Mary Stevenson Cassatt, The Cup of Tea (1880–1881). Oil on canvas. Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. From the collection of James Stillman, Gift of Dr Ernest G. Stillman, 1922 (22.16.17). The Metropolitan Museum of Art. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image Source: Art Resource.

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“In these elevated spheres, the role of woman is entirely one of charm and seduction. She has no other duties than those of society. To be seen and to shine, such is the existence of these élégantes.” Since they were “constantly endeavoring to idealize themselves,” fashion was crucial. It served to increase their erotic beauty, status, and tone. Among the “middle bourgeoisie,” women led a more private life, centering around their children, a fashionable but more modest toilette, shopping at the new department stores, visiting friends, and so on. After having spent the morning attending to her house, the tradespeople, her children, and her dress . . . she spends the afternoon at her dressmaker’s . . . her hairdresser’s, paying a visit to some friends, lunching at a tearoom, shopping, putting in an order at the grocer’s, buying flowers, trying on a coat at the tailor’s, a hat at the milliner’s, looking at her watch . . . rushing off to the Louvre or to the Bon Marché.14

Then, in the evenings, she might dine out, have little receptions at home, or go to the theater. But a dinner for six or eight people demands a different dress than that worn by the great lady, who might go to several large parties in a single night. And much of her time was spent with her children, teaching them to read and taking them for walks in the Jardin des Plantes or the Tuileries Gardens. Thus, although women of the middle bourgeoisie were very interested in fashion, the fashions they wore tended to be rather different from those of the society lady. The treatment of fashion in French paintings of the nineteenth century is closely related to the image of the woman shown wearing it and, by extension, to the attitudes of the painter. In these particular paintings, fashion-plate style and iconography are more evident in Stevens’s work—especially in his emphasis on clothing details, physical types, and body language. On the other hand, his romanticism and implied story line are not characteristic of the fashion plate, which is, in its own way, as “matter-of-fact” as Cassatt’s paintings. Cassatt had considerable personal interest in fashion, patronizing the best dressmakers and even portraying some of her models in dresses by Paquin. But her paintings were not about fashion. She was under no explicit obligation to adhere to conventions. Indeed, as a self-consciously avant-garde artist, an independently wealthy individual (and an expatriate, and an unmarried women), she had relatively great freedom to follow her painterly inclinations. No painter who wished to portray women of the bourgeois or elite classes could avoid the issue of fashion in any case; but Stevens made it integral to the expression and intention of his art. He documented modern dress with all the care that history painters lavished on the costumes of the past. His approach to pose and expression is likewise indebted to traditional and fashion-plate conventions. Yet he wrote that he chose to portray modern women rather than women from ancient or exotic civilizations, because “The most beautiful odalisque, adorned with jewels, will never move me as much as the women of the country in which I was born.”15

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The conception of the modern woman held by Cassatt was less exclusively romantic and idealized. The primarily erotic function of fashion is downplayed, together with other anecdotal and informational aspects of dress. Although less overtly documentary in her approach, Cassatt also said of herself that she “tried to express the modern woman in the fashions of our day and . . . tried to represent those fashions as accurately as possible.”16 Ultimately, the influence of fashion-plate art may go beyond the adoption of conventions of pose, arrangement, and detail (important as these are) to a more philosophical concern with fashion as an expression of modernity. Beauty, after all, is not an immutable concept. The aesthetic ideal of each period is different, and fashion both reflects and helps determine that ideal. As Baudelaire wrote: “What poet would dare, in the depiction of the pleasure caused by the apparition of a beauty, separate the woman from the dress?” Even nudes wear the invisible fashions of their period, which subtly alter their anatomy.17 Nevertheless, over the course of the nineteenth century, the fashion plate remained conservative—even retrograde—in style and presentation. The technology that reproduced images in multiple copies corresponded to the development of mass fashions, but the pictures themselves changed more slowly than the clothes. It seems surprising that artistic and sartorial modernism was so little evident in the imagery of fashion, but the function of the fashion plate—to illustrate and sell clothes—probably restricted tendencies toward innovation.

The Tea-Gown One thing, however, is missing from all these pictures. Despite its fame, the tea-gown was seldom portrayed in art, whether as a humble dressing-gown or a splendid reception dress. Indeed, its relative absence is rather surprising. The dressing-gown had appeared frequently in popular prints of the July Monarchy: lorettes, lionnes, and bluestockings all wore it. Manet’s Woman with a Parrot shows a woman in a dressing-gown, and was clearly influenced by such graphic predecessors. But for similar paintings of tea-gowns, we are largely restricted to second-rate works, such as Francisco Masriera’s A Schubert’s Melody (1896) or Jules Cayron’s An Elegant Tea-Party: The Gossip (1907). Le tea-gown or robe d’intérieur was a very significant garment, but one difficult to define and even to identify. As its name implies, it was above all an indoor dress. Properly speaking, déshabillé refers to “several different garments, utilized only in the house, from the robe de chambre in rather thick material . . . or the more light-weight peignoir. . . to the elegant robe d’intérieur.”18 Because they were only worn indoors, in at least semi-private settings, these garments retained much of the intimate quality associated with underwear. Although dressing-gowns existed as early as the eighteenth century, and peignoirs as early as the 1830s, being frequently portrayed in the libertine prints of the Romantic era, the tea-gown,

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as such, developed in the 1870s, when both day and evening dresses were quite tightly fitted: “The growing severity of the tailor-made dresses in the 1880s also gave the teagown a special place as the most elaborate garment of daytime wear, as well as the most relaxed and easy style of dress.”19 The tea-gown could also be more fanciful or “artistic” than ordinary dress, and this was another reason for its popularity-as well as its importance in the history of dress. The Baroness d’Orchamps, a turn-of-the-century fashion writer, saw a number of uses for indoor dresses, such as the peignoir or the matinée. Rather unromantically, she suggested that the peignoir could be worn “for messy chores or for visits to the kitchen.” On the other hand, the peignoir also lent itself to “all the fantasies of cut and all the luxuries of decoration.” D’Orchamps distinguished between the peignoir and the matinée, on the grounds that the latter was worn with a petticoat and corset, making it “only a demi-dishabillé.” The matinée could be put on for those “intervals of rest between the excursions of the day.”

Francesc Masriera, A Schubert’s Melody,1896. Oil on Canvas. © Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, Barcelona 2016. Photo: Jordi Calveras.

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Tea-gown by Redfern from Figaro-Modes (1903). Photograph by Paul Boyer.

Opposite: Woman’s Dressing Gown (Tea Gown). Designed by Jeanne Hallée, French, 1907. Silk chiffon over silk satin, with lace, silk ribbon, ribbon flowers, and fly fringe. Photo courtesy of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

It was a garment in which one could, “if necessary, show oneself to intimate friends,” but it was also “the dress of sick people and convalescents.” It could be “luxurious and made of rich fabric, embellished with lace and embroidery.”20 The Countess Tramar also distinguished between simple and more elaborate peignoirs. In the morning, she wrote, one takes off one’s nightgown and puts on an “ample saut-de-lit with large sleeves.” After washing, one takes off this “woolen peignoir” and either dresses to go out, or puts on “an elegant peignoir.” According to Tramar, the peignoir “poeticises” its wearer; it is “the luminous nimbus” that “halos her beauty, in a voluptuous languidness that the austerity of the bodice does not permit.” (In other words, the looseness of the peignoir can be more flattering than the close fit of the boned dress bodice.) “Woman’s beauty receives a special charm .  .  . from this disquieting apparel.” Here Tramar was considering the peignoir in its widest sense— as including everything “from the saut-de-lit in surah, wool, Liberty satin, [or] muslin, to the robe d’intérieur [that is] often more luxurious than an evening toilette.” All were “indoor garments, born of fantasy.”21 One of Marcel Proust’s characters, the former courtesan, Odette de Crécy (later Madame Swann), wore a great many such indoor gowns. In the 1880s, she favored “Japanese wrappers,” but by the 1890s she had abandoned these now “horrid vulgar things” in favor of receiving her familiars “in the bright and billowing silk of a Watteau gown whose flowering foam she made as though to caress where it covered her bosom.”22 “Les robes d’intérieur, ou Tea Gown, sont la fantaisie de la fantaisie,” wrote the Countess Tramar. The tea-gown called for “an original creation, froufrous, a dream full of emotion,” one “overloaded with exquisite adornments.” As d’Orchamps put it, the tea-gown was intended to express “a very personal character, corresponding to [the wearer’s] intimate tastes, and at the same time flattering the natural aspect of her beauty.” Like the intimate, at-home social rituals that were their intended setting, tea-gowns seemed to their wearers to embody a peculiarly modern consciousness: “Diaphanous robes, a product of our age, and calculated so specially to show off the grace of the modern woman.”23

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10 La Mode Retrouvée Chacune de ses robes m’apparaissait comme une ambiance naturelle, nécessaire, comme la projection d’un aspect particulier de son âme. Marcel Proust, Le Côte de Guermantes, 1920–1921

M

Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost Time) is arguably the greatest novel of the twentieth century. To create it, Proust drew on everything that he had experienced and thought over the course of a lifetime—about love, art, society, time, and fashion. Indeed, fashion was one of the ways that he came to understand the mysteries of time and art. Although Proust’s novel is not a roman à clef, certain characters are inspired, in part, by real people whom he knew. The Baron de Charlus, for example, drew on the homosexual dandy-poet, Count Robert de Montesquiou, whose niece, Élisabeth de Caraman-Chimay, the Comtesse Greffulhe, was one of the inspirations for Oriane, the Duchesse de Guermantes, of whom Proust wrote: “Each of her dresses seemed like a natural setting, inevitable, like the projection of a particular aspect of her soul.”1 Like Balzac, an author he deeply admired, Marcel Proust frequently refers to the clothing his characters wear, and to the idea of fashion as a social and psychological force. “In the novels of Balzac,” he writes “we see his heroines purposely put on one or another dress on the day in which they are expecting some particular visitor.”2 Thus, when Balzac’s Princesse de Cadignan is meeting d’Arthez, she chooses to wear “a harmonious combination of grey tones” a gown that expresses the idea of “half-mourning.” When Proust’s heroine, Albertine, appears in a beautiful gray skirt and jacket, the Baron de Charlus immediately makes the connection: “You are wearing this evening the very same clothes as the Princess de Cadignan.” And when Albertine takes off her jacket, revealing “sleeves . . . of a Scottish plaid in soft colours, pink, pale blue, dull green, pigeon’s breast, the effect was as though in a gray sky there had suddenly appeared a rainbow.” Charlus is delighted with this unexpected “prism of colour,” and notes that Albertine does not have “the same reasons arcel

Opposite: Jean Béraud. The Soirée, c. 1880. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images.

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as Mme de Cadignan for wishing to appear detached from life, for that was the idea which she wished to instill into d’Arthez by her grey gown.”3 One of Proust’s biographers, George Painter, tells us that the remarks made by the Baron de Charlus were actually spoken by Robert de Montesquiou, and that Proust initially made fun of Montesquiou for going into raptures over a gray dress worn by the Comtesse Greffulhe.4 But, while he may have seen the humor in the Count’s soliloquy, Proust also appreciated his insight into the “mute language of clothes.” For Proust, fashion was not only a social and cultural sign, it was also a mark of individuality, an emotional language, and a form of art.5 Near the end of his multi-volume novel, Proust declares that, if he cannot build his work as a cathedral, he will construct it simply “like a dress.”

Aristocratic and Artistic Elegance

Opposite: Photograph by Paul Nadar, the Countess Greffulhe wearing the “Lily Dress” by the House of Worth, 1896. Galliera, Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris. © Nadar/Galliera/ Roger-Viollet.

Élisabeth de Caraman-Chimay, the Comtesse Greffulhe, was one of the most beautiful and fashionable women in Paris. She fascinated her contemporaries, including Proust, who wrote to her uncle, Count Robert de Montesquiou: “I have never seen a woman so beautiful.”6 Yet it was not only her physical beauty that attracted Proust, who was also acutely aware that she was born into one of France’s most distinguished aristocratic families. Moreover, like Montesquiou, she was an aesthete with her own audacious personal style. So original was her appearance that the press sometimes reported that no couturier could claim “the honor of dressing this great lady, since she has her gowns executed according to her own ideas and in an atelier attached to her house.”7 In fact, she patronized the greatest couturiers of her time, often accompanied on her visits to couture houses by Montesquiou, but her taste was so strong and original that she was effectively the co-creator of her dresses.8 The writer Edmond de Goncourt praised her “supreme aristocratic and artistic elegance.”9 Yet he also once described the Comtesse Greffulhe as “a distinguished eccentric,” adding that she reminded him of a “female version” of Montesquiou.”10 The influence of these two individuals, not only on each other but also on Proust, cannot be overestimated. Both of them firmly believed in the aesthetic significance of fashion and had absolute confidence in their own taste, no matter what others might think. In 1878, at the age of eighteen, Élisabeth, the Princesse de Chimay, married the wealthy Vicomte (later Comte) Henry Greffulhe. Within this elevated milieu, fashion played an important, yet circumscribed role. A married woman of her social class was supposed to be elegantly and expensively dressed, but in no way unconventional or conspicuous. Yet only a few years after her marriage, Le Gaulois observed that “Her fashions, whether invented for her or by her must resemble no one else’s. She prefers that her clothes be bizarre sooner than resembling those of other people . . . But however strange her fantasy, however eccentric what she wears, she never abdicates her supreme distinction.”11

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House of Worth, tea gown, c. 1897. Blue cut velvet on a green satin ground, Valenciennes lace. Galliera, Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris. © Stéphane Piera/ Galliera/Roger-Viollet.

Like the Comtesse Greffulhe, the Duchesse de Guermantes was a representative of the ancient French aristocracy, and from his childhood, Proust’s narrator regarded her as an almost mythological figure, the descendant of Geneviève de Brabant. His image of the ideal aristocrat is so exalted that Proust’s narrator is initially disappointed when he finally sees her at the wedding of Dr. Percepied’s daughter. Having pictured her “in the colors of a tapestry or a stained-glass window,” he now sees only a blonde woman with a large nose, wearing a violet scarf.12 But when he thinks she looks at him, and when he hears that she is the most elegant woman in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, his feelings for her revive. He is, therefore surprised, when he spies her on the street in Paris looking “admiringly at a well-dressed actress.” How could she compare herself with passers-by and consider them competent to judge her? It seemed “so unworthy of her” to play the part of “a fashionable woman” when she was, in his eyes, virtually a goddess. In a famous passage, Proust describes the Duchesse de Guermantes looking in a mirror, “and in this mythological obliviousness of her native grandeur, she checked the position of her veil, smoothed her cuffs, arranged her cape, as the divine swan goes through all the movements of his animal species . . . forgetting that he is a god.”13 This is one of many scenes which has led careless readers to dismiss Proust as a snob, which greatly oversimplifies his picture of Parisian society. For a long time, the narrator continues to admire the aristocracy, but other characters do not. When he tells his young mistress Albertine about the Duchesse de Guermantes, her initial response is hostile, “but remembering that [the painter] Elstir had spoken to her of the Duchess as ‘the best dressed woman in Paris,’ her republican contempt for a Duchess gave place in my mistress to a keen interest in a fashionable woman.” Soon Albertine

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was eagerly questioning the narrator about the Duchess and her clothes. The narrator had considered asking Odette for advice about Albertine’s clothes. “But Mme de Guermantes seemed to me to carry to an even higher pitch the art of dressing.”14 The Duchesse de Guermantes is not only the representative of a class, but also an individual with a particular, artistic sensibility. She is the best-dressed woman in Paris and, as we will see, the most knowledgeable about fashion. She represents the aristocrat as a work of art.15 To create this character, Proust drew most directly on the Comtesse Greffulhe. In his youth, he had often described her dresses in the society pages of the press, which served as an apprenticeship for the passages on fashion in À la recherche du temps perdu. But Proust was also inspired by other women, especially the Comtesse Laure de Chevigné (descendant of the Marquis de Sade) and Madame Émile Strauss (Georges Bizet’s widow). As early as 1892, for example, Proust had composed a portrait of his friend, the Comtesse de Chevigné, which foreshadowed his avian imagery of the Duchess: She was dressed in gauzy white clothes “like folded wings . . . her feathered fan fluttered. She is . . . a peacock with wings of snow, a hawk with precious stones for eyes.” Indeed, recognizing herself in the Duchess, Madame de Chevigné was hurt by certain developments in the plot, such as the incident of the red shoes, to which we will return later.16

Odette, in Mauve and Pink Odette de Crécy (later Madame Swann) is one of the most interesting characters, because she undergoes so many changes. Beginning as the anonymous “lady in pink” (mistress to the narrator’s great-uncle), she appears later in male travestissement in Elstir’s painting of Miss Sacripant. As Odette de Crécy, she becomes Swann’s mistress and then his wife. After Swann’s death, she remarries and, as Madame de Forcheville, she becomes the mother-inlaw of the Marquis de Saint-Loup. But although she moves from being a demi-mondaine to being a member of the most aristocratic Parisian society, in a sense she always remains la dame en rose. Odette begins her affair with Swann in the 1880s, when the corset and bustle created an extravagant silhouette: As for her figure, and she was admirably built, it was impossible to make out its continuity (on account of the fashion then prevailing, and in spite of her being one of the best-dressed women in Paris) for the corset, jutting forwards in an arch, as though over an imaginary stomach, and ending in a sharp point, beneath which bulged out the balloon of her double skirts, gave a woman, that year, the appearance of being composed of different sections badly fitted together.17

Yet when she “received him in a morning gown of pink silk, which left her neck and arms bare” or a “mauve crepe de chine dressing gown,” Odette was intensely appealing, since, as a courtesan, she instinctively understood the charm of such an intimate garment.18

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An illustration from La Vie Élégant (1882).

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Her favorite flowers were orchids, cattleyas especially, because they didn’t look like other flowers, but appeared to be made out of scraps of silk or satin. “This one looks as though it were cut from the lining of my coat,” she says to Swann with a naive respect for so “chic” a flower, just as she initially respected Swann, without ever understanding how distinguished he really was.19 Her dress the night they became lovers was lavishly decorated with flowers: She had in her hand a bunch of cattleyas, and Swann could see, beneath the film of lace that covered her head, more of the same flowers fastened to a swansdown plume. She was wearing, under her cloak, a flowing gown of black velvet, caught up on one side so as to reveal a large triangular patch of her white skirt, with an “insertion” of white silk, in the cleft of her low-necked bodice, in which were fastened a few more cattleyas.20

Such a costume epitomized the seductive power of fashion: The black dress may conceal her body, but the white silk triangles “act as beckoning forces,” as do the “orchids inserted in the cleft.” Moreover, the “velvety surface” of the dress, with its “sensation of softness,” like the skin itself, functions as the “reflection and manifestation of desire.”21 It was in arranging her orchids that Swann first caressed her; and for some time thereafter they used the expression “do a cattleya” to mean “make love.” Proust drew on many sources for his portrait of Odette, including the famous cocotte, Laure Hayman. But Odette’s fashions owed a debt to some of those worn by the Comtesse Greffulhe: In 1894, for example, at a garden party given by Montesquiou, Proust finally met the Countess Greffulhe. Immediaely thereafter, in an article for Le Gaulois published under the pseudonym “Tout-Paris,” Proust wrote: “Madame la comtesse Greffulhe was delightfully attired in a pink lilac silk dress printed all over with orchids and covered in silk chiffon of the same shade; her hat was in bloom with orchids surrounded by lilac gauze.”22 In Les Pas effacés, Montesquiou described one of her ballgowns: “Madame Greffulhe could have represented an illustration in Grandville’s Fleurs animées, she was disguised as a catleya, all covered in that orchidaceous mauve . . . which she loved.”23 In other respects, of course, Odette was the very opposite of a fashionable lady of the Faubourg Saint-Germaine. For although Odette “thirsted to be in the fashion, her idea of it was not altogether that held by fashionable people.” As Proust explained: “For the latter, fashion is a thing which emanates from a comparatively small number of leaders, who project it to a considerable distance—with more or less strength according as one is nearer to or further from their intimate circle.” Whereas people like Odette imagine fashion to be something very different and “directly accessible to all”—with, it must be admitted, some “inevitable delays.” Odette believed that fashion could be bought, and that someone with money and “swagger clothes” who threw big parties was “smart.” When she passed the Marquise de Villeparisis in the street, “wearing a black serge dress and a bonnet with strings,” Odette thought she looked “like an old concierge! That a marquise!” Odette would never wear those horrible clothes.24

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As a member of fashionable Parisian society, Swann recognized Odette’s mistake. He “made no attempt, however, to modify this conception of fashion; feeling that his own came no nearer to the truth, was just as fatuous.”25 Swann’s view of fashion may now seem snobbish and out of date. After all, fashion no longer “trickles down” from a remote social pinnacle. Yet fashion does still diffuse from a comparatively small number of fashion leaders (albeit today people like the Kardashians), and even the theory of “collective selection” within a mass market refers obliquely back to the group(s) setting the fashion, and to a social structure in which they have prestige.26 Although Odette stubbornly resisted Swann’s attempts to educate her taste, eventually, she “discovered, or invented, a style of her own.” She “did not dress simply for the comfort or the adornment of her body,” but to convey a range of subtle meanings. “One would have said that there was a sudden determination in the blue velvet, an easy-going good humour in the white taffeta, and . . . a sort of supreme discretion full of dignity in . . . the black crêpe-de-chine.” If, instead of wearing a loose indoor gown, she chose one that “buttoned up tight as though she were just going out,” it “gave to her stay-at-home laziness . . . something alert and energetic.” The very profusion of complicated trimmings, “some row of little satin buttons, which buttoned nothing and could not be unbuttoned,” seemed indicative of secrets and promises, since they were so patently nonfunctional.27 Historicizing elements taken from past fashions—”a hint of ‘slashes,’ in the Henri II style,” a puffed sleeve à la 1830, a certain fullness of the skirt that recalled Louis XV paniers—”gave the dress a just perceptible air of being ‘fancy dress’ and . . . by insinuating beneath the life of the present day a vague reminiscence of the past, blended with the person of Mme Swann the charm of certain heroines of history or romance.” And when the narrator called her attention to this, she replied, simply, that since she didn’t play golf, she had no excuse for going about in sweaters, like so many of her friends. As Proust writes: “She was surrounded by her garments as by the delicate and spiritualized machinery of a whole form of civilization.”28 The very flowers on her hat seemed more symbolic of May than those that grew naturally in gardens and woods. One spring, strolling on the Avenue du Bois, Mme Swann appeared, displaying around her a toilet which was never twice the same, but which I remember as being typically mauve; then she hoisted and unfurled at the end of its long stalk, just at the moment when her radiance was most complete, the silken banner of a wide parasol of a shade that matched the showering petals of her gown.29

Again and again, she appears in conjunction with the “moist purple” of Parma violets, in “washed-out liquid mauve” (a violet color tinged with red), or in girlish pink, like roses in “the glowing flesh tints of their nudity.” As one scholar points out, the “aqueous and hesitant color, so often found in Odette’s clothes, reflects the ambiguous quality of her demeanor.”30 But “more exquisite than any of her dresses” were Odette’s tea-gowns and wrappers. When she first met Swann, Odette wore kimono-like wrappers, but by the 1890s, after

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her marriage to Swann, and when the narrator was infatuated with her, she had moved on to eighteenth-century-inspired Watteau gowns. For despite her fragile (and still marginal) respectability, she dearly loved these garments, associated with the bedroom and the boudoir, which played so crucial a role in the life of the courtesan, for whom: The culminating point of her day is not the moment in which she dresses herself for all the world to see, but that in which she undresses herself for a man. She must be as smart in her wrapper, in her nightgown, as in her outdoor attire. Other women display their jewels, but as for her, she lives in the intimacy of her pearls.31

Aware of the erotic connotations of her indoor gowns, Madame Swann was both flattered and embarrassed by the narrator’s unconcealed enthusiasm and his “protestations that no ‘outdoor’ clothes could be nearly as becoming.” Indeed, he went so far as to suggest that she ought to go out in a tea-gown, a bit of advice that she wisely laughed off, apologizing for having so many wrappers, “explaining that they were the only kind of dress in which she felt comfortable.”32 The elegance of Odette’s dresses lay in the perfection of the details, which were hardly ever even seen. If while out strolling, she should feel too warm, and open or take off her jacket, only then would the narrator “discover in the blouse beneath it a thousand details of execution which had had every chance of remaining there unperceived, like those parts of an orchestral score to which the composer has devoted infinite labour albeit they may never reach the ears of the public.” And if he should carry her jacket, only then would he see it closely: in the sleeves of the jacket that lay folded across my arm I would see, I would drink in slowly, for my own pleasure or from affection for its wearer, some exquisite detail, a deliciously tinted strip, a lining of mauve satinette which, ordinarily concealed from every eye, was yet as delicately fashioned as the outer parts, like those gothic carvings on a cathedral, hidden on the inside of a balustrade eighty feet from the ground, as perfect as are the bas-reliefs over the main porch.33

To compare fashion with a musical composition or a statue on a Gothic cathedral is a way of saying that fashion is, potentially, a work of art. The cathedral, especially, was for Proust, the symbol of the glory of French art and civilization.

The Red Shoes of the Duchesse de Guermantes One of the most famous scenes in Proust’s novel involves the red shoes of the Duchesse de Guermantes. Most people seem to regard it as purely a social and sartorial cameo: Oriane, the beautiful Duchesse de Guermantes, is a member of the highest Parisian society and

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Swann’s best friend. One evening, she is about to leave for a party, given by her cousin, the Princesse de Guermantes, when her husband notices that she has committed the sin of wearing black shoes with a red dress: She was just getting into the carriage when . . . the Duke cried in a terrifying voice: “Oriane, what have you been thinking of, you wretch! You’ve kept on your black shoes! With a red dress! Go upstairs quick and put on red shoes. . . .” The Duchess went up to her room. “Well,” said M. de Guermantes to Swann and myself, “we poor, down-trodden husbands, people laugh at us, but we are of some use all the same. But for me, Oriane would have been going out to dinner in black shoes.” “It’s not unbecoming,” said Swann, “I noticed the black shoes and they didn’t offend me in the least.” “I don’t say you’re wrong,” replied the Duke, “but it looks better to have them match the dress. . . . Good-bye, my children,” he said, thrusting us gently from the door, “get away before Oriane comes down again . . . If she finds you still here she will start talking again.”34

So much everyone knows. This passage has even been quoted as evidence that shoes were important to elegant aristocrats! Yet no one who has actually read the entire book can regard the scene as anything less than devastating. Later, when the narrator was in the midst of his affair with Albertine, he spoke to the Duchesse de Guermantes about the fashions she had worn long ago: “‘For instance, Madame, that evening . . . you had a dress that was all red, with red shoes, you were marvellous, you reminded me of a sort of great blood-red blossom, a blazing ruby— now, what was that dress? Is it the sort of thing that a girl can wear?’”35 Delighted that he remembered her dress, the Duchess has entirely forgotten “a certain incident which . . . ought to have mattered to her greatly.” Instead, she replies, laughingly, that, yes, a girl could wear such a dress, but only when it was appropriate to wear full evening dress. (And, of course, such an occasion could hardly arise, since the narrator’s mistress Albertine, for whom he was asking these questions, would not have been a welcome guest at the evening parties that he attended.) The Duchess suggests that her maid could show him some of the dresses in her wardrobe. “Only, my dear boy, though I shall be delighted to lend you anything, I must warn you that if you have things from Callot’s or Doucet’s or Paquin’s copied by some small dressmaker, the result is never the same.”36 Many years later, after the First World War and the death of Albertine, the narrator goes to one last party. As he talks with the Duchesse de Guermantes, he recalls the first evening he went to a party given by the Princesse de Guermantes, “when you wore the red dress and red shoes.” “Good heavens, how far back all of that is!” replies the Duchess. He asks her to describe the dress, which she does obligingly and in some detail, adding a question of her own: “You are sure they were red shoes? I thought they were gold ones.” “I assured her that it was most vividly present in my mind, without reminding her of the circumstance which made me so positive about it.”37 But what does he remember that she does not? The red shoes of the Duchess have some significance that she has entirely forgotten. Remember, she was Swann’s best friend, and

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that evening she was trying to coax him into coming with them to Italy. Pressed repeatedly, Swann was finally forced to admit that he could not plan to accompany them six months hence, because by then he would be dead. But the Duke and Duchess were late for their party. They did not want to take the time to respond to such tragic news—so they dismissed it—it couldn’t be true. And yet they took the time necessary to change her shoes. In their scale of things, that was more important than the imminent death of a close friend. No wonder the Comtesse de Chevigné was distressed. Proust’s novel was no roman à clef, however. Another of Proust’s friends, Madame Strauss, did once put on black shoes with a red dress, and her husband angrily ordered her to change; “but it was under no such circumstances of cruelty and selfishness. Proust ran upstairs to fetch the shoes and all was well.”38 Such are the materials from which art is created.

The Baron de Charlus The subject of homosexuality is at the heart of Proust’s novel. Not only was Proust homosexual, but several of his most important characters turn out to be, too, the Baron de Charlus above all, but also the Marquis de Saint-Loup. Proust understood how fashion functioned simultaneously to conceal and to reveal their sexual proclivities, or, perhaps, to reinforce an open secret. Indeed, one of the reasons that homosexuals have been so involved with fashion over the centuries is because fashion can be used to play, very subtly, with identity.39 Proust scholars agree that the Baron de Charlus was based in part on the homosexual dandy, Count Robert de Montesquiou, who also inspired Joris-Karl Huysman’s decadent character Des Esseintes in the novel À rebours (Against Nature). Mallarme had told Huysmans that this descendant of d’Artagnan once wore a white velvet suit with a bouquet of Parma violets at his throat instead of a cravat.40 Montesquiou himself described the waistcoats made for him by Charvet as “masterpieces,” adding, “Never have I been so encased in silk, just like a bouquet of flowers.”41 An aesthete, known as the “professor of beauty,” Montesquiou knew everything about women’s fashion. In his poetry, he even compared flowering plants with the work of couturiers, such as “Doucet, the suave, or Worth, the subtle.”42 He paid equally careful attention to the design, fit, color, and material of his own clothes. Tall and thin, he described himself as “a greyhound in an overcoat.” For many years, he favored colorful ensembles. Once, for instance, he was visiting the poet de Heredia, when the latter suggested that they go see the painter De Nittis. Montesquiou replied that he could not possibly visit such a master of nuances of color while wearing rich colors such as a glowing red cravat, and he insisted on going home to change into a dovecolored suit and a Liberty cravat, saying, “Now I have his nuance.”43 Over time, however, he adopted a more sober chic, often dark grey suits, punctuated by pastel cravats and lilac perfume. On one occasion, he wore an iron-grey frock-coat, mouse-

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grey gaiters, and mauve-grey gloves, surprising a lady, who exclaimed, “All this grey! Count, are you in mourning?”44 He wore a similar harmony in grey for his portrait by Boldini, in which, however, he is shown contemplating the turquois knob of his cane. For his portrait by Whisler, Montesquiou wore another dark suit, but he holds a pale chinchilla wrap borrowed from the Comtesse Greffulhe (who complained later that Montesquiou’s boyfriend had stolen it). In his youth, Palamède de Charlus had also favored striking fashions, once launching a vogue for “blue and fringed, long-haired [vicuña] coats.” But by the time the narrator met him, Charlus had adopted sober, ultra-masculine attire. And yet his carefully chosen, soigne apparel was revealing in its details:

Opposite: Giovanni Boldini, Count Robert de Montesquiou, 1897. Oil on canvas, Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. RF1977-56. Photo: Hervé Lewandowski. © RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY.

I saw that he had changed his clothes. The suit he was wearing was darker even than the other; and no doubt this was because the true distinction in dress lies nearer to simplicity than the false; but there was something more; when one came nearer to him one felt that if colour was almost entirely absent from these garments it was not because he who had banished it from them was indifferent to it but rather because for some reason he forbade himself the enjoyment of it. And the sobriety which they displayed seemed to be of the kind that comes from obedience to a rule of diet rather than from want of appetite. A dark green thread harmonized, in the stuff of his trousers, with the clock on his socks, with a refinement that betrayed the vivacity of a taste that was everywhere else conquered, to which this single concession had been made out of tolerance for such a weakness, while a spot of red on his necktie was imperceptible, like a liberty which one dares not take.45

As Diana Festa-McCormick notes in her fascinating book, Proustian Optics of Clothes: “Charlus’ dark suit, in fact, has the connotations of an adopted mask, serving the double purpose of deceiving and of revealing the deception.” For while insisting on his sartorial “masculinity,” Charlus also desired to convey his homosexuality—but only to potential sexual partners. He had to hope that other “inhabitants of Sodom” would see through his disguise, and recognize that such a “contrived and artistic simplicity” implied homosexuality. In his old age, however, Charlus reverted to the flamboyance of his youth, exchanging his black suit for “very light trousers, recognizable a mile off.” [T]here was also the change that had occurred in his intonations, his gestures, all of which singularly resembled the type M. de Charlus used most fiercely to castigate; he would now utter unconsciously almost the same little cries . . . as are uttered consciously by the inverts who refer to one another as ‘she.’ As a matter of fact—and this is what this purely unconscious “camping” revealed—the difference between the stern Charlus, dressed all in black, whom I had known, and the painted young men, loaded with rings, was no more than [a] purely imaginary difference.46

Charlus was not the only stylish homosexual in Proust’s novel. The “young Marquis de Saint-Loup-en-Bray was famed for the smartness of his clothes.” When the narrator first saw this handsome blond aristocrat at the seaside resort of Balbec, Saint-Loup was dressed “in a clinging, almost white material such as I never have believed any man would have

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had the audacity to wear.” Was Saint-Loup “effeminate,” insinuated Proust, or was he (as he then appeared to be) a notorious “womaniser”? Over the course of the novel, it would emerge that Saint-Loup’s scandalous affair with the actress Rachel merely concealed his homosexuality, while his flamboyant dress accurately displayed his true identity.47 In his youth, Proust was very good-looking and tried to dress stylishly. Like Montesquiou, he “went in for pale green ties,” wore orchids or white camellias in his buttonhole, and twirled a fine malacca cane. But as a dandy, he was a failure. Several friends suggested that he could use a better tailor. His top hats, although expensive, “very soon took on the appearance of hedgehogs or Skye terriers.” His gloves were “always crumpled and dirty” and he was constantly losing them. His beautiful dark hair was frequently long and disordered, so that even his mother wrote to plead with him: “Please, no more Frankishking haircuts.” And he greatly impressed several visitors, who declared that they had never seen anyone have dinner wrapped in an overcoat.48 But whatever his personal appearance, Proust apparently believed that most homosexuals used fashion simultaneously as a disguise and as a revelation of their inner selves. To the shared language of clothes, they added more or less secret refinements. Like heterosexuals, however, they worked within a context in which dark, stiff clothing signified masculinity, while light or bright colors and ornamentation signified femininity or effeminacy. In one of the novel’s most striking scenes, when Charlus attempted to seduce the narrator, he greeted him, lying on the sofa like an odalisque, clad in a Chinese dressing gown which was open at the throat. In the exoticism, looseness, and body exposure of his dressing gown, he recalled Odette in her Japanese tea-gowns. Oriental dressing gowns had, of course, long been part of the upper-class masculine wardrobe, but under the circumstances, dishabille signified intimacy, while the exotic translated into the erotic. Nearby, on a chair, lay Charlus’s dark suit and top hat—a disguise discarded. And the narrator, who had for so long naively misinterpreted the baron’s attentions, finally understood, and angrily kicked his shiny top hat.

The Duchesse and the Princesse de Guermantes In another famous scene, Proust compares the style of the Duchesse de Guermantes with that of the Princesse de Guermantes. Its psychological brilliance is only slightly marred by the fact that, for once, Proust has abdicated his role as a historian of fashion—for although the action ostensibly takes place in the 1890s, the clothing is a composite of the 1890s and about 1912. It is a magical scene, in which the theater appears as a mysterious aquatic realm. Out of the semidarkness, he focuses on the stage box of the Princesse de Guermantes, forever separated from the abode of mortals sitting below in the orchestra stalls. “Like a mighty goddess,” the Princess is seated on a sofa, “red as a reef of coral.” The mirror behind her casts “a splash of reflexion” like “the flashing crystal of the sea”—and there she is:

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At once plume and blossom, like certain subaqueous growths, a great white flower, downy as the wing of a bird, fell from the brow of the Princess along one of her cheeks. . . . Over her hair . . . was spread a net upon which those little white shells which are gathered on some shore of the South Seas alternated with pearls, a marine mosaic barely emerging from the waves.

But when the play was due to begin, the Princess sat forward in her box, as though she herself were part of the performance. The box emerged from “the watery realm,” and the Princess came into focus, “turbanned in white and blue like some marvellous tragic actress” and crowned with “an immense bird of paradise.” As the certain rose on the second act, there was a movement in the box, as everyone stood up to let the Duchess enter. The differences in their costumes immediately expressed their very different personalities: Instead of the wonderful downy plumage which, from the crown of the Princess’s head, fell and swept her throat, instead of her net of shells and pearls, the Duchess wore in her hair only a simple aigrette, which . . . reminded one of the crest on the head of a bird. Her neck and shoulders emerged from a drift of snow-white muslin, against which fluttered a swans-down fan, but below this her gown, the bodice of which had for its sole ornament innumerable spangles (either little sticks and beads of metal, or possibly brilliants), moulded her figure with a precision that was positively British.

It was as though “the Duchess had guessed that her cousin . . . would be wearing one of those costumes in which the Duchess thought of her as ‘dressed up,’ and that she had decided to give her a lesson in good taste” or, at least, different taste. For the Duchess was “inclined to make fun” of what she regarded as her cousin’s “exaggerations.” So “typically French and restrained” was the Duchess that her cousin’s style seemed too poetic, enthusiastic, overcomplicated, Teutonic—although still “quite lovely.” Whereas, to the Princess, Oriane’s style looked “a little cold, a little austere, a little ‘tailor-made’”—and yet, without any hypocrisy, she could also recognize “in this rigid sobriety an exquisite refinement.” And so, “they could be seen turning to gaze at one another in mutual appreciation.” Lesser mortals might attempt to imitate them, but an ‘arrangement’ supposed to suggest that of the Princesse de Guermantes simply made the Baronne de Morienval appear eccentric, pretentious and ill-bred, while an effort as painstaking as it must have been costly, to imitate the clothes and style of the Duchesse de Guermantes only made Mme de Cambremer look like some provincial schoolgirl, mounted on wires, rigid, erect, dry, angular, with a plume of raven’s feathers stuck vertically in her hair.

Naturally, it did not keep them from “trying to make out exactly how the cousins were dressed;” but any imitation was doomed. For his part, the narrator was convinced that the garments worn by the Duchess and the Princess “were peculiar to themselves,” just as a bird has its own plumage: “the bird

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of paradise seemed inseparable from its wearer as her peacock is from Juno, and I did not believe that any other woman could usurp that spangled bodice, any more than the fringed and flashing aegis of Minerva.” As the narrator was engaged in thought, the Duchess caught sight of him, “pointed in my direction” and “showered upon me the sparkling and celestial torrent of her smile.”49 In this scene, Proust based his account on real people, clothes, and events; but all of them were transformed. Although the Comtesse Greffulhe was in many ways the model for the Duchesse de Guermantes, here she serves as the model for the Princess—for, like the Princess, Madame Greffulhe favored an extravagant style of dress. Indeed, according to Proust’s biographer: A characteristic anecdote of Comtesse Greffulhe is told of the Princesse de Guermantes in a rejected passage of Sodome et Gomorrhe. “I shall know I’ve lost my beauty when people stop turning to stare at me in the street,” the Comtesse told Mme Standish; and Mme Standish replied: “Never fear, my dear, so long as you dress as you do, people will always turn and stare.”50 In the theater scene, the flamboyance of Madame Greffulhe (as the Princess) is contrasted with the austere chic of Madame Standish (as the Duchess)—the two real personages appearing much this way at the theater in May 1912. Proust’s reference to the “positively British precision” of the Duchess’s dress pointed directly to Madame Standish, a former mistress of Edward VII, who modeled her style on that of Queen Alexandra.

Albertine, Fashion, and Fortuny Albertine appeared initially as one of a group of young girls, all dressed pour le sport and pushing bicycles or carrying golf clubs; “their attire . . . was in contrast to that of the other girls at Balbec, some of whom . . . went in for games, but without adopting any special outfit.” Precisely what Albertine wore is unclear, apart from a polo-cap that made her look like the juvenile mistress of a professional bicyclist. Later, when she and the narrator became friends, Albertine dismissed the more orthodox young women with disdain: “They dress in the most absurd way. Imagine going to play golf in silk frocks!”51 But despite her golf clubs and bicycle, Albertine was not only athletic, but also artistic, and under Elstir’s tutelage, her “taste for pictures had almost caught up [with] the taste for clothes.” Elstir, himself, deserves some mention. Based on several “real-life” models (such as Paul Helieu and Claude Monet), his work combines elements from both Impressionism and the painting of elegant life. When he painted regattas, he noticed with approval the ladies’ white yachting dresses. At the races, he saw that the courtesan Mademoiselle Léa had “a little white hat and a little white sunshade, simply enchanting.” When asked what made them different from ordinary accessories, he could only say (like the narrator’s cook

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when asked about her excellent soufflés): “It’s the way you do them”—which may be as good a definition of style as you are likely to find. Proust was obviously thinking of Degas when he made the narrator say that he “could no longer despise the milliners, now that Elstir told me that the delicate touches . . . which they give . . . to the ribbons or feathers of a hat . . . would be as interesting to him to paint as the muscular actions of the jockeys.”52 The Duchess bought one painting by Elstir, on Swann’s advice, but she hid it away in an obscure room, until after he had become fashionable, when she displayed it as evidence of her unerring taste. Albertine learns about fashion, as well as art, from Elstir, a man “so hard to satisfy that [almost] all women appeared to him badly dressed,” among the few exceptions being the Duchesse de Guermantes. Although not a wealthy man, Elstir ordered for his wife certain “charming” clothes “at fabulous prices.” Proust clearly agreed with Elstir’s pronouncements about the minute details that made all the difference between the horrible clothing worn by most women and the rare thing that enchanted by its beauty: “There are very few firms at present, one or two only, Callot—although they go in rather too freely for lace—Doucet, Cheruit, Paquin sometimes. The others are all horrible.” Already, Albertine was more sophisticated than the narrator, with a natural “eye” for elegance: “Then, is there a vast difference between a Callot dress and one from any ordinary shop?” I asked Albertine. “Why, an enormous difference, my little man! . . . Only, alas! what you get for three hundred francs in an ordinary shop will cost two thousand there. But there can be no comparison; they look the same only to people who know nothing at all about it.” “Quite so,” put in Elstir, “though I should not go so far as to say that it is as profound as the difference between a statue from Rheims Cathedral and one from Saint-Augustine.”53

Proust was quite serious in comparing the great couturiers of the Belle Epoque with the medieval artists he most admired. Perhaps the Callot sisters did “go in rather too freely for lace,” but was it surprising? After all, the four sisters—Marie, Marthe, Régine, and Josephine—were the daughters of a lace-maker. Before they opened their own dressmaking shop in 1895 on the fashionable rue Taitbout, they had worked in a shop selling lace and trimmings. Influenced by this history, their dresses, tea-gowns, and blouses were ravishing confections, featuring the most delicate and refined details. In her youth, Madeleine Vionnet was the première at their workshop, and she recalled the eldest sister, Madame Gerber, as “A great lady totally occupied with a profession that consists of adorning woman.” She was “a true dressmaker.”54 Jacques Doucet was another fashion professional whom Proust mentioned, and he remains the best known today, probably in large part because he was famous as the couturier of the seductive woman. Actresses and courtesans—like Liane de Pougy, Emilienne d’Alençon, La Belle Otéro and, above all, the great Réjane—came almost weekly to the Maison Doucet at

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21 rue de la Paix (formerly a luxury lingerie shop, founded by Doucet’s grandparents). Liane de Pougy recalled that “actresses and great ladies brushed shoulders” there.55 Proust admired couturiers such as these, and if he seldom mentioned them by name, we may nevertheless be justified in reading between the lines and picturing the Duchesse de Guermantes in Callot or Odette in one of Doucet’s tea-gowns. For Albertine, the designer’s name was important, since something like “a Doucet wrapper, its sleeves lined with pink” was, for her, an object of intense desire, in a way that it could never be for the Duchesse de Guermantes, who took such things for granted. If Proust did not analyze in detail the real differences in the couturiers’ respective styles, this was because he believed that fashion was ultimately created by a handful of fashionable women rather than by the dressmakers who served them. One day Elstir was talking about Venice, and about the rare and beautiful textiles that appeared in the work of Renaissance painters like Carpaccio, adding: “But I hear that a Venetian artist, called Fortuny, has recovered the secret of the craft and that before many years have passed women will be able to walk abroad, and better yet sit at home in brocades as sumptuous as those.” Elstir’s apparently casual reference set the stage for an entire Fortuny theme, inextricably associated with Albertine’s captivity.56 The narrator first saw a Fortuny gown when visiting the Duchesse de Guermantes. Susceptible to the charm of robes d’intérieur, he responded instinctively to a gray crêpede-chine that seemed to exhale the atmosphere “of certain late afternoons cushioned in pearly grey by a vaporous fog.” When she wore a Chinese indoor gown decorated with red and yellow flames, he “gazed at it as at a glowing sunset; these garments were not a casual decoration alterable at her pleasure, but a definite and poetical reality.” Yet of all her gowns, “those which seemed most to respond to a definite intention, to be endowed with a special significance, were the garments made by Fortuny.” Soon he was questioning the Duchess about “that indoor gown that you were wearing the other evening . . . dark . . . streaked with gold like a butterfly’s wing?” “Ah! That is one of Fortuny’s. Your young lady can quite well wear that in the house. I have heaps of them.” The narrator soon purchases, not only the Fortuny robe that Albertine chose, but also “the other five which she had relinquished with regret, out of preference for this last.”57 He bribes Albertine to stay with him, by giving her Fortuny dresses. Yet the sight of them reminds him that he can never go to Venice, as long as Albertine is his mistress. (This was a very Proustian dilemma, involving not only the illicit nature of his relationship with Albertine, but also the narrator’s sexual jealousy.) Thus, not only were Fortuny’s dresses objectively Venetian, created there and inspired by the art of the Venetian Renaissance, they also represented the narrator’s personal and ideal Venice, which he had dreamed of since childhood: The Fortuny gown which Albertine was wearing that evening seemed to me the tempting phantom of that invisible Venice. It swarmed with Arabic ornaments, like the Venetian palaces hidden like sultanas behind a screen of pierced stone . . . like the columns from which the Oriental birds that symbolized alternatively life and death were repeated in the mirror of the fabric.58

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By the end of their unhappy relationship, all of Albertine’s dresses represent deception, captivity, or flight: when she wears black satin, she looks to him “like a pallid, ardent Parisian lady, etiolated . . . by the atmosphere of crowds and perhaps the habit of vice.” When she gets dressed, he is afraid that she planning to meet a lover. As Festa-McCormick writes: “Clothing nourishes jealousy.” And the narrator pleads with Albertine, “Don’t put your gown on yet.” Terrified of losing her, “he wishes to see Albertine imprisoned in the heavy folds of the precious materials.” But his “slavery in Paris” was also “made heavier by the sight of those dresses that evoked Venice.”59

Two designs by Mariano Fortuny as illustrated in Femina (1913).

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For Odette’s generation, tea-gowns were an expression of the growing emphasis on female sexuality. For Albertine and her friends, Fortuny’s gowns were the harbinger of a wider fashion revolution and the beginning of modern dress. Fortuny’s gowns were never intended to be worn as street dress, or even as ball-gowns. On one occasion, it is true, Proust’s narrator asks Albertine if she would like to accompany him to Versailles, and she says: “I can come as I am, we shan’t be getting out of the car.” So she throws a cloak over her Fortuny, and goes out. But they can not go to dinner with the Verdurins, because Albertine was “not dressed.”60 By 1916, a few women began to wear their Fortunys outdoors (sometimes rather oddly covered by cardigan sweaters). Meanwhile, in 1909, the Ballets Russes made their first appearance in Paris. Within a few years, ballets such as Schéhérazade introduced “exotic” costumes in “barbaric” colors to an enraptured audience, who soon adopted similar styles in their own lives. As Proust wrote: Like the theatrical designs of Sert, Bakst and Benois who at that moment were recreating in the Russian ballet the most cherished periods of art—with the aid of works of art impregnated with their spirit and yet original—these Fortuny gowns, faithfully antique but markedly original, brought before the eye like a stage setting, with an even greater suggestiveness than a setting, since the setting was left to the imagination, that Venice loaded with the gorgeous East from which they had been taken.61

Fashion and Time A la recherche du temps perdu is the story of how the narrator idles away his youth in love affairs and fashionable society, and only at the last moment discovers his vocation as an artist. As he grows old, the memory of Madame Swann’s clothes torments him with the sense of lost time. In 1912, he walks in the Bois de Boulogne, recalling how, twenty years earlier, he set out with the intention of seeing Madame Swann go past, lying back in “a matchless Victoria,” wearing violets and carrying a lilac parasol. Or again, how he himself used to stroll with her along the Allée des Acacias, when she would let “trail behind her the long train of her lilac skirt, dressed as the populace imagine queens to be dressed.” Some man or other “in a grey ‘tile’ hat” might greet her, or the narrator might catch a fragment of masculine conversation: “Odette de Crécy! . . . I remember, I had her on the day that MacMahon went.” “I shouldn’t remind her of it, if I were you. She is now Mme Swann, the wife of a gentleman in the Jockey Club, a friend of the Prince of Wales. Apart from that, though, she is wonderful still.” “Oh, but you ought to have known her then; Gad, she was lovely.”62

And so the memories go back ever further in the past, to a time before the narrator was born. But he would be happy if only he could see again the fashions of the Nineties, “that I

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might know whether they were indeed as charming as they appeared to the eyes of memory, little hats so low crowned as to seem no more than garlands about the brows of women.” Alas! In place of Odette’s lilac bonnet or her tiny hat decorated with “a single iris,” the women now wear “immense” hats, “on which have been heaped the spoils of aviary or garden-bed.” As motor-cars speed past, the narrator observes with shock that the men no longer wear any kind of hat: “They walked the Bois bare-headed,” while in place of Odette’s lovely trailing gowns, the women “hobble by” in Directoire-style “Liberty chiffons.” “Oh, horrible!” exclaims the narrator, “there is no standard left of elegance.” “But”—and here he made a far more profound connection between clothes and time—”it would not have sufficed me that the costumes alone should still have been the same as in those distant years.” Everything would have to have been the same: He would have had to be able to come back from the Bois, to pass the afternoon over a cup of tea in Madame Swann’s drawing-room, in the house she had then, with everything the same. “The reality I had known no longer existed. It sufficed that Mme Swann did not appear, in the same attire and at the same moment, for the whole avenue to be altered.” Remembrance of her clothes was only regret for that particular moment—”as fugitive, alas, as the years.”63 And yet the narrator still derived pleasure and awareness from the “memories of poetical sensations,” stronger even than the “memories of what the heart has suffered.” And when he closed his eyes, he could see himself once again, “strolling and talking thus with Mme. Swann beneath her parasol, as though in the coloured shade of a wisteria bower.”64

Anaïs Colin Toudouze, fashion plate from La Mode Illustrée (1890).

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11 Into the Twentieth Century Interviewed in 1903 about their favorite brand of corset, Mme. Réjane said, “pas besoin,” [no need] and Mlle Eve Lavaliére replied, “Je nien porte pas” [I don’t wear one]. “Les Arbitres de l’élégance,” Figaro-Modes, 19031

I

a dress from 1900 with one from 1925, the difference is so great that it seems only a catastrophe such as First World War could have changed fashion so dramatically. Yet already by 1903, two out of three of the “arbiters of elegance” interviewed by FigaroModes claimed that they did not wear a corset. Admittedly, they were trendsetters, but others would soon follow suit. Many people today believe that fashion became simpler and more functional because of the shortages and exigencies associated with World War I. In reality, however, it was the years just before the First World War, which saw the development of a radically new style of women’s dress. Within only a few short years, roughly between 1907 and 1913, a fashion world dominated by the corset, frou-frou skirts, and pastel shades turned into one where women increasingly wore brassieres and high-waisted “Empire” frocks or “Oriental” fantasies in bright, “barbaric” colors. They sometimes even wore trousers. This is not to say that World War I had no impact, but the cultural factors leading to change were already influencing fashion before 1914. The war itself primarily accelerated changes that were already happening. The French couturier Paul Poiret has often been credited with originating the new look. Certainly, he was among the leading avant-garde French dress designers and was closely associated with both Neoclassicism and Orientalism, two styles predicated on a new attitude toward the body. In his autobiography, Poiret boasted, “It was still the age of the corset. I waged war upon it . . . It was . . . in the name of Liberty that I proclaimed the fall of the corset and the adoption of the brassiere.”2 Without downplaying Poiret’s very significant f you compare

Opposite: Illustration by Paul Iribe from Les Robes de Paul Poiret, 1908.

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Photograph by Reutlinger of Madame Réjane, FigaroModes (1903).

innovations, it is clear that the modernization of fashion emerged from a matrix of factors, including the growing influence of youth, sports, and artistic dress, all of which contributed to changes in the cultural ideal of beauty. Nor was Poiret the only designer to revolutionize fashion. Madeleine Vionnet always claimed that she had abolished corsets as early as 1907, when she was a designer at Doucet. “I have never been able to tolerate corsets myself,” recalled Vionnet. “Why should I have inflicted them on other women? Le corset, c’est une chose orthopédique.” [The corset is an orthopedic device.]3 Vionnet was one of a number of designers and artists who were exploring new types of clothing in the early twentieth century. In Vienna, for example, Gustav Klimt was designing artistic dresses for his companion, Emilie Flöge. The “Magician of Venice,” Mariano Fortuny, also influenced Parisian style with his pleated silk gowns. From the moment of her Paris premiere in 1903, dancing corset-less in neoclassical draperies, Isadora Duncan had a profound impact on fashion. The costume and set designer for the Ballets Russes, Leon Bakst, had an equally revolutionary effect on the way fashionable people dressed, especially after the first Paris performance of Schéhérazade in 1910. Some American scholars have interpreted the radical change in fashion that occurred before the war as the (belated) success of the Dress Reform movement. The evidence does not support this hypothesis, although experiments with “artistic” dress certainly contributed to the emergence of avant-garde fashion. Only a few women rejected corsets on the grounds of health or feminism. Rather, what seems to have happened was a gradual shift toward a “modern type” of beauty, a slim and youthful Diana, whose “graceful figure [was] developed by sports,” in place of the traditionally voluptuous Venus.4 Already by 1903, when Figaro-Modes interviewed actresses about their favorite brand of corset, Mme Réjane replied, “No need” (although in the accompanying photograph, she appears to be wearing a

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corset). Mademoiselle Eve Lavallière, who would later be a client of Vionnet’s, more credibly maintained, “I don’t wear corsets.”5 In the coming years, an increasing number of women would regard the corset as something “orthopedic” that only older or stouter women would require. Before designers such as Poiret launched what came to be known, somewhat misleadingly, as “Art Deco” fashion, the early twentieth century saw the rise of another style, Art Nouveau, which would begin to lead fashion out of the nineteenth century.

Art Nouveau Fashion Art Nouveau was a style in architecture and the decorative arts that emphasized sinuous curving lines. It emerged in the 1890s throughout Europe and North America in opposition to stylistic eclecticism. However, the French context for Art Nouveau drew on specific political, psychological, and economic sources, including anxieties about the “new woman” and a new emphasis on “luxury crafts as the presumed source of French market preeminence.”6 Images of seductive, sinister women were ubiquitous in Art Nouveau art and illustration, perhaps more in posters and advertisements than in fashion illustrations as such, although the work of Georges de Feure appeared in fashion magazines such as Les Modes and Figaro-Modes. Art Nouveau was a holistic decorative style that embraced architecture, interior design, and all the objects within, from furniture to the fashions worn by the mistress of the house. Textile patterns and the surface decoration on dresses included the use of intricately curving lines and iconic plant imagery such as water lilies. Art Nouveau jewelry also featured a wealth of Art Nouveau motifs, from swans and orchids to serpents and insects, many of which emphasized the ambivalent image of the femme fatale. The silhouette of women’s dresses also became more Art Nouveau as the hourglass corset was increasingly elongated in the 1890s and then replaced in 1900 by the so-called straight-front corset. A French corsetiere with a degree in medicine, Mme. Inez Gâches-Sarraute is usually credited with the invention of the new corset, which was supposed to be healthier. However, when laced even moderately tightly, the straight-front corset transformed the wearer’s torso into an S-curve, with the bosom leading,

Illustration by George de Feure for Le Journal de la Décoration.

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the stomach tucked in and the derrière prominent. (Ironically, after decades of medical advice and appeals by dress reformers, women now adopted a more uncomfortable corset.) The Exposition Universelle of 1900 in Paris popularized Art Nouveau for a global audience and, as a result, Art Nouveau was also known as le style 1900. All the international exhibitions held in Paris—in 1855, 1867, 1878, 1889, and 1900—prominently displayed Parisian fashions and accessories, which attracted large and enthusiastic crowds. At the Paris exhibition of 1900, a fifteen-foot-high statue of La Parisienne stood at the top of the Monumental Gateway, representing a lady wearing a dress by the acclaimed couturière, Madame Jeanne Paquin. Indeed, over the next few years, “La Parisienne’s sculptor, MoreauVauthier, specialized in making small full-length bronze figures of actual Parisian ladies of fashion, which were exhibited by these ladies in their salons. Most of these figures too were dressed in Paquin gowns.”7 The Pavilion de la Mode at the 1900 exhibition featured some thirty scenes with life-sized wax mannequins clothed in historic dress, provincial costumes, and the latest fashionable toilettes. Among the organizers of this very popular display were the couturiers Gaston

Opposite: House of Worth, Evening dress, French, 1898–1900. White silk satin and black silk voided velvet, white silk net, black silk velvet. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Miss Eva Drexel Dahlgren, 1976 (1976.258.1a, b) Photograph by Sheldan Collins © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY.

Dragonfly corsage ornament made of gold, enamel, chrysoprase, moonstones, and diamonds, designed by René Lalique, 1897–1898; in the Gulbenkian Museum, Lisbon. © Art Media/ Heritage-Images.com.

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Illustration, “Les Salons de Lumière—Avant la presentation,” from L’Exposition de Paris, (1900).

Illustration, “Les Salons de Lumière— Une des vitrines de la Collectivité de la Couture française,” from L’Exposition de Paris, (1900).

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Photograph from L’Exposition de Paris, (1900).

Worth and Madame Paquin, the director of the Magasins du Bon Marché, and Héloïse Colin Leloir’s son, the painter Maurice Leloir. The historic scenes included the Empress Theodora in Byzantine costume, Queen Isabeau of Bavaria wearing medieval dress while watching a tournament, and, of course, Marie Antoinette. Indeed, there were several eighteenthcentury ensembles, including a silk dress from the collection of Maurice Leloir, which was displayed on a mannequin positioned in front of a full-length mirror. Other historic costumes included a child’s dress from the Renaissance, a court uniform from the Napoleonic era, and a man’s dressing gown of embroidered yellow silk from the July Monarchy. Even more popular, however, were the scenes representing modern fashion and high society, such as “Departure for the Opéra.” There were clothes by Doucet, Callot Soeurs, and others. “Fitting the Wedding Gown” depicted a scene at the Maison Worth. There was also a mannequin intended to represent Madame Paquin herself, elegantly attired and seated in front of her dressing table.8 A luxurious book was published to commemorate the occasion with full-page color illustrations of each of the dresses. Yet only a few years later, Art Nouveau fashion would be replaced by a new look, sometimes inaccurately referred to as Art Deco, a term that really refers to the styles of the 1920s. This new modernist style was closely associated with Paul Poiret.

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“Robe satin blanc voile, Modèle de Worth,” (Dress of white satin voile, Model by Worth), Plate from Les toilettes se la Collectivité de la Couture Exposition Universelle de 1900. Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology | SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.

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Fashion and Modernism Paul Poiret (1879–1944) was a middle-class Parisian, whose father owned a fabric shop. He was still an adolescent when, in 1896, he began working for the couturier, Jacques Doucet. After his military service, he was hired by the House of Worth, then directed by the two sons of the great couturier. Gaston Worth bluntly told Poiret: Young man, you know the Maison Worth . . . possesses the most exalted and richest clientele, but today . . . princesses take the omnibus, and go on foot in the streets. My brother Jean has always refused to make . . . simple and practical dresses which none the less we are asked for. We are like some great restaurant, which would refuse to serve [anything] but truffles. It is, therefore, necessary for us to create a department of fried potatoes.

Poiret found it rather difficult to be “the potato frier” for the House of Worth, especially since Jean Worth loathed his designs: “You call that a dress? It is a dishcloth.”9 Poiret founded his own couture house in 1903, and in 1905 he married Denise Boulet, whose slender figure perfectly suited his emerging style. Poiret was not the only designer in

Henri Gervex, Cinq Heures chez le Couturier Paquin, 1906. House of Worth, London, UK/Bridgeman Images.

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Les MaÎtres de la Mode (Paquin, Beer, Worth, etc.). Paris, Dreager pour Weeks, 1908. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris.

Paris who was gradually moving away from the curvaceous S-silhouette and toward straight, high-waisted sheathe dresses. In her dissertation, Dorothy Behling demonstrates that “In the years between 1902 and 1908 a definite trend toward an empire silhouette began to emerge from many of the couture houses. Some of the gowns were neither an ‘S’ silhouette nor a true empire, but were rather a transition between the two styles. . . [But] by 1907, a number of couturiers [including Doucet, Drécoll, Beer, and Lanvin] were creating gowns with a ‘new look.’”10 But Poiret seems to have been the first to recognize that neither traditional fashion illustration nor the early examples of fashion photography could do justice to the bold lines and brilliant colors of his dresses. Most fashion illustration at this time was characterized by a cluttered and fussy style that was sometimes the result of a team of illustrators working collectively on the same picture. The rise of fashion photography also contributed to the deteriorating quality of most fashion illustration. By the 1890s, technical improvements in photographic reproduction had made the journalistic use of photographs easy and economical. However, the fashion photograph did not yet have an aesthetic of its own. Early fashion photographs were designed to look as much like the better-quality fashion plates as possible. Not only did they utilize the same conventions of pose and expression, many examples were heavily retouched.11 Into this dismal field, the new fashion illustration burst with the force of an explosion. In 1908, Poiret commissioned a deluxe album of drawings, Les Robes de Paul Poiret, raconties par Paul Iribe, which revolutionized the art of fashion illustration. Not only were the dresses themselves different, but Iribe’s style of drawing and his choice of colors flouted the conventions of traditional fashion illustration. Whereas the nineteenth-century illustrator had concentrated on conveying as much fashion information as possible, the new illustrator largely ignored details like buttons in favor of expressing the modern spirit of the dress. By 1911, Poiret had fallen out with Iribe, so he asked Georges Lepape to produce a similar album, Les Choses de Paul Poiret vues par Georges Lepape. Naturally, Poiret’s work was also photographed, but even the most advanced “art” photography seemed incapable of capturing adequately the new look. When Edward Steichen photographed Poiret’s dresses in the 1911 Art et Décoration, for example, his softfocus approach was not as effective as Lepape’s drawings. Nor did coloring the photographs work nearly as well as the pochoir color-printing method, in which up to thirty different

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stencils were used to reproduce the freshness of the original watercolor. Nevertheless, Poiret was understandably furious when a “venomous Paris newspaper” declared that illustrators such as Iribe and Lepape were the real fashion innovators. How could anyone claim that Poiret’s “‘personal genius’ was nothing but the talent of Iribe”?12 Many years later, Georges Lepape’s son claimed that at least four of the designs in Les Choses de Paul Poiret vues par Georges Lepape, those featuring trousers, were actually devised by Madame Lepape.13 Although Poiret may well have been appropriating others’ designs, these ideas were already very much in the public domain. Poiret may have been the first to hire these illustrators, but other designers were quick to follow. In 1911, Jeanne Paquin commissioned a deluxe album called L’Éventail et la Fourrure chez Paquin, by Paul Iribe in collaboration with Georges Barbier and Georges Lepape. Paquin’s couture designs were portrayed in flaming colors and on figures whose slender, apparently uncorseted bodies represented the new physical ideal. New fashion magazines also utilized advanced illustrations. La Gazette du Bon Ton first appeared in 1912 and was sponsored by seven of the most important Parisian designers: Cheruit, Doeuillet, Doucet, Paquin, Poiret, Redfern, and Worth. Each issue featured not only the latest couture models but also several additional fashion plates depicting imaginary clothing invented by artists. As the first issue proudly announced: When fashion becomes an art, a fashion magazine must itself become an arts magazine. . . . It will offer, on the one hand, the most recent models to emerge from the ateliers of the rue de la Paix and, on the other hand, in the painters’ watercolours, that fashion sense, that charming and bold interpretation that is their hallmark. Artists of today are in part creators of fashion: what does fashion not owe to Iribe, who introduced simplicity of line and the oriental style, or to Drian, or Bakst?14

Edward Steichen, photograph of a dress by Paul Poiret from Art et Décoration (1911).

According to Edna Woolman Chase, the initial group of artists was all young men under thirty, who “called themselves Beau Brummells or the Knights of the Bracelet,” since “a certain dandyism of dress and manner . . . makes them a ‘school’. . . A bracelet slipping down over a wrist at an unexpected moment betrays a love of luxury.15 Gustave Babin wrote an article for L’Illustration, in which he said that the idea of “dresses invented by the artists” was intriguing in theory but generally unsuccessful in practice. Although “certain hats

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History Fan design illustrated by Paul Iribe for the House of Paquin (1911).

imagined—apparently without great effort—are amusing,” the artists’ dresses appeared “very much inferior to those conceived by the couturiers alone.”16 Nor was La Gazette du Bon Ton the only forum for avant-garde work. Le Journal des Dames et des Modes and Les Modes et Manières d’Aujourd’hui also began publication in 1912. Other fashion magazines such as Femina also adopted the new style of fashion illustration, as modern fashion spread through society, promoted by means of avant-garde art. Certainly, the new fashions looked much more modern in stylized illustrations than in conventional photography, as can be seen when comparing two images of Paquin suits from 1913.

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Into the Twentieth Century A dress by Paquin featured in Comoedia Illustré (1912). Photographed by Félix.

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History

Georges Barbier, “Au jardin des Hespérides,” fashion plate for Gazette du Bon Ton (1913).

Yet, paradoxically, the avant-garde fashions in vogue just prior to the First World War clearly referenced the Empire fashions of a century before, as can be seen in A.E. Marty’s “Les Reminiscences de la Mode: Cents Ans Après” of 1913. However, fashion sometimes moves forward by looking back. Art Nouveau had referenced the French rococo style of the mid-eighteenth century. When Art Nouveau fell out of fashion, French designers revived the Neoclassicism of the Directory and the Napoleonic Empire, when the corset had also been replaced by a type of proto-brassiere. This shift was primarily internal to the field of fashion, but it might also have been at least partly influenced by the intense nationalism

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that then characterized French society: Designers such as Poiret did not want to be seen as being influenced by the modernist styles coming out of Vienna and Berlin. If certain images portray the ideal essence of the modern French look, there were also hostile depictions of fashion’s “exaggerations” and the “hideous crisis of bad taste.” In 1914, the French caricaturist Sem published a deluxe album, Le Vrai et le Faux Chic [True and False Chic], which satirized fashion’s more “paradoxical silhouettes.” Several illustrations were reproduced in L’Illustration, which agreed that, although “the great couturiers” had “succeeded in escaping the contagion,” many second-rate designers had launched “all kinds of eccentricities,” which were all too widely adopted. (Poiret is unnamed, but he is clearly a primary target of criticism.) “In the haunts of pleasure, at the theatres, in fashionable restaurants,” the observer is confronted with “a multitude of bizarre creatures.” Designers “organize the presentation of their new models like the spectacle at a café-concert, having their mannequins parade—to music—the better to seduce their clients.” To illustrate this, Sem depicts fashion models in lampshade tunics writhing to the strains of a dance band. Ultimately of course, he concluded, one has to accept “the fashion of today,” but the “truly chic” woman should exercise moderation and avoid the worst exaggerations of the modern style.17 His example of true chic depicts an elegant suit with a narrow skirt. Americans had always been ambivalent about Paris fashion, and nationalistic sentiment escalated in the prewar years, as Paris fashions became increasingly outré. The hobble skirt of 1910 was denounced as a “freak” and the harem skirt condemned because it originated in “heathen” countries where women were enslaved. At last, the French fashion dictators had gone too far. Or had they? Even as Poiret sailed for New York in 1913, the New York Herald printed an open letter from Cardinal Farley warning that “This Evil [fashion] constitutes a social as well

“Réminiscences de la Mode: cent ans après,” illustration by André Marty for Femina (1913). © 2016 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ ADAGP, Paris.

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The caricaturist Sem mockingly depicted a fashion show for L’Illustration (1913).

as moral danger to the American community for the licentious nature of its creatures.” But Poiret deftly used the Cardinal’s words as an advertisement and made a triumphal tour of the United States. He was less pleased to see how often American manufacturers simply copied his dresses and attached spurious Parisian labels to them. Returning to France, he took the first steps toward establishing a couture group designed to resist such international piracy.18 Madeleine Vionnet was also active in the (mostly futile) struggle against unauthorized copying of French fashions. Conspicuously audacious dress bears a noticeable family resemblance to the experimentation evident in all the arts in the prewar years. The glaring colors of the Fauves, for example, earned them their name: “wild beasts.” Poiret also described the fashion shift from refined, “eighteenth-century” pastels to vivid colors, in terms that emphasized their fierceness: “Nuances of nymph’s thigh, lilacs, swooning mauves, tender blue hortensias . . . all that was soft, washed out, and insipid, was held in honour. I threw into this sheepcote a few rough wolves; reds, greens, violets, royal blues . . . orange and lemon . . . the morbid mauves were hunted out of existence.”19 Like the new painting, the new music, and the new literature, fashion was not simply reflecting social change, it was also undergoing an internal stylistic revolution. Although

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fashion sometimes drew on trends in the other arts, it was more directly influenced by the changing imagery of fashionable people. Something new was happening in both fashion and fashion illustration—and in both cases, the inspiration came from the highest circles of Parisian haute couture. It was not, in any meaningful sense, the expression of a self-conscious movement for women’s liberation, nor for “practicality” in the world of work. The readers of La Gazette du Bon Ton were generally neither feminists nor working women. In short, it was not an antifashion movement but rather a development within the world of fashion.

Fashion and War Contrary to popular belief, the First World War did not liberate women from corsets and long skirts. A shortage of material did not result in short skirts, nor did corsets disappear when their metal “bones” were needed to make bullets. When Germany declared war on France in August 1914, some couture houses did close. After a few months, however, the French couture resumed virtually normal production. Male fashion professionals had been mobilized, but many (including Poiret) were soon released from the army. Throughout the war, American magazines and manufacturers were able to obtain French models. Indeed, the French government regarded the export of couture garments as an important part of the war effort. Despite unprecedented carnage, the Great War was not a total war, like World War II. Soldiers went back and forth to the front, and while they were in Paris (or London), fashionable dinners and dances continued to be held. Indeed, one of the commonest arguments for fashionable dress was precisely that it would cheer up the soldiers to see pretty, well-dressed women. Many fashion illustrations paired a soldier with a stylish young woman. The subtext was spelled out in one of Barbier’s illustrations from 1917, depicting a woman in a candy-pink, strapless pouf dress, whose caption reads: “I adorn myself to please him.” Other illustrations also emphasized the patriotic aspects of Paris fashion. In one famous image by Drian, a fashionable young woman posed in front of a military map of France dotted with tiny tricolored flags, while the cover of Femina featured a drawing by Lepape of a woman in the uniform of a Red Cross nurse.20 The most striking new fashion of 1915–1916 was a dress with a short full skirt, which was quickly dubbed the “war crinoline.” Although fashions like the war crinoline were described

This illustration by Sem depicts “true chic” (1914).

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History

Jeanne Paquin “war crinoline.” Illustration by Jean Brock for Les Derniers Créations de la Mode (1916).

in the press as “simple,” “practical,” “patriotic,” and “warlike,” they often look extremely feminine, even sexy. Lady Cynthia Asquith was surprised that the fashions of 1915 had become “practically early Victorian,” and she expressed reservations about adopting such an “ultrafashionable” style.21 Some soldiers were apparently shocked to see how fashion was progressing. In 1916, Le Femme Chic even suggested that readers might need to reconcile their husbands to the short skirt, when they came home on leave.22 Historians have tended to interpret the war crinoline as a radical response to women’s need for functional dress, but this is not really accurate. The narrow “hobble” skirt had already become passé, and one of the most popular prewar styles featured a short, full overskirt or tunic on top of a narrower underskirt. It would have been an easy design modification simply to eliminate the vestigial narrow underskirt and slightly lengthen the full overskirt. There is no question, however, that the sight of ankles and even calves was increasingly common by 1915. Another “shocking” innovation was the V-neckline, not for evening dress (where a deep décolletage was traditional), but for daytime. The V-neckline, first appeared before the war, but became increasingly ubiquitous during the war years. Although generally forgotten today, the neckline controversy received, at the time, almost as much attention as the hemline controversy. Meanwhile, in America, as early as September 1914, the New York Times suggested that now was the time “for America to develop whatever talent she has for designing clothes.” By February 1915, however, the Times reported glumly that the movement for American styles “died aborning once it was announced that the designers in Paris were keeping on the job.”23 Nevertheless, the members of the French couture were apparently upset by the news that Vogue was sponsoring a Fashion Fête in November 1914 that featured American fashions by designers from Bendel’s, Bergdorf Goodman, and other New York stores. The fact that all proceeds went to French war relief was regarded as poor compensation. “To counteract the French displeasure,” Condé Nast sent an emissary to Paris, suggesting a “French Fashion Fête” to be held in America in 1915.24 A special souvenir issue of La Gazette du Bon Ton (entitled The 1915 Mode as Shown by Paris) was published jointly in America and France in collaboration with Condé Nast. Dated June 15, 1915—”the 316th

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day of the war”—it proclaimed that although part of France might still be in enemy hands, Paris remained the home of fashion and good taste. Indeed, “since the Latin races are fighting to uphold their taste against Teutonic barbarity, was it not to be expected that Paris Fashion should once again take the lead this spring?” To support Paris fashion was now to uphold the principles of Western civilization itself. “Paris has innovated a warlike elegance . . . sportive and easy, leaving every gesture free, either to raise the unhappy wounded, or if need be, to handle a weapon.”25 As it gradually became apparent that—contrary to all expectations—the war was not about to end quickly, a more somber note seemed appropriate to fashion. To what extent it dominated fashion is another question entirely. When Marcel Proust’s narrator returned to Paris in 1916, he saw women “in high, cylindrical turbans, reminiscent of Directory fashions.” Showing their civic spirit by their straight, Egyptian jackets of dark color, very military-looking, over extremely short skirts, they wore leather puttees . . . or high leggings like those worn by our men at the front; it was, they explained, because they were mindful of their duty to rejoice the sight of those warriors that they still dressed up, not only in soft clinging gowns, but in jewelry suggesting the army by its decorative theme, if indeed the material itself did not come from the army. There were rings or bracelets made of fragments of shell . . . and it was likewise, they said, because they were always in their thoughts that they wore very little mourning when one of their family was killed, on the ground that their sorrow was mingled with pride.26

Proust was not crudely sarcastic; he observed that in 1793 painters had insisted that they should create and exhibit even when the rest of Europe was “besieging the land of freedom.” Similarly, the dressmakers of 1916 declared that they, too, were artists, with a mission “to seek new creations.” And yet, he implied, how could writers suggest that “our soldier boys . . . deep in their trenches, are dreaming . . . of modish apparel”? Did they appreciate that “This year the tonneau dress is all the rage, its charming, easy-going style giving us all a delightful individual touch of rare distinction”? Under the circumstances, was it not almost perverted for fashion journalists to write: “It will, indeed, be one of the most fortunate incidents of this sad war . . . to have achieved charming results in . . . women’s dress with very few materials and, without . . . vulgar luxury”? Moreover, Proust observed that in the salons of elegance and pleasure, faces, as well as hats, were new. Women like Odette, who had not been “received” before the war, now joined “charitable circles” and mingled with the denizens of the Faubourg Saint Germain. These newcomers quickly learned that to come “flashily gowned, with great necklaces of pearls” was now “taboo.” Fashion certainly continued, but the “really chic people” favored the relative “simplicity” of “war fashion.” And, in any case, according to the new way of thinking, “dresses are made to be worn but not commented on.” When Charlus comments favorably on a lady’s dress, both he and she are dismissed as being hopelessly “pre-war.”27 As more than a million French soldiers were slaughtered in military campaigns of unparalleled stupidity, the literature written for women about fashion became increasingly

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confused. Edna Chase recalled hearing about a young woman babbling to a wounded soldier, wondering “aloud what the new spring wear would be.” Shifting his crutches, he replied: “Mourning, madame, mourning.” But the mourning dresses shown in, say, Femina were every bit as stylishly modeled as ordinary fashionable dress—with high waists, full skirts, paniers, military collars, odd hats made of black ribbon, and short skirts.28 A column on “Fashion During the War” appeared in Femina in March 1917. It began tentatively, saying that the editors felt some apprehension and emotion about discussing fashion at all, since a number of people had insinuated that “the enemy being still with us, these questions of dress are really puerile.” They stood “ready to . . . condemn the smallest error” or the “overly lyrical style of [certain] fashion journalists”—and they were not always wrong to do so. But still, it was surely possible to write about fashion, about the fashion industry, in a way that was acceptable—”to speak of simple fashions with simple words” and in all humility. “The war has killed false chic,” and there has been a salutary “return to simplicity.” Femina sought only to remain, as always, a guide for Frenchwomen and foreigners alike. Having established this position to their satisfaction, they launched into the fashion news: “Materials are soft and flexible.—Natural colors are preferred.—The straight dress and the barrel dress” are most in favor. Couturiers were responding to popular demand—both for something “really new” and for simple, easy clothes, like the “chemise dress,” which was “created at the request of a young woman, who, spending most of her days and nights at the hospital, had taken to wearing a nurse’s smock, and who came one day to ask her couturier to make her an analogous dress in which she could move freely.” Not only was the line loose and easy, but the materials (such as jersey and cashmere) were extremely supple. Muslins and flowered organdies in “happy colors” were also popular for frocks, while gray and beige were used for tailored suits. The very full large skirt was shrinking, and a more or less straight line had emerged, one version of which was known by the rather unflattering name of the “barrel” skirt. Just as the war crinoline had been promoted, in its time, as practical, so now was the straight dress. Fashion, under the hard lessons of the war, has sobered down; it is now correct, becoming, and practical. At this time, there is rarely an occasion for making compliments. . . . Free from certain baleful influences, fashion tries to guard this simplicity, this harmony, and this equilibrium which are the reflection of our spirit and our traditions.29

Three months later, another article on wartime fashions “reassured” readers that the fashionable line “has not noticeably changed” since the last report. The barrel, draped, pleated, and Zoave skirts were still in fashion. The straight silhouette of 1917 was wider than the look of 1914—in retrospect, more like the style of the early 1920s. But most dresses still had the prewar high waistline, and many also had overskirts or hanging panels. “The waist remains always imprecise and flexible, often a little high, circled by a narrow sash.” Light materials were in vogue: dark blue or jersey for town, and silk shantung, linen, or crêpe-de-chine for afternoon and evening. The House of Worth did a pretty batiste dress

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decorated with lace, Doeuillet a printed blue linen. Rustic embroideries were “very amusing and new,” while “Far Eastern designs also inspired couture embroidery.” But it is above all in le costume d’intérieur that the Chinese style triumphs.” In closing, the author referred to a recent fashion exhibition in Madrid, featuring French couture models, which had proved “that our luxury industries retain their prestige.” In fact, the Germans themselves were producing ersatz French fashion magazines with titles like Les Modèles Parisiens and L’Idéal Parisien. Except for the emphasis on nursing, fashion magazines largely ignored the fact that many French women worked during the war years. But then, many French women had always worked, and the percentage of working women in the population did not appreciably change; although the types of work they performed necessarily shifted in the absence of so many men. Servants, for example, flocked to other, better-paying jobs that permitted more personal freedom. Traditionally masculine jobs were now open to women, who could work as mail carriers, bus conductors, and streetcar drivers. But such changes hardly justify the popular idea that the war liberated women who had previously been kept at home. Indeed, some of the volunteer work—such as sewing—that middle- and upper-class women performed as part of the war effort actually inconvenienced working-class seamstresses, who had previously competed only with working nuns. Nor did many American women actually enter the workforce for the first time during the war years. In fact, the evidence is inescapable that developments in fashion were not primarily a response to changing patterns of work and the need for “practical” clothes.

André Marty, “La Dêmobilisation,” illustration for Modes et Manières D’Aujourd’hui, 1919. Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.© 2016 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ ADAGP, Paris.

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12 Chanel and Her Rivals Sandwiched between two world wars, between Poiret’s harem and Dior’s New Look, two women dominated the field of haute couture—Schiaparelli and Chanel. Cecil Beaton, The Glass of Fashion, 19541

T

he period between the First and Second World Wars, “between Poiret’s harem and Dior’s New Look,” as Cecil Beaton put it, might be called the golden age of the couturière. In retrospect, the most important designer was Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel, while the most notorious was Elsa Schiaparelli. But there were many other female leaders of Paris fashion, including Alix (later known as Madame Grès), Augusta Bernard, the Boué sisters, Louise Boulanger, the Callot sisters, Madame Chéruit, Sonia Delaunay, Nicole Groult (Poiret’s younger sister), Madame Jenny, Jeanne Lanvin, Madeleine de Rauch, Jane Régny, Nina Ricci, and Madeleine Vionnet, among others. Some rose up through the ranks, like Vionnet, who began as humble apprentice. Having opened her own couture house in 1912, she had to close it in 1914, when the First World War broke out, but she opened again in 1919, closing for good in 1940. Others, like Chanel, had a spectacular rise. In addition, for the first time, many bourgeois women became couturières. Elsa Schiaparelli, for example, was an upper-middle-class Italian woman who came to Paris in the 1920s and started her own fashion business. “The first war made me,” Chanel supposedly said. “In 1919, I woke up famous.” This was an exaggeration, as she had worked as a milliner and then had boutiques in Deauville (1913) and Biarritz (1916) before opening her couture house in Paris. But the war certainly contributed to the radical transformation of fashion and lifestyle, which is popularly associated with Chanel. Yet contrary to popular belief, Chanel did not liberate women from the corset or invent the Little Black Dress. Back when Chanel was still a kept woman, Poiret

Opposite: Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel. Photograph from Mode in Paris (1932).

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and Vionnet waged war on the corset, and during the First World War, black dresses were already fashionable, “whether for social or mourning wear.” As an advertisement in American Vogue (1918) put it: “Black . . . can be at once aloof and alluring, daring and dignified.”2 Chanel certainly preferred neutrals such as black, navy blue, and beige (and she claimed to be “nauseated” by Poiret’s bright colors), but others were also moving in the same direction. Chanel’s acolytes believe that she succeeded because she introduced practical fashions. As one well-known fashion historian naively put it: The clothes of Coco Chanel were common sense. . . . Pockets must be practical pockets in sensible places, and buttons must button. She made it chic to look poverty-stricken, cutting clothes down to the bare essentials. . . . There were some proud names who had become poor, and Chanel’s style was highly appropriate to them. Russian grandees had to work as taxi-drivers, and grand duchesses as models. Chanel herself went out with the poverty-stricken Grand Duke Dimitri, so she could see their problems at first hand. Her clothes were an expression of reality.3

But no one ever looked poor in a Chanel suit, and no one poor could ever have bought one. Gambler that he was, Dimitri himself was a rather expensive accessory even for Chanel. Years ago, when I interviewed Mrs. James Rothschild, and asked if she had worn Chanel’s clothes in the 1920s, she replied, “Oh, no. They were much too expensive.” Clearly, Chanel’s style of “deluxe poverty” (as Poiret put it) was an extremely expensive look, produced with consummate artistry and deceptive simplicity. Even her costume jewelry was not cheap. The real secret of Chanel’s success was not that her clothes were practical or comfortable, but that they made the rich look young and

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casual. Women throughout the Western world had a new image of themselves that made the ostentatious elegance of the prewar period look old-fashioned. Even Poiret’s exoticism, once so exciting, now seemed tired. To appear to pay too much attention to clothes was démodé, while to wear one’s clothes avec desinvolture, in a free and easy manner, was the look of modernity. Because this remains true today, we still admire Chanel. Yet, as Karl Lagerfeld himself has said, if we look at photographs or illustrations of fashions from the 1920s, it is virtually impossible to distinguish those designed by Chanel from those by a host of other couturiers. Something very new was happening in fashion, but Chanel was not alone in creating this new style.

Opposite: A day dress by Chanel from Femina (1927). Image courtesy of Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.

La Femme Moderne Although the first twentieth-century fashions had already emerged within avant-garde circles before 1914, it was only after the First World War that the true impact of the fashion revolution was experienced throughout society. France had suffered unprecedented casualties: 1.4 million French soldiers died over the course of the World War I and another 1.1 million were seriously disabled. In her brilliant book, Civilization Without Sexes: Reconstructing Gender in Postwar France, 1917–1927, Mary Louise Roberts demonstrates that the massacre of young men during the First World War was widely perceived in France as related to the triumph of la femme moderne, also known as la garçonne [the boyish woman]. “During the postwar period, fashion bore the symbolic weight of a whole set of social anxieties concerning the war’s perceived effects on gender relations. . . . Feminists, designers (both male and female), and the women who put on the new fashions interpreted them as affording physical mobility and freedom. Because the new fashions were seen in this way—as a visual language of liberation—they also became invested with political meaning.”4 When Chanel and her cohort burst upon the postwar world, their fashions quickly became inscribed in a debate about the war’s effects on gender. As one Parisian law student wrote in 1925: Can one define la jeune fille moderne? No, no more than the waist on the dresses she wears. . . . These beings—without breasts, without hips, without “underwear,” who smoke, work, argue, and fight exactly like boys, and who, during the night at the Bois de Boulogne, with their heads swimming under several cocktails, seek out savory and acrobatic pleasures on the plush seats of 5 horsepower Citröens—these aren’t young girls! There aren’t any more young girls! No more women either!5

Modernization arouses deep cultural anxieties, particularly when it affects women. As early as 1864, in their novel Renée Maupérin, the Goncourt brothers had complained that young middle-class Frenchwomen were becoming more “boyish” (garconnière). They

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Bernard Boutet de Monvel, fashion plate from Journal des Dames et des Modes (1913).

liked to flirt, wrote Marcel Prévost in Les Demi-Vierges (1894). They smoked cigarettes and declined to wear corsets, said a host of early-twentieth-century observers. In France, modernization was often associated with “l’americanisation de la femme.” In 1910, in his book The Psychology of Fashion, E. Gomez Carillo characterized the situation as a “menace yankee.” Paris couture houses previously dedicated to the pursuit of elegance and beauty had capitulated in the face of “multimillionaire yankees” who “want to import new sensations, new tastes, new splendours, new pleasures.” With money to burn, American women supposedly swarmed over Paris, perverting and destroying fashion through their taste for the spectacular.6 After the First World War, women became modern with a vengeance, as prewar values and behavior were increasingly rejected. So many young men had died in Europe that many young women had to face the likelihood that they would never marry and would have to support themselves. Young people in general were disillusioned with the society that had created the war, and they increasingly rejected strictures of appropriate behavior. The effects on fashion went beyond a rise in hemlines. Indeed, it was only in 1925 that hemlines rose significantly higher than before. The popularity of the tailored suit and the androgynous look took on new significance as middle-class women increasingly entered the workforce. (The look had also long been associated with lesbians.) If women designers flourished after the war, this was probably partly because so many people felt that female designers were more in touch with the changing needs of modern women. Who better to dress the modern woman than another modern woman?

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Regiment of Women There were male designers, too, in the years between the wars, such as Jean Patou, but “the real excitement lay among the regiment of women.”7 Traditionally, most couturières were working-class women, such as Jeanne Lanvin and Madeleine Vionnet. Now, with so many young men dead or disabled, middle-class women increasingly had to find a way to make a living. Faced with opposition both in the professions and in unionized jobs, women gravitated toward “feminine” occupations, such as fashion, hairdressing, beauty, and interior design, although images also depicted exceptional women who flew airplanes or achieved success as doctors and lawyers. Germain Barton, for example, wanted to become a sculptor, but when her middle-class family objected, she decided to go into fashion. However, rather than working as an apprentice, she briefly studied cutting and sketching before establishing herself as a couturière under the name Alix. Later, after difficulties with business partners, she opened another couture house under the name Madame Grès, becoming famous for her neoclassical dresses. Another designer, Jane Régny, was described as “a young girl of a good family, interested in clothes, [and] living in the changing postwar France, [who] saw the inevitable conquest of her world by the new idea of sports for women, of a freer life, with different demands on the couturiers.”8 She opened a business designing sport couture. Not all designers were sportswomen like Jane Régny, but sports were a major influence on the styles of the 1920s. Like Iris March, the fictional heroine of The Green Hat, the women of the 1920s modeled themselves on “the women in Georges Barbier’s almanacs, Falbalas et Fanfreluches, “who know how to stand carelessly,” and who wear clothes that appear to be “pour le sport.” F. Scott Fitzgerald made a similar observation in The Great Gatsby when he described Jordan Baker as wearing her “evening dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes—there was a jauntiness about her movements as if she had first learned to walk on golf courses on clean crisp mornings.”9 Even in dance, “lifestyle modernism” dominated, as Bakst’s orientalist costumes gave way to Chanel’s bathing suits and tennis clothes for the 1924 ballet Le Train Bleu.

Les Garçonnes (Bibi, Olga Day et Michele Verly), Paris, April 1928. Photograph by Jacques Henri Lartigue. © Ministère de la Culture—France/AAJHL.

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Ensemble for air travel by Madeleine Vionnet. Illustrated by Thayaht for Gazette du Bon Ton (1922).

Jenny Sacerdote, known as Madame Jenny, was described as “a strictly modern woman.” According to A Shopping Guide to Paris “She has one of the smartest haircuts in Paris. She wears the uniform of the business woman, the two-piece dress [or] a pleated skirt with a charming sweater.” She was intelligent, educated, and in touch with “this new spirit that we call ‘modern.’. . . Soon she had developed a special department featuring sport models, so that her house became unusually popular with Americans.”10 The American connection was important, since after the war French dressmakers increasingly relied on the American market. No longer was it sufficient to have individual clients; couturiers now sold also to American stores and manufacturers.11 There were successful women designers in New York, too, but fortunately for Paris, the American fashion industry was still dependent on French fashion leadership. Consider the case of Elsa Schiaparelli, who opened her couture house in Paris in 1927. The daughter of a distinguished Italian family, Schiaparelli eloped with a Theosophist and was abandoned in America with her infant daughter. Returning to Europe, she established herself in Paris as a freelance designer for other couture houses. She “registered a success in one season, with her strikingly original sweaters, and . . . continued that success by adding sports clothes” and then coats, dresses, suits, accessories, and jewelry.12 By the early 1930s, she had become the most talked about fashion designer in Paris. The period between the wars was not only an era in which women designers flourished. It was also a time when “women of fashion were at their most powerful—dictators, in a sense, of a luxurious and capricious way of life.” As Bettina Ballard observed, this “small egocentric group of women” dominated high fashion “by making fashionable what they chose for themselves.” Women like the Princesse Jean Louis “Baba” de Faucigny-Lucinge, the Vicomtesse Marie-Laure de Noailles, Princess Natalie Paley, and the Honourable Mrs Reginald “Daisy” Fellowes were known as Les Dames de Vogue.13 Fashion trendsetters tended to belong to what was known as “international café society,” a relatively small

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“Three Creations by Jeanne Lanvin,” a fashion illustration from Art, Goût, Beauté (1925).

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“Couture—Sport” fashion by Jane Régny. Illustration from Art, Goût, Beauté (July 1927). Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.

group of wealthy individuals who entertained themselves at hotels, casinos, and cafés throughout Europe, but especially in Paris. Artists, writers, and intellectuals also flocked to Paris because of the provincialism and puritanism of American society, because of the favorable exchange rate, and because of Prohibition. By the mid-1920s, about 350,000 Americans visited Paris every year, and millions more were familiar with at least the names

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Golf ensemble by Lucien Lelong. Illustration from Art, Goût, Beauté (June 1927). Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology| SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.

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of major fashion designers. Yet fashion influences also flowed from America to France. Already, the French press deplored Hollywood’s influence on fashion, which was generally considered to be a vulgar display of over-ornamentation in contrast to a pure and sober French taste.14

Paris versus Hollywood and New York

Opposite: Josephine Baker posing with her automobile, Paris, 1931. Photo © Bettmann/ Contributor/Getty Images.

Paris was fashion’s Mecca, but much of new jazz style was American in origin—a combination of Hollywood and Harlem. “In small villages far from the metropolis,” wrote translator Samuel Putnam, “young French lads were to be seen imitating the slicked back hair and flaring-bottomed trousers of Rudolph Valentino, while the girls did their best to imitate the mannerisms of Gloria Swanson.” Meanwhile, in Paris, Anna de Noailles admired Josephine Baker’s gold fingernails, and advertisements promoted hair products pour se bakerfixer les cheveux.15 Josephine Baker was, of course, only one of many African Americans who decamped to Paris to escape racism in the United States. Prohibition also drove many white Americans to Paris, where the lifestyle was more agreeable, as well as cheaper. The influence of Hollywood film costume on fashion is surprisingly difficult to pin down. Certainly there were great costume designers in Hollywood, although film producers and stars also commissioned clothing from Paris couturiers. Gloria Swanson was dressed by Chanel for her first “talkie,” Tonight or Never (1931), and Artists and Models Abroad (1937) featured dresses by Patou, Worth, Paquin, Schiaparelli, Maggy Rouff, Lanvin, and Alix, as well as Hollywood designers Edith Head and Travis Banton. But Hollywood’s real influence on fashion derived not from its dress designers but from the images of the stars themselves. Chanel wore trousers, but for the public the image of Marlene Dietrich in trousers was more influential. “And—the perennial American question—what chance is there of New York becoming the world’s style center? Practically none. None at all, so far as this generation is concerned,” declared the author of Paris on Parade. Writing in 1924, he reminded readers of “the Viennese fizzle during the war,” to say nothing of John Wanamaker’s “ambitious effort” to import to the United States “a celebrated Parisian designer and a whole atelier of French workpeople.” Why did they fail?, he asked. “Why has Paris been able to put down so easily these uprisings in the provinces of couture’s empire?” According to the Parisian designers that he interviewed, “It is Paris’s ‘ambiance’ that makes her supreme—her atmosphere—art everywhere . . . And, in addition, the French legacy of taste in dress and the French genius for dress design.” To his credit, however, he did not accept this self-serving answer. “But if these were the only defenses of the Parisian citadel, New York would seem to be not without hope.” The Parisians, he argues, are wrong in assuming that “style is something created in Paris.”

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Rather, he suggests, “Style is whatever the women of the world accept. It happens that they now accept . . . the Parisian mode . . . But it is conceivable, at any rate, that style headquarters might move. New York has a stimulating atmosphere, too.” But although New York had talented designers and chic women, it lacked, he reluctantly admitted, the “two inner defenses” of Paris: the midinette (the skilled craftswoman) and the “medieval attitude [of] always trying to reach perfection.”16

The 1930s The stock market crashed on Wall Street in October 1929, and suddenly Americans were not buying so much Paris fashion. But the French economy was slower to collapse. Indeed, at first, many French pundits self-righteously declared that their country was immune to the spreading catastrophe. “Whatever the cause of world depression, France can face it with relative serenity,” declared Le Temps.17 Delayed crisis would eventually become a real crisis. As unemployment rose, politics became increasingly polarized and violent. In April 1936, Léon Blum, the leftist candidate of the Popular Front was elected France’s first Jewish prime minister, enraging the anti-Semitic right. Workers all over Paris went on strike, including Chanel’s employees who demanded shorter hours, higher wages, and collective contracts. Chanel refused to negotiate and fired her workers, who staged a sit-in. She eventually made some concessions and the strike ended, but with bad feelings. There was also a brief strike at Schiaparelli. Other, smaller fashion houses went out of business. But the rich continued to buy fashion and to dress up at social events, such as the opera, the races, and for spectacular costume parties, so some fashion designers continued to be successful. In contrast to Chanel’s artfully casual style, Elsa Schiaparelli’s clothes were characterized by bold lines and a disciplined fit—a sophisticated and hard-edged chic that was immediately recognizable. Her smart suits, characterized by an exaggerated shoulder-line and decorative buttons, became a kind of uniform, stamped with the designer’s personality. As Bettina Ballard recalled, “Looking back over the Harper’s Bazaars and Vogues of the thirties, the hard, highly individual chic of [Schiaparelli’s] clothes stands out from the pages like a beacon.”18 Schiaparelli drew on all the latest artistic trends, from Cubism and African art to Surrealism, and she collaborated with a number of artists, most notably Salvador Dali, Jean Cocteau, and fashion illustrator Christian Bérard. Although Surrealist art was supposed to be “subversive,” it proved remarkably easy to assimilate. A similar phenomenon had already occurred in the teens, when Vogue blandly stated that “The desire for futurist coloring is satisfied by sleeves of gay cretonne.” An interest in Surrealism was also satisfied by a peculiar accessory (such as gloves with appliquéd fingernails), or by a fashion mannequin photographed in some suitably “surreal” environment. André Breton, the high priest of Surrealism, might assert that beauty must be “convulsive,” but women in high

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Suit and shoe hat designed by Elsa Schiaparelli, 1937. Photo by ullstein bild/ullstein bild/ Getty Images.

society favored Surrealist fashion because it was chic. As Schiaparelli herself commented in her autobiography, “curiously enough, in spite of Schiap’s apparent craziness and love of fun and gags, her greatest fans were the ultra-smart . . . wives of diplomats and bankers.”19 “Madame Schiaparelli has taken literally the expression: the theatre of the mode,” wrote Jean Cocteau in Harper’s Bazaar. “Whereas in other times only a few mysterious and privileged women dressed themselves with great individuality and by the violence of their style destroyed the ‘moderne’ style, in 1937 a woman like Schiaparelli can invent for all women . . . that violence which was once the privilege of very few, of those who might be called actresses in this drama-outside-theatre which is the World.” He continued: “Schiaparelli is above all the dressmaker of eccentricity . . . Her establishment in the Place Vendôme is a devil’s laboratory. Women who go in there fall into a trap, and come out masked.”20 Schiaparelli could never have become internationally famous had she stayed in Rome or New York. Only in Paris could she draw on the latest artistic trends and establish an international reputation. When she was forced to flee to the United States during the Second World War, she steadfastly insisted that New York could never supplant Paris as the capital of fashion.

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13 Fashion under the Occupation The house of Jacques Heim is no longer a Jewish house. La Gerbe, 19401

I

1939, Paris was still the fashion capital of the world. Fashion remained a mainstay of the French economy and an important part of French national identity. But the political situation was increasingly threatening, as Nazi Germany invaded first Czechoslovakia and then Poland. On September 3, 1939, Great Britain and France finally declared war against Germany. Parisians were ordered to carry their gas masks with them at all times. The Paris collections featured a number of military-inspired fashions, as had occurred during the First World War. In her memoirs, Harper’s Bazaar editor, Carmel Snow, recalled that they published “pictures of fashionable women on bicycles wearing short trousers or flying skirts, sketches of air-raid shelters by Vertes. There wasn’t much doing in the couture. Schiaparelli was making culottes. Molyneux and Piguet made ‘chic’ air-raid costumes, but Balenciaga was in Madrid . . . , Mainbocher had gone back to America, and Chanel had shut up shop.” A few months later, in February 1940, the Spring couture collections were sparsely attended by foreign buyers and press, although, Snow believed, “they demonstrated the courageous spirit of the French couture in the face of difficult conditions.”2 On May 14, 1940, German tanks entered France, triggering a mass exodus to the south of France. On June 14, Nazi forces entered Paris. The French government fled to Bordeaux and then Vichy, capitulating on June 25. The Germans now occupied northern France, while the south was controlled by the collaborationist Vichy regime, headed by Philippe Petain. Late in 1942, the German military occupied all of France in response to the Allied landings in North Africa. The Liberation of Paris took place in August 1944, but fighting continued elsewhere in the country. The French defeat thus resulted in more than four terrible years for the majority of the French population, including, especially Jews (both n

Opposite: Fashion during WWII. Suit designed by Robert Piguet. © Albert Harlingue/RogerViollet/The Image Works.

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Opposite: Madame Grès draping a gown on the model Muni, 1942. Paris, France. Photograph by Philippe Pottier. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris.

French and foreign), among them many Jewish fashion producers, from seamstresses to manufacturers and designers, who were dispossessed and often murdered. The Nazi Occupation of Paris also completely disrupted the French and international fashion system. From June 1940 until after the Liberation of Paris more than four years later, members of the fashion community in the Allied nations had essentially no contact with the French fashion industry. After having been dependent on Paris for centuries, fashion designers in the United States and Great Britain were left entirely to their own devices. The French export trade, in as much as it still existed, was now limited to Germany, Spain, and Italy. Moreover, since the German military increasingly requisitioned textiles, leather, food, fuel, and manpower, most French people had very little access at all to new clothing and shoes. Yet throughout the dark years of the Occupation, fashion continued to be designed and produced in Paris. The Nazi authorities arrived in France with a plan to move the entire Paris fashion industry to greater German Reich, where it would be “integrated into a German organization with headquarters in Berlin and Vienna.” Already by July 1940, representatives of the Reich government appeared at the headquarters of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture Parisienne. The next month they approached Lucien Lelong, then president of the Chambre Syndicale, who told them that, although such a transfer of French designers and artisans could be “imposed by force,” their plan was doomed to failure, because “the Parisian haute couture . . . is in Paris or it is not at all.” Paris fashion, Lelong argued, “is the consequence of a tradition, cultivated by a group of specialized workers in numerous crafts.” Neither in its totality, nor in its elements could it be transferred to another city.3 Lelong had to attend numerous conferences with Nazi officials over the next few years, traveling sometimes to Berlin, but eventually the Germans backed down, and left the fashion industry in Paris. “It is necessary to adapt to present circumstances by creating simple yet beautiful clothes,” said the couturière Jeanne Lanvin in an interview of August 1940. “If on resuming we are able to export to Germany and Italy, then the 700 employees of the house will not be out of work this winter.”4 Many couturiers began showing their collections again in October 1940. Some, such as Lanvin, avoided dealing with the Germans as much as possible. Others, including Maggy Rouff, Marcel Rochas, and Jacques Fath, were more accommodating, as, indeed, were many other Parisians. “Life in high society . . . went on much as before. Thanks to their connections with the Invader, these people did not go hungry.”5 Le Tout-Paris continued to go to parties and performances—and they needed clothes to wear. It has often been assumed that the majority of couture clients during the Occupation were the wives and mistresses of Nazi dignitaries—and that this explains the alleged “bad taste” of French fashion during the Occupation. However, as Dominique Veillon demonstrates in her pioneering history, La mode sous l’Occupation, in 1941 some 20,000 French women, mostly wealthy Parisians, acquired special ration cards allowing them to buy couture clothes. By contrast, only 200 such couture cards were reserved for Germans.6 So much for the myth that French couturiers designed outlandish styles during the war because they were

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selling primarily to the Germans! (This myth developed only after Paris was liberated, when journalists from the Allied nations were confronted with Parisian styles, which seemed to them extreme.) In the absence of many foreign buyers, the majority of couture clients were French society people, actresses, and, later, also nouveaux-riches black-market profiteers. Anti-Semitic laws were enacted almost immediately. The Jewish couturier, Jacques Heim, for example, was the victim of “Aryanization” laws that expropriated Jewish businesses. “The house of Jacques Heim is no longer a Jewish house,” reported La Gerbe (December 26, 1940). In fact, however, Heim found a non-Jewish associate to run his company, and although harassed and threatened with arrest, he joined the Resistance and survived the war. Others were not as lucky. Fanny Berger (as Odette Bernstein was known professionally) had a salon de mode near the Arc de Triumph, which she was forced to sell to a non-Jewish former employee. Although she managed to evade capture in the round-ups of Jews in the summer of 1942, she was arrested that September while trying to cross to the unoccupied zone in the south of France. Imprisoned in Drancy, she was deported in 1943 to Auschwitz and immediately killed.7 Many furriers were Jewish and their profession saved some of them from death. When the Wehrmacht urgently needed winter combat uniforms, some 350 furriers were released from the Drancy concentration camp and others were exempted from arrest, so they could continue working “without contact with the public.”8 French prisoners who were skilled furriers, dressmakers, tailors, and shoemakers also worked in the camps, making and repairing clothing and shoes for the Germans—often from materials stolen from the Jews. “‘Baron von Behr ordered dozens of pairs of boots, while the tailors never stopped turning out uniforms for him,’ one Jewish prisoner later recalled. ‘His wife was just as bad: she was mad about shoes and handbags, which were made for her by skilled inmates.’”9 Some French people eagerly assisted the Nazi effort to eliminate the “Jewish influence” on the economy, arguing that “the atmosphere of the Parisian luxury trade will be purified.” Coco Chanel, for example, attempted to take advantage of Aryanization policies to seize control of her perfume business, which she had sold years before to the Jewish businessmen, Paul and Pierre Wertheimer. However, despite her intimate association with the Nazis, Chanel lost her case, because the Wertheimers pretended to cede control of their perfume company to a non-Jewish associate, Félix Amiot.10 The persecution of Jewish manufacturers also resulted in the disruption of the readymade clothing industry. “Almost all the women’s maisons de confection and a number of the men’s ready-made shops belonged to Jewish families,” notes fashion historian Bruno du Roselle. In the wake of anti-Semitic legislation imposed in France, many Jewish fashion manufacturers fled abroad, while some retreated to the southern zone around Nice and Marseilles, laying the foundation for new postwar centers of ready-made clothing, although under the Vichy regime, as in the occupied territory, Jews were officially forbidden from owning businesses. The textile and clothing industries were completely reorganized, and materials for Germany military use took precedence over the needs of French civilians. Everything was

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rationed. In June 1941, a clothing card was issued, allotting each adult 100 points, which permitted only very modest purchases. Textiles also were strictly rationed, and the amount and types of material available to the French public and to the couture houses decreased steadily. Many fabrics became rare and expensive. The Occupiers also bought heavily from stores in Paris, leaving little for the French. This seems to be reflected in wartime articles in the American press with headlines such as “Nazis Buy Heavily at Sulka’s, Paris. Officers and Party Officials Take 65% of Goods Sold.”11 In March 1942, Jews in Occupied France were ordered to wear sewn to their clothes a yellow Star of David labeled with the word “Juif” (“Jew”). A few brave men and women wore similar stars in solidarity—and were arrested. Philippe de Rothschild’s wife, who was Christian, was sent to the Ravensbruck concentration camp the day after she changed seats at a Schiaparelli fashion show, to avoid sitting next to Suzanne Abetz, the French wife of Otto Abetz, the Nazi Ambassador to Vichy. Her action had been observed and reported.12 As the war progressed, life became increasingly difficult for French civilians, even couture clients. Lanvin’s collection of December 1942 was based on the theme A Day in the Life of a Parisienne, from a coat named “Je fais la queue” (“I join the line”), something that most French women did for hours every day, to a cozy indoor ensemble, “Je me réchauffe” (“I warm up”), a common desire, since supplies of heating fuel went mostly to the Germans.13 Unusually cold winter weather also affected the way people dressed. The Germans monopolized most fur, leaving only cheap substitutes, such as rabbit and cat fur. In their private journals, women described wearing many layers of clothing, and one woman, who wore her father’s old military-style hobnailed boots, claimed, “All the women in Paris are wearing shoes like these . . . They keep you really warm.”14 As leather supplies ran out, people increasingly wore wooden-soled shoes, and Maurice Chevalier had a hit song extolling the sound they made. After the Germans requisitioned automobiles, the French increasingly rode bicycles, and some styles seem to have been designed with this in mind. Handbags, for example, were increasingly replaced by shoulder-bags. Like fascists in Germany and Italy, French fascists were ambivalent about fashion, which seemed to be an “artificial” and “cosmopolitan” phenomenon, one that was insufficiently “natural” and “nationalistic.” Downplaying Parisianism, they preferred to emphasize symbols of la francité, from Joan of Arc to the beret. Women were encouraged to look more authentically and traditionally “French.” Regional folk costumes were periodically dragged out as “inspirations” for the current modes (just as they were in Germany and Italy). Articles in the fascist-controlled women’s press (both in Vichy France and in Occupied France) stressed the importance of “healthy,” robust bodies and “traditional” values. Women were warned not to be too thin or they would impair their fertility. Both German and Vichy authorities tried to prevent women from wearing “masculine” trousers; which were (negatively) associated with female emancipation. Such prohibitions tended to be short-lived, and in at least one case the regulation was modified provided that “pants are accompanied by a bicycle.”15 Despite all such prohibitions, more and more women wore trousers for reasons of warmth and practicality.

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World War II, Elegant cycling, Paris, June 1942. Photo by LAPI/Roger-Viollet/Getty Images.

A fascinating article appeared in the American press during the war with the title “Paris Papers Scorn Frivolity in Dress.” This article accurately reported on a French press campaign being waged “in favor of ‘Frenchwomen’ as opposed to ‘Parisiennes.’” Indeed, as the American journalist put it, “For some time now tendentious articles on Paris fashion have been appearing in the regular columns of daily papers. They talk of ‘purifying’ the mode. They frown on maquillage and dyed hair. They deplore the ‘luxury’ fashions designed by the great Paris couturiers and push chic for the masses.”16 After the war, the historian Richard Cobb pointed out that photographs from les années noires show “a multitude of berets,” whose “size and shape could indicate a wide range of commitment, from fussy Vichy orthodoxy to the madder fringes of ultra-collaborationism.” The most acceptable color was dark blue, although “green might do for Dorgère’s rural fascists” and “Darnand, emulating no doubt the SS, imposed a black beret on la Milice.” Socialist red was “out of the question.” Men and women, ordinary people and high officials, all wore “the national beret.” But after June 1944, the beret was put away. As Cobb put it:

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One thing that is evident, even to the eye, is that Vichy and Paris collaborationism, for once in agreement in promoting an emblem that both reassured as a reminder that one could still be French, and even more French than ever, despite national humiliation, and that represented the quintessence of la francité, eventually finished the beret off, not all at once, but on a steadily declining course. The beret had somehow lost its innocence, it had become politically contaminated.17

At first, fashion in Paris seemed to evolve much as it always had, despite the peculiarities of the situation. Skirts for daytime were short and rather full, a compromise between practical requirements (such as the ability to ride a bicycle) and sartorial trends. Many women continued to wear suits with padded shoulders, which softened over time. Financially, the haute couture did rather well. But “as draconian regulations reduced the haute couture’s freedom to manoeuver, elegance took refuge in the theater and cinema, as the couturiers, not content to dress the stars for ‘around town,’ contributed to the production of their stage costumes.”18 Evening dresses often featured full skirts and elaborate drapery. This look of Belle Époque glamour was in part a continuation of the 1939 trend toward NeoVictorianism, but it also reflected the growing importance of French film and theater in the culture of the time. Period dramas were especially popular, and actresses were conspicuous among the clientele of the couture. A small number of adolescents, mostly in Paris, adopted a style called “Zazou,” which was similar to the “zoot suits” of jazz musicians in America. The young French singer Johnny Hess coined the word “Zazou” in his 1938 hit “Je suis swing” (“I am Swing”). He had another hit in 1942, “Ils sont zazous” (“They Are Zazous”). Male Zazous wore long drape jackets, trousers which were either short and tight or very wide, shoes with thick high soles, and sunglasses. Female Zazous were more conventionally dressed in short, pleated skirts, platform shoes, and shoulder-bags, but they rebelliously wore as much makeup as they could find. Both male and female Zazous wore pompadour hairstyles, and reacted against the prevailing militarism and austerity by trying to look as flashy as possible. They danced to swing music, which, of course, was denounced as “decadent” by the fascist regime. Rightwing groups physically attacked the Zazous and shaved the young men’s heads and the Paris police repeatedly raided their dance clubs and arrested them.19 Hats became an increasingly important part of fashion, because they could be fashioned easily from cheap materials such as celluloid, thin slices of wood, and newspapers. “Made of scraps that could not be used for anything else, they looked like huge pouffes that defied both the period’s woes and plain common sense,” recalled Christian Dior.20 It is said that the Germans eventually complained about the hats and threatened to close the milliners’ shops, only to be told that hats were made, not only by professional milliners, but also by ordinary women. The Germans also strictly limited the number of French fashion journals and censored their content. As a result, certain magazines such as Vogue and Femina ceased publication. Michel de Brunhoff, editor of the French edition of Vogue, recalled in 1945 that “There was no honorable way of publishing a magazine under the Germans,”

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although he also claimed to have produced some illegal fashion publications, in which “the changing silhouette of the Parisienne reflects the progress of survival and of reaction to the rule of the Boche.”21 During the Nazi Occupation of Paris, the American press declared an end to French fashion “dictatorship.” According to the American press, New York City was the new fashion capital of the world. “With the blackout of Paris, our own designers will . . . dictate the styles,” proclaimed the New York Sun. Only Schiaparelli resisted the slogan “Paris is dead; long live New York!” In a series of public lectures, she repeatedly insisted that “It is not possible for New York or any other city to take the place of Paris.”22 Aware of American attempts to declare French fashion dead, French newspapers repeated and denounced these arguments, asserting, in turn, that the couture represented “the soul of France” and its “racial patrimony.”23

The Allies Confront Paris Fashion Because the fall of France effectively severed the flow of fashion information from the Paris couture, American and British fashion designers and manufacturers were on their own for four years, as had not been the case during the First World War. Textile rationing was established in Britain in 1941, to be followed a year later by the so-called “Utility Clothes,” more optimistically known in the United States as the “Victory Suit.” This uniform look, made in sensible tweeds with fairly short skirts and broad shoulders, dominated Allied women’s fashions. For the first time in history, American designers began to carve out their own sphere of influence, centering on sportswear. In the absence of Paris, British designers tended to imitate New York. After the war ended, there would be a struggle before Paris was able to reassert its fashion supremacy. For during those four years, the Anglo-American world had moved in a very different direction. Whereas the British and the Americans hoped that saving material would help the war effort, in occupied France people tended to assume that the more material a garment used, the less the Germans would get. Although ordinary French people had to cope with shortages and ration cards, they had no model of wartime style comparable to the Utility scheme in Great Britain and the USA. When Paris was liberated in 1944, foreign correspondents were shocked—even appalled—to see how the French lavished fabric into parachute sleeves, elaborate draped bodices, full skirts, and heavily trimmed hats. One horrified WAC commented: “It seems terrible to see huge velvet skirts and sequins when the world is at war.” Some of the French designers seemed embarrassed when they were told about clothes rationing in Britain and austerity restrictions in America, whereby the amount of fabric and the number of buttons, pleats, and other details were limited to save both manpower and

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supplies. Returning to Paris from England, the couturier Captain Edward Molyneux hastened to assure his countrymen that the Paris couture could produce simple fashions that would conform to Allied requirements. In an attempt at damage control, the new French government announced a halt to the sale of dresses to the wives and mistresses of “black marketeers and war profiteers,” although how this could be enforced was unclear. Roger Worth defended the couturiers of Paris, arguing that the livelihood of thousands of workers and the future of the couture were at stake, and they were “paving the way for a resumption of French business life.”24 When the wife of the French Ambassador, Madame Renée Massigli, appeared in London in 1945, her Paris clothes were so unfamiliar, they caused a sensation: “a long-waisted jacket over a knee-length billowy skirt and one of those undepictable hats.” One fashion journalist recalled, “She looked as if she had landed from another planet.”25 After the Liberation of Paris, accused collaborators were often arrested. However, as Alan Riding points out, fashion designers were “treated as businessmen—essential to France’s recovery—rather than artists: of the fifty-five cases brought before the commission d’épuration de la couture, not one involved a major fashion house.” Although Chanel was arrested, it was apparently because of her long affair with a Nazi officer (“horizontal collaboration,” as it was called), and not for other types of collaboration, which historians have documented. She was soon released and moved to Switzerland, where she stayed until 1954.26 Janet Flanner of the New Yorker reported on the situation in Paris. In her first article, published December 15, 1944, she wrote: “A fashion editor’s daughter, a delicate blond figure in the early intellectual resistance, lived through a year’s solitary confinement in a cell in the Santé Prison and today is a slave factory worker in Germany.”27 The fashion scene in Paris was one of threadbare but determined chic: Everything here is a substitute for something else. The women who are not neat, thin, and frayed look neat, thin, and chic clattering along in their platform shoes of wood—substitute for shoe leather—which sound like horses’ hoofs. Their broad-shouldered, slightly shabby coats of sheepskin—substitute for wool cloth, which the Nazis preferred for themselves—were bought on the black market three winters ago. The Paris midinettes . . . still wear their home-made, fantastically high, upholstered Charles X turbans. Men’s trousers are shabby, since they are not something which can be run up at home. The young intellectuals of both sexes go about in ski clothes. This is what the resistance wore when it was fighting and freezing outdoors in the maquis, and it has set the Sorbonne undergraduate style.28

Food, clothing, and fuel remained in short supply for a long time. In 1946, when the Opera put on a gala ballet for the Big Four postwar conferences, the sign above the box office timidly asked the public to wear evening clothes “to the extent to which it may be possible.” Invitations to an opening at the Galerie Charpentier were more peremptory: Dressing up was “acutely desirable.”29

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Under these circumstances, how was the couture to recover? In 1945, the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne organized a traveling exhibition, featuring dolls dressed by the most famous Paris couturiers. Dolls were selected, in part, because their tiny garments required very little material. Not only were the miniature clothes extremely pretty, but the sets by artists like Christian Bérard and Jean Cocteau recalled the pleasingly audacious style of prewar fashion illustration and photography. To emphasize further the French contribution to civilization, the accompanying catalogue reproduced numerous French paintings and drawings that dealt with the art of fashion. The message was clear: “France has suffered greatly from the war and the Occupation. She has great difficulty in reconstituting her stocks, even for her personal requirements. But her creative genius is intact.” Anticipating perhaps a hostile response, the French Ambassador to London introduced the exhibition there by saying, “Let there be no misunderstanding on the part of those who are going to see these evocations of luxury. These beautiful objects are a labour of love on the part of the Paris midinettes, who made them with frozen fingers in their famished city.” This, too, he argued, was a form of “Resistance.”30 Le Théâtre de la Mode was presented in London, Paris, and New York, as well as Copenhagen, Barcelona, and other cities, financed, in part, by American relief organizations. It succeeded in helping to launch Paris fashion back into the international fashion market. But this was only a small beginning. Very few American journalists or buyers attended the February 1946 collections, but in her report to the New York Fashion Group, Carmel Snow “urged them strongly to go over the next year, when conditions would surely be better. ‘Lelong has a new designer’ I said, ‘whose collection was sensational—full of ideas. His name is Christian Dior.’” Many of them took her advice, “and when Dior opened his own house with his New Look, they were there to applaud as enthusiastically as I did when I said, ‘Dior saved Paris as Paris was saved in the Battle of the Marne.’”31

Opposite: Look by Pierre Balmain. Paris, France, 1946. Photo by © Bettmann/CORBIS/Bettmann Archive.

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14 Ups and Downs of Paris Fashion Nous sortions d’une époque de guerre, d’uniformes, de femmessoldats aux carrures de boxeurs. Je dessinai des femmes-fleurs, épaules douces, bustes épanouis, tailles fines comme lianes et jupes larges comme corolles.1 Christian Dior et moi, 1956

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out of a period of war, of women-soldiers built like boxers,” wrote Christian Dior. “I drew women flowers.” The romantic, ultra-feminine silhouette epitomized by Dior’s New Look put Paris back on the map. After the war ended, other designers tentatively experimented with long, full skirts and cinched waists, but it was Dior who most clearly sensed the direction in which fashion was going. Although he received the majority of the credit for this dramatic change in fashion, Dior told Carmel Snow “No one person can change fashion—a big fashion change imposes itself.” And she agreed: “It was because women longed to look like women again that they adopted the New Look.”2 Certainly, the New Look aroused passionate enthusiasm among women who loved fashion. One young American woman, Susan Mary Alsop, who was living in Paris, wrote to her friend at home: e were coming

[February 15, 1947] The girl friends say I must have a look at a man named Christian Dior, no one ever heard of him before but there is something called “The New Look” which he has invented. Apparently Mrs. Snow of Harper’s Bazaar, who is here, says that this man Dior has saved the French fashion industry. . . . [February 23, 1947] I did go to Dior’s first collection, fighting my way through hundreds of richly dressed ladies clamoring to get in. It is impossible to exaggerate the prettiness of “The New Look.” We are saved, becoming clothes are back, gone the stern padded shoulders, in are soft rounded

Opposite: Model wearing the Mystère coat by Christian Dior in Paris at Malmaison. Photograph by Louise Dahl-Wolfe, featured in Harper’s Bazaar, November 1947. Courtesy of The Museum at FIT, Photograph © 1989 Center for Creative Photography, Arizona Board of Regents.

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shoulders without padding, nipped in waists, wide, wide skirts about four inches below the knee. And such well-made armor inside the dress that one doesn’t need underclothes; a tight bodice keeps bust and waist as small as small; then a crinoline-like underskirt of tulle, stiffened, keeps the skirt to the ballet skirt tutu effect that Mr. Dior wants to set off the tiny waist.3

Such was Dior’s celebrity that even the Paris taxi drivers knew his name, and the Count de Lasteyrie indignantly declared, “I’ve been a member of the Jockey Club for forty years, and never once has anyone made mention of a designer. Now all they talk about is Dior!”4

The Golden Age of the Couture, 1947–1957 From 1947 until his sudden death a decade later, Christian Dior was the most famous and financially successful designer in France. He was repeatedly hailed as the savior of Paris fashion. In a special issue of France—Arts, Industrie et Commerce (Summer, 1949), Lucie Noel heralded the “Triumphe de la couture Française”: Paris has once more become in the eyes of the world the center of inspiration for style and elegance. Once again, French fashion designers are recognized as the creators of original ideas . . . In an unsettled world, a new Venus is born. This atomic bomb was launched by a certain Christian Dior, a new star in the firmament of Parisian fashion.5

Noel went on to emphasize that Dior had not only made his own name, he had also given a boost to the entire French couture and related fashion industries, such as textiles, lingerie, and accessories, by attracting American and other foreign markets. She recalled that, after the Liberation of Paris, a few American buyers had come to Paris, but had been discouraged by uncomfortable hotels and a lack of taxis. Foreign buyers had also gotten used to thinking “Paris is finished. We can create as well as the French.” Fortunately, “the reaction to Dior’s atomic bomb was immediate and enthusiastic, and has rendered France an astonishing service.” An editorial in the same issue reiterated that the New Look was “a true revolution, extending to all industries related to feminine adornment,” promising that the next issue would be devoted to international commerce.6 “The Second World War and the German occupation of Paris left the French haute couture in a fragile, weakened state,” observes curator Alexandra Palmer.7 How did Paris fashion make such a terrific international comeback after the war, despite Europe’s irrevocable decline in importance, despite the differences in social life, not only before and after the war, but also between life in the United States and in France, and despite the significant progress made by the American fashion industry during the 1940s? By contrast, in the visual arts, the war marked the end of Parisian dominance and the take-off of the

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New York “art scene.” Obviously the French state did its best to promote Paris fashions, but equally important was the fact that both leaders of the fashion industry and ordinary women in other countries tacitly ceded fashion leadership to Paris. This is not to say that there was no resistance to Dior’s New Look. Many people responded negatively, especially in England, where rationing was still in effect, and it was estimated that a woman’s entire clothing ration for a year might be needed to make one New Look-style dress. When the fashion journalist Alison Settle asked Sir Stafford Cripps, President of the Board of Trade, to consider increasing women’s clothing allowance, he flatly refused. Other politicians also became involved in the controversy. “The longer skirt is the ridiculous whim of idle people . . . who. . . might do something more useful with their time,” fumed Labour politician Bessie Braddock. “Paris Forgets This Is 1947” declared Marjorie Beckett of the Picture Post: “We are back to the days when fashion was the prerogative of the leisured wealthy woman, and not the everyday concern of typist, saleswoman or housewife.”8 Yet many women, especially young women, loved the New Look. The future dress historian Avril Lansdale was a girl of fifteen in 1947, when she convinced her mother to make her a New Look skirt from blackout curtains. The following year, her mother took two old dresses and combined them to make one new dress with a long skirt. When she wore it to school and was called in to the headmistress to explain her appearance, Avril sweetly explained, “I’ve grown three inches since last summer, and this was the best my mother could do, as she has no coupons to spare.”9 Paris fashion rose from the ashes of war, because it still represented the height of luxury, chic, and feminine beauty. The world had irrevocably changed, but the allure of Paris fashion remained. Indeed, it became stronger than ever. It was Christian Dior who christened the era fashion’s “golden age.” Or to be specific, he wrote: “A golden age seemed to have come again. War had passed out of sight and there were no other wars on the horizon . . . hearts were light . . . “10 Certainly, the haute couture thrived and Parisian couturiers achieved international fame with creations of incredible beauty and artistry. And yet, the postwar triumph of the haute couture always rested on fragile foundations. The Paris couture houses survived and even flourished, in large part due to the enthusiasm of the North American press, commercial buyers, and private customers. Everything having to do with the Paris couture fascinated American women, who eagerly read articles about the “little hands” who sewed the dresses, the glamorous mannequins who modeled them, and the couturiers who designed them, above all, the superstar couturier, Christian Dior. “Reporters . . . cover [Dior] as though he were a war,” observed Holiday in 1953.11 Other mass-circulation magazines printed articles with titles such as such as “That Friend of Your Wife’s Named Dior” and “How to Buy a Dior Original.”12 Journalists assumed that “It’s every woman’s dream to buy a creation direct from a famous French couturier.” Nor was this simply a replay of the old society woman’s self-confident pilgrimage to her favorite couture house. Rather, magazines provided “the step-by-step story of how it’s done—from the first showing to the final fitting.” The reader was told to arrive in a taxicab or, better

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yet, “a rented Rolls Royce,” after having reserved a seat for the collection through the hotel concierge. Wearing a “haughty expression” and carrying “a well-padded purse,” she was assured, anyone can “come out with an incomparable dress that will be immediately recognizable back home as an authentic Paris model.” But first she must try on the model she wishes to buy, pay a deposit of roughly half the price (in 1955, about $400 to $1,000), return to be measured, and return again for several fittings (first for the linen toile and then for the dress itself). “It’s a little more complicated and time-consuming and expensive perhaps than buying a dress at the Young Wives Shop at a department store back home. . . . But it will definitely be worth it.”13 And if that fantasy did not work out, a licensed copy of a Dior dress could be purchased at an American department store for as little as $24.95.14 By the mid-1950s, Dior’s annual turn-over was $18 million; there were eight wholly-owned Dior companies, and another sixteen firms made licensed products. “He’s Atlas, holding up the entire French fashion industry,” Time declared in 1956.15 Dior was responsible for more than half of Paris couture exports, some estimates put it at 66 percent, but the house made much more money selling licensed copies to commercial buyers (department stores and manufacturers) than by selling couture originals to individual clients. This was reflected in the scheduling of fashion shows, which were presented first to commercial buyers and only later to private clients.16 As fashion journalist Bettina Ballard observed, “The day was passing when a few smart women influenced the fashion world by the way they wore clothes. Dior spread the happy thought that every woman in a Dior dress, or even a copy of a Dior dress, was a figure of fashion.”17 Of course, there were other stars in the couture firmament. Dior was often compared with the Spaniard, Cristobal Balenciaga, who had been showing in Paris since 1937. Whereas Dior was famous for his changing silhouettes, from the Corolla (New Look) to the Oblique, the Scissors, the Tulip line, the Y-line, the H-line and the A-line, Balenciaga claimed never to change his designs, although one can distinguish between his Tonneau or barrel line (1946–1947), his semi-fitted look (first launched in 1951), the “chemise” or “sack dress” (1957), and the “baby-doll” of 1958. As the curator, Alexandra Bosc, observes, looking back on the 1950s, one can see a gradual movement away from the hyper-femininity of the New Look, through the growing influence of more geometric shapes under the influence of Balenciaga, toward a more youthful silhouette inaugurated by the Trapeze line and the baby doll.18 Balenciaga was a perfectionist, whose architectural designs appealed to fashion connoisseurs—he was known as fashion’s Picasso—whereas Dior’s pretty, feminine dresses had a wider popularity. Jacques Fath was another star of the Paris fashion world, although he had a short career, from 1937 until his untimely death in 1954. If Dior was the king of fashion, Fath was often referred to as the crown prince. His clothes were dramatic, young, and sexy. Moreover, like Dior (and unlike Balenciaga), he was attuned to the opportunities offered by American manufacturers, and in 1948 he entered into a relationship with Joseph Halpert, for whom he designed two ready-to-wear collections a year. Pierre Balmain opened his own couture

Opposite: Model wearing black satin Christian Dior evening dress, 1949. Photo by Erwin Blumenfeld/Condé Nast via Getty Images.

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house in 1945 and visited the United States in 1946 to see what the American market required. In 1951 he opened a business in New York for which he created a collection adapted to an American clientele. Hubert de Givenchy opened his couture house in 1952, becoming famous for his separates, as well as for the dresses that he made for the movie star, Audrey Hepburn. As these examples indicate, the new cohort of fashion designers were overwhelmingly male, in contrast to the period between the wars, when female designers dominated. However, in 1954, the 71-year-old Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel returned from Switzerland and relaunched her business. Although her first collection was disparaged in France as being too reminiscent of her 1930s looks, Chanel’s “timeless” styles, especially her tailored suits, were eagerly embraced by Americans. Although a few new couture houses opened, a greater number closed. Between 1947 and 1951, fourteen couture houses were forced to close, and many others followed over the next few years, including such prestigious names as Lelong, Molyneux, Paquin-Worth, Rochas, and Schiaparelli. Moreover, there were structural problems with the French fashion system, which was slow to adopt a modern ready-to-wear industry. As a result, couturiers relied heavily on licensing. In the long run, this strategy would not be sustainable, because copies of variable quality, both licensed and counterfeit, detracted from the prestige of the couture originals. What we now call “brand identity” was blurred. For example, in 1954, some American stores used transparent codes, with a dress produced “after” a Dior original being labeled by “Monsieur X,” one after Fath by “Monsieur Y,” and one after Givenchy by Monsieur Z.”19 Thus, despite the resurgence of the Paris haute couture, the fashion system was in transition, heralding the emergence of a new geography of fashion.

The “Bomb” in Florence As early as January 1947, American Vogue was covering Italian fashion, praising it as “gay, charming, sometimes dramatic,” if not especially “imaginative or arresting.” To use a wine metaphor, if French couture remained the Chateau Margaux of fashion, Italian style was a pleasant and inexpensive Chianti. Significantly, Vogue concluded that “Italy has everything necessary to a vital and original fashion industry—talent, fabric, and plenty of beautiful women.”20 Certainly, Italy had a long and illustrious history of luxury textile production. Accessory brands such as Gucci and Ferragamo had also become established in the early twentieth century. However, the development of an authentic Italian style and a significant Italian fashion industry began only after the end of the Second World War, as part of a new international fashion system. The United States played a “vital role” in the development of Italian fashion, not only through financial assistance via the Marshall Plan, but also as an enthusiastic market.21

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The first major collective presentations of Italian fashion to international buyers and journalists took place in Florence in 1951. The American press responded enthusiastically. Life published a major article, describing how American fashion leaders “descended on the little museum city of Florence” like a “friendly invasion.” The fashion shows were crowded and disorganized, “but the eager-to-please Italians” ended by “scoring” a success. Italy “made a good beginning in its upstart attempt to enter fashion’s big leagues,” and its “fledgling fashion industry” was even said to “pose a challenge to Paris.”22 The French press also responded, warning that “the bomb” exploding in Florence menaced Paris’s “monopoly” on high fashion.23 The next major Italian fashion show took place in one of Florence’s most beautiful settings, the Sala Bianca of the Palazzo Pitti, attracting even more buyers and journalists. Even confirmed Francophiles such as the fashion editor Bettina

A US buyer examines one of the dresses on show at the Autumn-Winter 1951–1952 fashion show in Florence. (July 21, 1951). Photo by Archivio Cameraphoto Epoche/Getty Images.

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Ballard admitted that it was “attractive to discover fashion in a country so full of treasures to see . . . and people who were so polite and open-armed.”24 Unfortunately, no sooner had Florence emerged as Italy’s fashion center than eight Roman designers defected from the Sala Bianca, preferring to show their clothes in Rome. Ultimately, a compromise was worked out, with Florence showing accessories and boutique fashions, while Rome became the center of Italian couture, known as alta moda. As the center of the Italian film industry, Rome provided a suitably glamorous setting for fashion shows by emerging designers. Valentino Garavani, for example, who had studied at the Chambre Syndicale de la Couture in Paris, opened his own couture house in Rome in 1960. Not only Italian fashion, but also Italian design in general—from Vespa motor scooters to Olivetti typewriters—flourished. As Life put it in 1961, “Italy in a few brief years has changed the way the world looks—the cars, buildings, furniture and, most universally, the women.” Italian designers, such as Emilio Pucci, had “changed fashion” with innovations such as “the most striking color combinations, the tightest pants, [and] the wildest prints.”25 “If the Italian clothes designers would pull together, they could probably match the French . . . Instead they are too busy sticking pins in each other,” complained Newsweek in 1965. The competition between Florence and Rome left foreign buyers and journalists “forced either to take sides in the battle or split up into two teams to cover both cities because of openings that conflicted.”26 Ultimately, the “battle” between Florence and Rome would provide an opening for Milan. In the meantime, however, fashion excitement had shifted to London.

“Swinging London” By the 1950s, young people were developing a culture and fashions of their own. Youth culture, centered on music and style, was especially powerful in England and the United States. In 1955, when Mary Quant opened her first shop on King’s Road, it was already a fashion promenade for London’s mods and rockers. Quant was essentially untrained in fashion design, but she was quick to capitalize on the emerging youth styles. “To me, adult appearance was very unattractive,” she said. “It was something I knew I didn’t want to grow into.”27 Janey Ironside, professor of fashion design at London’s Royal College of Art, argued that “One of the best results of the social revolution in Britain since the Second World War has been the release of many young designers to the world.” Before the war, “the best dress houses were in Paris . . . [while] the fashion mass-production industry . . . was still in the sweatshop stage.” All this began to change in the 1950s, when “young people, either art college trained or just naturally talented,” began to design and sell clothes to other young people, in the process creating “a new ‘scene,’ internationally described as ‘swinging.’”28 Former fashion design students Sally Tuffin and Marion Foale, for example, decided not to get jobs in the conservative British ready-to-wear industry. Instead, they

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borrowed £200 and started their own business, pioneering the idea of cool trouser suits for women. As important as mini-skirts and pantsuits for young women was the Peacock Revolution in menswear. In 1957, the menswear designer John Stephen opened his first boutique on Carnaby Street. Less than a decade later, half the boutiques in London were for men. “Swinging London” became the world center of fashion and music for young people. As Time put it in 1966: “Every decade has its city. During the shell-shocked 1940s thrusting New York led the way, and in the uneasy 50s it was the easy Rome of La Dolce Vita. Today it is London, a city steeped in tradition, seized by change, liberated by affluence. In a decade dominated by youth, London has burst into bloom. It swings, it is the scene.”29 By contrast, there existed no French equivalent to the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. The most successful French pop singers, Johnny Hallyday and Françoise Hardy, never obtained an international reputation, although in 1960 the French press described Yves Saint Laurent as “le Johnny Hallyday de la couture.”30 Saint Laurent was the most brilliant designer of his generation, but the couture was not the best launching pad from which to create fashions for other young people. The French tacitly admitted that youth culture was a British import when they spoke of “yé-yé” fashion (after the Beatles’ lyric) and le style anglais. Although the French fashion press was slow to recognize that the new style was anything more than an adolescent fad, French designers were eventually forced to respond to the challenge. Lacking a genuine youth culture, certain French designers used futurism as a metaphor for youth. André Courrèges and Pierre Cardin became especially famous for their “space-age” styles. After ten years as head tailor at Balenciaga, Courrèges opened his own couture house in 1961. He really came into his own, however, with his Spring/Summer 1965 collection, which featured silver “moon girl” trousers and crisp white mini-dresses with matching go-go boots, helmets, and sunglasses. In France, the new style was known as the “Courrèges Revolution.” “I was the man who invented the mini,” Courrèges insisted. “Mary Quant only commercialized the idea.” But Quant confidently replied: “That’s how the French are. I don’t mind, but it’s just not as I remembered it. Fashion, as I see it, is inevitable. It wasn’t me or Courrèges who invented the miniskirt anyway—it was the girls in the street who did it.”31 Certainly, the girls on the street could never have afforded a couture mini by Courrèges, although French girls were happy to buy inexpensive minis. The press asked celebrities:

André Courregès, Spring 1967. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

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“Are you for the mini or against it?” Coco Chanel, famous in the 1920s for designing the shortest skirts in Paris, argued that the mini was “dirty, immodest” even for young girls. Saint Laurent, on the other hand, said, “I adore my epoch, the yé-yés, the boutiques. . . . A Chanel suit is like a costume from the reign of Louis XIV, a marvelous document.”32

“Haute Couture is Dead” Ready-to-wear had existed in France for a century, where it was known as confection, but it was rather limited in scope and ambition. Moreover, it had been largely a Jewish industry, and was decimated during the Nazi occupation. After the war and throughout the 1950s, the haute couture remained “the only true creative center” of French fashion. By the early 1960s, however, the industry began to change. The creation of a neologism, prêt-àporter, a direct translation of the English term “ready to wear,” was emblematic of both a new democratization of fashion and a greater standardization of mass production. Fusing “couture fashion and confection fashion,” the prêt-à-porter ceased to copy the couture and began offering its own interpretation of contemporary fashion.33 New designers emerged in Paris. Many of them were women who worked on a freelance basis for prêt-à-porter manufacturers. One of the most influential was Emmanuelle Khanh, a former model at Balenciaga, who produced her first line in 1961. Sometimes described as the Mary Quant of France, Khanh became famous for youthful styles, like culottes. Her designs, together with those of Christiane Bailly, another former model at Balenciaga, formed what American fashion journalist Marilyn Bender described as “the blueprint for the yé-yé revolution.”34 “Haute couture is dead,” Khanh announced in 1964. “I want to design for the street . . . a socialist kind of fashion for the grand mass.”35 Michèle Rosier, the daughter of Hélène Gordon Lazaroff, then editor of Elle, also focused on a clientele of other young women. Known as The Vinyl Girl, because of her shiny raincoats, Rosier insisted that “Everything beautiful has the right to exist, the eccentric as well as the rational, provided it’s cheap.” Paco Rabanne, after he saw Khanh and Bailly’s designs, asked to work with them. Soon Rosier was also using his plastic jewelry, which eventually led to the creation of his notorious plastic and metal dresses, as well as a commission to design a paper dress for the Scott Paper Company. “Very cheap, and the woman will only wear it once or twice. For me, it’s the future of fashion,” said Paco Rabanne.36 Couturiers who wanted to dress young women had a problem. Saint Laurent had already had the unpleasant experience in 1965 of watching manufacturers around the world knock off thousands of copies of his Mondrian dress. He wondered if the couture was still relevant. As he confessed just before his spring 1966 collection, “This season I am bursting with the desire to go much further and revolutionize everything. Then I think: it would be perfect for the Saint Germain des Prés boutique, at say, $100 . . . but at couture prices will they accept it?”37

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In 1966, Saint Laurent responded to this dilemma by launching his own ready-to-wear line, Rive Gauche, sold at his new boutique on the Left Bank. “The young lead very different lives from the lives of the women who wear couture fashion,” he explained. “Not all of the young would want couture even if they could afford the price. Sometimes elegance builds a wall between people. Many young people don’t want that.”38 Saint Laurent also proclaimed his allegiance to the modern woman with his trouser-suits, which became international best-sellers. French Elle argued that the development of the pant-suit was “as important as Balenciaga’s sack dress or Dior’s New Look.”39 “All through the Sixties the haute couture has been deteriorating,” argued journalist Marilyn Bender in 1967. “French fashion designers lived on inspiration from the United States and Britain. . . . What vitality there was in French fashion came from the young freelance designers of ready-to-wear that was sold in the boutiques.” The obsession with British and American pop culture filtered up to the couturiers, but when Saint Laurent did peajackets and pop-art dresses or Cardin used industrial zippers, “even true believers in the Paris myth were sorely tried. Those ideas were spawned seasons before on Seventh Avenue or in French ready-to-wear. Why should anyone want to pay $1,000 or more to own or to copy a rehash of a $60 fashion?”40 By 1968 even some couturiers seemed to agree.

Model wearing design by Emmanuelle Khanh, 1966. © Daily Mail/Rex/Alamy Stock Photo.

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“Let’s kill the couture,” Emanuel Ungaro suggested, “kill it in the sense of the way it is now.” In the wake of the May 1968 student riots in Paris, Saint Laurent declared, “Recent political events . . . make the Haute Couture a relic of the past.”41 If he kept his couture house open, he said, it was only for the sake of the workers. Believing that fashion, as he knew it, was dead, Balenciaga closed his couture house in 1968 and sent his clients to Givenchy.

Opposite: A model strikes a masculine look wearing a pinstriped trouser suit by Yves Saint Laurent, 1967. Photo by Reg Lancaster/Getty Images.

Anti-Fashion and the Battle of Versailles The 1970s was a difficult period for the fashion industry everywhere. The spread of the hippies’ anti-fashion sentiment, together with the rise of feminism, led many people to reject the imposition of any fashion authority. The recession and the oil crisis further dampened popular enthusiasm for consumerism. As French fashion journalist Marylène DelbourgDelphis recalls, in the 1970s there was almost an obsession with “wearable” clothes that looked “functional.” Women wanted freedom from the supposed “despotism” of fashion.42 Many women wore trousers, especially jeans, and sportswear separates. Significantly, however, young people also pillaged flea markets for vintage clothing and ethnic styles that seemed more “authentic” than contemporary fashion. Yves Saint Laurent’s Spring/Summer 1971 couture collection evoked the styles of the 1940s. It was almost universally savaged in both the French and international press, as journalists reacted with horror to what they perceived as his revival of fashions from the time of the Occupation. “Saint Laurent: Truly Hideous” proclaimed the International Herald Tribune. “Hideous,” “shameful,” “bad taste,” “a mistake,” echoed the French press, which could usually be relied on to be supportive.43 Yet the collection only acknowledged what young people instinctively felt—that “Retro” fashions were of-the-moment. A few years later, he would have the fashion equivalent of a home-run with his first ethnic collection. Saint Laurent’s Russian Collection of Fall/Winter 1976–1977 made the front pages of both the New York Times and the International Herald Tribune. Widely denounced as fantasy dressing, it was also heralded as the most magnificent couture collection in years, and it inspired copies at all price points around the world. Saint Laurent once more began emphasizing the importance of couture. His Chinese Collection of 1977–1978 had almost as much influence, simultaneously mirroring and inspiring a wave of ethnic chic. Paris fashion, and especially the haute couture, suffered throughout the 1970s from inflation and exchange rates that fell to four francs to the dollar. In 1975, the New Yorker’s fashion critic, Kennedy Fraser, dismissed the couture as “a degenerate institution propped up by a sycophantic press.”44 But the couture was no longer the only game in Paris: In 1973 a new organization was formed: The Chambre Syndicale du Prêt-à-Porter des Couturiers et des Créateurs de Mode. Saint Laurent’s partner, Pierre Bergé, became its president. This potentially threatened garment manufacturers in the United States, who knew that American retailers remained very interested in French fashion.

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According to Robin Givhan, this led the Americans to decide “to fight back.” So the American publicist Eleanor Lambert organized a French-American fashion show as a benefit performance in support of much-needed renovations at the palace of Versailles. The 1973 event featured five French designers (Yves Saint Laurent, Pierre Cardin, Emanuel Ungaro, Marc Bohan of Christian Dior, and Hubert de Givenchy) and five Americans (Halston, Oscar de la Renta, Bill Blass, Stephen Burrows, and Anne Klein). Much to everyone’s surprise, the Americans were widely acknowledged to have “won” the so-called Battle of Versailles, not so much because of the relatively simple clothes as because of the show featuring contemporary music, lively choreography, and many talented African American fashion models.45

Models presenting designs by Stephen Burrows at the Battle of Versailles (November 28, 1973). Photo: Reginald Gray/ WWD/Rex/Shutterstock.

Real Clothes in Milan By the second half of the 1970s, Milan had definitively replaced Florence and Rome as the capital of Italian fashion. “The Italian uprising” in Milan, based on luxurious readyto-wear, began to threaten French fashion hegemony. “Weary of French fantasy clothes and rude treatment on Parisian showroom floors, buyers were happy to take their order books next door,” reported Newsweek in 1978. The clothes coming out of Milan were, admittedly, not couture, but they were extremely stylish, and stylish in a way that seemed pleasantly modern. “They were classically cut but not stodgy; innovative but never theatrical,” declared Newsweek. “They were for real people—albeit rich people—to wear to real places.”46

Opposite: Green fur chubby jacket by Yves Saint Laurent. Featured in Elle Magazine, March 1, 1971. © HANS FEURER/ELLE/ SCOOP.

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Giorgio Armani, Autumn/ Winter 1979. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

Significantly, Milan became known for both men’s and women’s styles. When Giorgio Armani was featured on the cover of Time in 1982 the lead article began by asking Pierre Bergé, business partner of Yves Saint Laurent, about Italian fashion. Except for “pasta and opera, the Italians can’t be credited with anything!” said Bergé. “Give me one piece of clothing, one fashion statement that Armani has made that has truly influenced the world.” It was a rash challenge to make to an American journalist, and Jay Cocks impudently replied, “Alors, Pierre. The unstructured jacket. An easeful elegance. . . . Tailoring of a kind thought possible only when done by hand. . . . A new sort of freedom in clothes.”47 Indeed, much of the popularity of the Armani suit derived from its image as the suit that was not really a suit, or, rather, the suit that carried the power and prestige of a suit without being in any way stiff or square. As another fashion journalist, Woody Hochswender, noted, the Italian look “came to bridge the gap between the anti-Establishment 60’s and the money-gathering 80’s.”48 Part of the reason Americans liked the Italian look so much was because it seemed to be “a variant on the American sportswear look.”49 And yet New York seemed no closer to becoming an international capital of fashion, despite the economic and political power it embodied. Writing in 1977, the English journalist Ernestine Carter argued that: The American ready-to-wear industry is the largest, the most competitive, the most highly geared, the most innovative in marketing methods. In this capacity it is the envy and model for every country with a developed or developing need for mass-produced clothing. But although the wholesalers are masters at producing instant fashion at all price levels, although the industry now possesses an ever increasing cadre of professional and talented designers, the actual influence of their output on international high fashion has been minimal.50

Nor could trade barriers be blamed, she argued, since Japan was the only foreign country where the “New York Look” was fairly consistently successful. Everywhere else, the single greatest American fashion success was blue jeans. To this analysis, however, one might add that New York was already by the 1970s the capital of style for Americans, and the American market was large enough to be profitable for American designers and manufacturers.

Fashion is in Fashion “Paris is still the fashion capital of the world,” insisted Diana Vreeland in 1983 in her introduction to the catalogue for the Yves Saint Laurent exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.51 Vreeland, of course, had always been a fan of Paris fashion (and

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correspondingly uninterested in American sportswear). Yet by the 1980s she was not alone in her enthusiasm for Paris fashion—and the Paris couture in particular. Back in 1968 Saint Laurent had told reporters that he only kept his couture business going for the sake of his workers. In 1983 Saint Laurent would call for a return to “the immense prestige and the immense luxury of the 1950s.”52 In fact, the couture was on the verge of a spectacular revival. In January, 1983, on the rue Cambon, the House of Chanel, long in the doldrums, presented its first couture collection created by Karl Lagerfeld. Hitherto known primarily as a brilliant freelancer for ready-to-wear businesses like Chloé, Lagerfeld was charged with renewing the look of Chanel. Although his first collection received mixed reviews, it included one brilliant evening dress encrusted with tromp-l’oeil jewelry, which captured the Chanel DNA while also bringing the house into the present. Soon Lagerfeld was broadening shoulders, shortening hemlines, and introducing new materials, such as denim. Initially responsible only for the couture, Lagerfeld soon took charge of Chanel’s ready-to-wear as well. The revival of Chanel heralded a wider return of luxury. In 1985, a front-page headline in the New York Times announced “Paris Fashion, Beyond Chic, Is also a Major Moneymaker.” Readers were informed that the fashion industry makes “a substantial contribution” to the French economy. For example, “A seamstress at Chanel accounts for 50 times as much in export earnings as the average French worker.” Economist John Kenneth Galbraith argued that “Instead of spending fortunes trying to become a hightech nation, France would do far better to concentrate on what it knows best”—such as women’s fashion.53 The mystique of Paris fashion was obviously crucially important: “It just wouldn’t be the same in Omaha.” The Paris couture was said to function as the fashion industry’s way of “putting its best foot forward,” serving as a showcase for the ultimate in luxury and craftsmanship, and as a laboratory where experimental styles may launch new fashion trends. As a result, manufacturers, buyers, and journalists from around the world come to Paris “seeking fashion’s next direction.”54 In 1986, the New York Times reported: “With their trek on the Milan-London-Paris trail almost done, themes are beginning to emerge. The consensus . . .

Chanel haute couture, Autumn/Winter 1983–1984. Photo by Pierre Guillaud/AFP/ Getty Images.

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Christian Lacroix Haute Couture, Autumn/Winter 1987–1988. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

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is that Italy is in a slump, London in a fog and Paris has regained its rightful place atop fashion’s pyramid.”55 “Fashion was in fashion” and new economic players resolved to “wake the sleeping beauties of the haute couture.”56 In 1987, the largest luxury conglomerate in the world, LVMH, was founded with the merger between Louis Vuitton and Möet Hennessey. Even before the merger was finalized, Bernard Arnault and Jean-Jacques Picart appointed Christian Lacroix to head a new couture house. On February 3, 1987, Lacroix presented his first couture collection featuring the dramatic pouf skirts that he had already begun to introduce at Patou. Utilizing brilliant colors and patterns, and curvy silhouettes, his meteoric rise seemed to recapitulate Dior’s phenomenal success. Lacroix’s clothes may seem like fantasy creations, wrote Carrie Donovan, “But he is what couture is all about: an imagination that leaps into unexplored territory, and a theater in which to realize dreams.”57 Writing in the New Yorker in 1988, Holly Brubach argued that fashion designers no longer rushed to copy the kids on the street. “Now we are in the throes of . . . ‘la vogue aristo,’ and the couture, having regained its stature, is once again in full swing.”58 A Chanel suit made to order cost about $15,000, she observed, while a ready-to-wear Chanel suit cost up to $3,000. Yet thanks to the booming economy, sales were excellent. In the flaunt-it 1980s, there were waiting lists of women eager to buy Chanel suits and Lacroix dresses. Moreover, the publicity that accrued to the couture also helped sell thousands of lipsticks and bottles of perfume. It was not easy to launch or relaunch a couture house, however. In 1987, Jacques Bogart SA purchased Balenciaga and hired Michel Goma, a talented designer who is today largely forgotten. In 1989, Arnault replaced Marc Bohan at Christian Dior with the Italian designer, Gianfranco Ferré, who won a Golden Thimble, but would not succeed in jump-starting the prestige of this illustrious house. Then Lanvin hired Claude Montana, one of the stars of the ready to wear, who created very beautiful and modern couture garments, now avidly collected, which nevertheless failed to attract a sufficient number of couture clients.

Invitation for Jean Paul Gaultier’s Spring/Summer 1988 collection, La Concierge est dans L’Escalier.

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Jean Paul Gaultier, Spring/ Summer 1988, La Concierge est dans L’Escalier. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

Meanwhile, the US retail executive Dawn Mello was hired to reposition the Gucci brand, and would soon hire Tom Ford. The prêt-à-porter (French ready-to-wear) also flourished during the 1980s, with numerous influential French designers, including Marc Audibet (known for his innovative use of second-skin fabrics), Jean-Paul Gaultier (the enfant terrible of French fashion), Claude Montana (known for leather), Thierry Mugler (who created spectacular fashion shows), and many more. In addition to pioneering underwearas-outerwear and gender-bending skirts for men, Gaultier explored his French heritage, questioning the class-based canons of “good taste” in collections such as La concierge est dans l’escalier. Looking back on the period, French curator Olivier Saillard suggests that “The 1980s are to fashion what the nouvelle vague of the late 1950s was to cinema”—a period of “renewed creativity” and “freedom of expression.”59 Not all the designers showing in Paris were French. Indeed, among the most influential were Japanese avant-garde designers, especially Issey Miyake, Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons, and Yohji Yamamoto. Yet “the Japanese fashion revolution” did not injure Paris. On the contrary, by showing in Paris, rather than Tokyo, designers such as Miyake, Kawakubo, and Yamamoto implicitly positioned Paris as the world capital of fashion. The Japanese were followed by a wave of avant-garde Belgian designers, including Martin Margiela, Ann Demeulemeester, and Dries Van Noten. By choosing to show in Paris, rather than in Antwerp or Brussels, they reinforced the prestige of Paris. Accessory designers, such as the British milliners Stephen Jones and Philip Treacy, and the shoe designer, Manolo Blahnik, were also heralded as important creators, setting the stage for a future wave of designer accessories. Meanwhile, the French state aggressively promoted the idea that fashion was an important part of French culture and patrimony. In 1982, fashion shows began to be held at the Cours Carrée, later the Carrousel du Louvre, a prestigious and central location. The Musée des arts de la mode was inaugurated by Francois Mitterand in 1986. Although there already existed the Musée de la mode de la ville de Paris (Palais Galliera), the new museum was a national institution, associated with the Louvre, and occupying prominent real estate on the rue de Rivoli. The Institute Francais de la Mode was also founded in 1986 to promote education in the business of fashion.

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Claude Montana for Lanvin Couture, Spring/Summer 1992. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

Thierry Mugler, Spring/Summer 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

The French press also extolled the global significance of Paris fashion. In 1987, Accent, The Magazine of Paris Style (not, perhaps, the most objective source) featured an article entitled “Is Paris Still the Capital of Style?” According to the author, “The French capital may no longer hold the title alone.” The designers, journalists, and retailers interviewed agreed that, “Today, créateurs in London, Milan, Tokyo and New York can no longer be ignored.” Both fashion ideas and the actual selling of clothes were said to be “100 percent international.” The Italians were praised for “practicality,” the Americans for sportswear and jeans, the English and Japanese for adventurous, futuristic styles. The “merchandizing expertise of the Americans” came in for particular praise. And yet, many fashion professionals kept coming back to the idea that “Paris is not the only fashion city, but High Fashion takes place only in Paris . . . It’s something in the air . . . Yves Saint Laurent and Madame Grès wouldn’t have been possible anywhere but Paris . . . Paris is where it’s happening.”60

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15 Fashion’s World Cities Paris has changed, the system has changed, everything has been transformed. For the system to function, the participants have to be international, production has to be international. It’s clear that we no longer can or should be 100% French anymore. Didier Grumbach, Womens Wear Daily, 20151

D

Grumbach has been one of the most influential figures in the Paris fashion system for the past fifty years. So when he says that Paris has changed, and that the future is international, we need to pay attention. The impact on fashion of globalization accelerated dramatically in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. Textile and clothing production has always been highly labor-intensive, but now production has increasingly shifted to China and elsewhere in Asia, such as Bangladesh and Cambodia. Countries such as China and India, already known for manufacturing, developed their own fashion industries, in large part to serve their own burgeoning middle class. In 2000, Xu Kuangdi, then mayor of Shanghai, expressed the hope that his city would become “the world’s sixth fashion capital, alongside London, Paris, New York, Milan, and Tokyo.”2 Western fashion companies opened stores in so-called emerging markets, and the traditional fashion capitals featured a growing number of designers (and consumers) from around the world. Didier Grumbach, former chairman of the Fédération Française de la Couture, du Prêt-à-Porter des Couturiers et des Créateurs de Mode, and of the Chambre Syndicale de la Haute Couture, announced that “There is no such thing anymore as French fashion or Italian fashion; there will never be a Chinese or Indian fashion.”3 But where did that leave Paris? Because the haute couture is widely perceived as the apex and the epitome of Paris fashion, any problems in that sector seem to cast a shadow on Paris fashion more generally. “Is the couture dead?” asked the journalist, Suzy Menkes in 1991, or is it now “just an engine idier

Opposite: Christian Dior Haute Couture, Autumn/Winter 1997. Presented at Jardins de Bagatelle, Paris. Model: Honor Fraser. Photograph © Ann Ray.

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Opposite: Christian Dior Haute Couture, Autumn/Winter 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

of publicity” designed to sell licenses and cosmetics? The viability of the haute couture has been questioned every few years since the mid-twentieth century, and each time experts are called on to testify for or against. Pierre Bergé told Menkes that the couture was on its last legs, citing “the lack of craftsmanship, the dwindling number of clients, and the fact that the real power in fashion is in ready-to-wear.” Bernard Arnault, owner of the luxury company Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey (LVMH) and the power behind Dior and Givenchy, described couture as “the research-and-development laboratory of Paris style,” noting, in the language of the boardroom, that “Research and development in any enterprise is a cost center and not a profit center.”4 In 1995, The Wall Street Journal warned that many of France’s remaining eighteen couture houses probably “won’t survive in the face of growing international competition.”5 But Liz Tilberis of Harper’s Bazaar argued that, “The Paris haute couture . . . always finds ways to distinguish and renew itself, in spite of those who write it off as antiquated and irrelevant.”6 “A recurring theme in the French media is that of the crisis of Paris high fashion and the challenges to the city’s ability” to retain or regain the “coveted title” of capitale de la mode, observes the scholar Agnès Rocamora, reporting that “A somber mood informs many mid1990s articles, when Paris fashion was said to be experiencing yet another crisis.” In 1996, for example, Le Monde observed that the Parisian haute couture “does not escape the turbulences of the time” and “each season makes one fear the death of this luxury.” Within French fashion discourse, not only the couture but also innovative Paris prêt-à-porter, tends to be regarded as art, and not mere commerce. It was the “Internet,” argued Le Monde, which was “isolating . . . Paris in its splendor against the commercial and media offensive of Milan and New York.” Designers in Paris set the trends for the world, but were “plundered” by copyists before store owners could order their clothes. Becoming more melodramatic, the French newspaper even argued that “some creators” had “the blood sucked out of them by the vampires of Italo-American marketing.” In a reference to the laws protecting certain categories of French cultural production, one journalist asked: “Is haute couture becoming, like French cinema, an ‘exception culturelle’”?7 Then, in January 1997, exactly fifty years after Christian Dior launched the New Look, John Galliano presented his first couture collection for the house of Dior. The timing was no coincidence, and by appointing Galliano at Dior, Arnault placed one of British fashion’s greatest stars at the apex of the Paris fashion pyramid. Only Karl Lagerfeld at Chanel occupied an equally important position. Arnault simultaneously appointed Alexander McQueen as head designer of womenswear at Givenchy (where Galliano had previously been working). Arguably the two most talented designers of their generation, Galliano and McQueen created brilliant and theatrical fashions that captivated an international audience. Suddenly, couture seemed exciting again, which reflected well on Paris fashion in general. Galliano’s prêt-à-porter and accessories for Dior were much more lucrative, but it was his couture presented in extraordinary défilés that really astonished the fashion world. Of course, the bigger problem—of the Internet and copyists—was not going away, but for the time being the French press could rejoice that artistic fashion, high fashion, Paris fashion

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Alexander McQueen for Givenchy, Elect Dissect collection, Autumn/ Winter 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

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Alexander McQueen for Givenchy, Elect Dissect collection, Autumn/ Winter 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History Alexander McQueen, Spring/ Summer 1999. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

Victor & Rolf, Autumn/Winter 2005. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

was once more an international success. However, very few of the top designers in Paris were French. The Paris fashion system has always included many non-French designers, from Charles Frederick Worth to Karl Lagerfeld. But the success of Galliano and McQueen called attention to the number of British designers in Paris. Less commented on was the presence of so many innovative Belgian designers, such as Martin Margiela. There were also Americans working Europe: The Texan Tom Ford revived the Italian company Gucci with louche, sexy fashions before taking over at Yves Saint Laurent. Ford also seemed to epitomize the new figure of the “artistic director,” who was much more than head designer, but also in charge of image and business. Although Marc Jacobs, another American, never held comparable power at Louis Vuitton, his fashion shows and clever collaborations with artists brought welcome publicity to a company where most profits came from accessories. Meanwhile, Lanvin, the oldest French couture house still in existence (albeit creating only ready-to-wear) had great success with the Moroccan-born Israeli designer, Alber Elbaz. French designers seemed to be a minority in their own city, although Nicolas Ghesquière was appointed at Balenciaga in

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1997, the same year that John Paul Gaultier presented his first couture show. Naturally, Paris was not the only important site for fashion. As accessories became an increasingly important component of fashion, Italian companies such as Prada and Gucci flourished. Indeed, at the top of the fashion system, luxury began to seem more profitable than fashion, per se, and “luxury wars” periodically broke out between different companies. Yet by the turn of the millennium, certain longterm trends boded poorly for high fashion. As the journalist Teri Agins summed it up in her book The End of Fashion (1999), “nobody’s dressing up and everybody loves a bargain.” People’s attitudes toward fashion were changing and “designer labels started to seem like a rip-off.”8 The rise of “fast fashion” changed consumption patterns dramatically. Globalization, together with the development of the Internet, meant that cheap copies of the latest styles could be rapidly manufactured and distributed, arriving in stores months before “designer fashions” were available to consumers. There had always been copyists, but the speed of fast fashion was unprecedented. Even high-end designer fashion was increasingly produced outside Europe. Big corporations also became increasingly powerful, whether these were luxury companies such as LVMH and Kering (formerly Pinault Printemps Redoute) or huge fast fashion companies such as Zara (based in Spain) and H&M (based in Sweden). From one perspective, high finance, buyouts, marketing, and brand development increasingly characterize the globalized fashion system. From another perspective, fashion seemed to become more popular, even “democratic,” as the Internet vastly expanded access to fashion. Bloggers increasingly challenged established fashion journalists, obtaining coveted front row seats at fashion shows, as well as reinvigorating the genre of street-style photography. Meanwhile, journalists argued that bloggers had been bribed with gifts of expensive clothes. In reaction to the ubiquity of fast fashion, luxury fashion brands have increasingly emphasized the artistry of high fashion and the importance of “heritage.” Paris has long been famous for its métiers de la mode, but these had been dying out. In recent years, the

Comme des Garçons, Spring/ Summer 2005. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

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Nicolas Ghesquière for Balenciaga, Spring/Summer 2009. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

Rick Owens, Spring/Summer 2009. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

artisans of Paris—embroiderers, featherworkers, creators of artificial flowers, etc.— have been rediscovered and acclaimed as living national treasures. The most successful luxury fashion companies, such as Chanel, have played a crucial role supporting craftsmanship. For example, Chanel acquired the famous Lesage embroidery company, and Chanel couture shows make a point of emphasizing craftsmanship. Hermès also emphasized the work of skilled artisans, which contrasted with the exploitation, environmental degradation, and disposability associated with fast fashion. In addition to sponsoring fashion exhibitions on the history of their brands, fashion companies increasingly organized and travelled their own exhibitions emphasizing heritage and artistry. The couture itself has also changed significantly. Back in the “golden age” of the couture, in the 1950s, there were an estimated 20,000 to 40,000 couture clients. Today, the number of couture clients worldwide is rumored “to fall between a couple of thousand and mere hundreds.” Already back in 1987, Pierre Bergé said, “No, we don’t make a profit from couture. But it’s not a problem. It’s our advertising budget.” In 2014, Camilla Morton, the author of How to Walk in High Heels who worked with the house of Dior for more than a decade, told journalist Alexander Fury, “Couture is the trailer for the movie that is the perfume and make-up. The way couture is now justified is the red carpet.”9 Couture clients have always been international. Madeleine Vionnet had many Latin American clients and Elsa Schiaparelli had many clients in the United States. But today clients increasingly come from India,

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Chanel, Spring/Summer 2009. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

Russia, China, Korea, and the Middle East. However, the most important clients are the ones who not only get clothes free but are often paid for wearing them; because whenever a dress is worn by a star on the red carpet, it is said to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars in advertising—and such images, of course, proliferate endlessly on the Internet. Haute couture garments cost anywhere from $10,000 to $250,000 and require awe-inspiring hours of labor on the part of skilled French artisans. Yet, contrary to popular belief, couture garments are not 100 percent hand-made. The craft renaissance has gone hand-in-hand with the development of “haute technology,” such as digital printing and laser-cutting. Both hand-workmanship and high technology play crucial roles in both the haute couture and in luxury ready-to-wear, as the exhibition, Manus X Machina demonstrated. Indeed, the very distinction between couture and ready-to-wear has become increasingly blurred, as top ready-to-wear designers often include on the runway special looks, “show pieces,” which testify to the creator’s vision. Lee Alexander McQueen, for example, learned a great deal working with the couture ateliers at Givenchy and was able to apply this knowledge to his own collections, creating extraordinary pieces, which are now sought after by museums. Haute couture is often said to be a “laboratory” for new ideas, although creativity flourishes at least as much among ready-to-wear designers as it does within the haute couture, per se. The term “demi-couture” is often used to describe exceptional garments

Raf Simons for Christian Dior, Autumn/Winter 2013. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

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Bouchra Jarrar Couture, Collection No. 13. Courtesy of Bouchra Jarrar.

created by ready-to-wear designers. The kinds of garments that used to be thought of only as show pieces, intended to attract attention from the press, are now regularly produced for well-heeled clients. Because demi-couture requires little or no fitting, it eliminates the time-consuming aspects of traditional haute couture. Moreover, since the prices of luxury ready to wear have sky-rocketed, the cost of demicouture is less intimidating. The most prestigious haute couture houses, such as Chanel and Dior, are also the most successful exporters of French luxury ready-to-wear.10 Independent designers creating smaller collections of “demi-couture” (or even just adventurous collections of ready-to-wear) are increasingly allowed to participate in couture week as guests. Indeed, without them, couture week would barely last three days. Today there are more fashion designers than ever before, but it is harder for them to survive. As the French shoe designer, Pierre Hardy, says: “Either the factories and workshops are closing down, or they are being bought out by the big name brands and only work for those brands.”11 The new speed of fashion is also very hard on designers. As consumers of fast fashion have grown accustomed to finding new merchandise in stores every few weeks, highfashion designers have responded by producing more collections: As Menkes wrote, “If we accept that the pace of fashion was part of the problem behind the decline of John Galliano, the demise of Alexander McQueen and the cause of other wellknown rehab cleanups, nonstop shows seem a high price to pay for the endless ‘newness’ demanded of fashion now. The strain on both budgets and 12 designers is heavy.” Fashion editors and retailers also complain that they are deluged with too many collections, too many brands, and too many products. “Are we turning into an entertainment business? Is that the fashion business?” questioned Alber Elbaz. “I ask editors ‘How are you?’ and they say ‘I cannot see 60 shows in one week.’”13 In 2015, trend forecaster Li Edelkoort declared “the end of fashion,” although she also suggested that “we will see couture coming back.”14 Reports of the Death of Fashion are greatly exaggerated, of course. Within the industry, attention has recently focused on

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Fashion’s World Cities

scheduling problems in the fashion system. One recommendation is a shift to “Show now, buy now.” But a larger problem is the excess of “product,” which may well be unsustainable. So far, however, only a very small minority of consumers, retailers, and producers have become actively concerned about the exploitation of garment workers and the damage to the environment caused by the global fashion industry, including water pollution, water consumption, and carbon footprint. To date, there are no industry standards for ethical fashion. Although some high-fashion companies produce in a socially responsible way, at least compared to fast fashion companies, their marketing still emphasizes consumption.15 The fact that the fashion system is now international further complicates any effort to moderate consumption. The classic center-to-periphery paradigm has been complicated by the rise of many new fashion centers, from Moscow to Mumbai and from Sao Paolo to Shanghai, although different nations and cities occupy very different positions within the system. Even countries that occupy a less important position in the global fashion system from an economic point of view still see benefits in holding their own fashion weeks. A city with even a small fashion week achieves some regional recognition, which helps brand the city’s identity as a creative center—and this symbolic capital can potentially be turned into economic capital. As David Gilbert notes, “Making a city fashionable (in both narrow and wider senses of the term) is now a common and often explicit aim of urban policy.”16 Paris, “the oldest city-turned-fashion-brand,”17 remains “the self-proclaimed world capital of fashion.”18 The French state, the French press, and even some foreigners continue to argue that “Paris possesses the ‘je ne sais quoi’ which makes all the difference, a particular ambiance, a living history in which creation finds the fertile ground it needs to flourish and gain notoriety.”19 French writers argue that the haute couture is “a national institution” regulated by the government “to protect its prestige” and support the development of a “new couture.” Paris is also said to be “unique” in its wealth of métiers d’art (embroiderers, petites mains, etc.). The French government works closely with the numerous professional organizations that comprise the French fashion industry (couture and prêt-à-porter, but also menswear, lingerie, and textiles), which are said to have demonstrated “exceptional capacity for cohesion and organization,” which helps Paris “retain fashion leadership.”20 The Paris City Council launched a project in 2000 entitled “Paris, capitale de la Mode,” renamed in 2013 “Paris capitale de la Création.”21 Paris is not only said to be an “inspiration” for designers, the city is often characterized in French discourse as a creative force in its own right, with its own spirit, “l’esprit parisien.”22 Are the defenders of Paris fashion protesting too much? To what extent is Paris still really even one of the top “world cities”? Is it still a center of creativity, or is it surviving on the symbolic capital accrued over past centuries? Economically, Paris lags far behind London and New York. Many young French people across a wide range of professions have left to look for work in other countries. Even the refugees fleeing the chaos of the Middle East have made it quite clear that they prefer to live in Germany or Great Britain, rather than France. Of course, many foreigners love to visit Paris (although petty crime and fear of terrorism

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Paris Fashion: A Cultural History

Iris Van Herpen Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2011–2012 show, Paris, France. Photo by Victor VIRGILE/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images.

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periodically keeps away many American and Asian tourists). The presence of prestigious flagship stores and innovative boutiques certainly attracts shoppers and benefits the city’s economy. But Paris needs to be more than a vast department store thronged with shoppers carrying copies of Paris Chic and Trendy. A fashion city is not only an economic entity, it is also a cultural one. In today’s global world, there is no single fashion capital, although Paris, I would argue, is still first among equals, with New York and Milan jostling for second place. Because the haute couture is unique to Paris, it functions brilliantly as an advertisement for the “brand” Paris fashion. The fact that so many international designers show in Paris is not only a testimony to the city’s prestige, it also advances the city’s culture of creativity. Even the proliferation of fashion shows around the globe has actually worked to the advantage of Paris, because many of the most successful non-Western designers want to show their collections in Paris, just as the top Japanese and Belgian designers did in previous decades. In addition, many of the most important fashion companies are based in Paris, and the city is a center for the communication of international fashion. Yet if Paris is to remain a leader, it cannot rely on the accumulated expertise and prestige of centuries of fashion culture. The Paris fashion system must continue to build a culture of creativity and inclusion that attracts people from around the world. This involves more than hiring talented international designers for prestige fashion houses. Fashion education is central to the future of creativity in Paris. Today the world’s most talented fashion students compete to attend schools in London, Antwerp, and New York, but few gravitate to Paris. In 2016, however, talks began about possibly uniting the Institute Français de la Mode (the top-ranking fashion school in Paris, specializing in business) and the École de la Chambre Syndicale de la Couture Parisienne. This union would be an important step forward, especially if the school could also collaborate with the city’s two extraordinary fashion museums and with the fashion businesses based in Paris. The history and geography of Paris, and the work of generations of artists, writers, designers, and “players” has constructed Paris as a place of elegance and pleasure. In this most cosmopolitan of cities, Parisians have long been justifiably proud of both their great traditions and their most radical innovations. As a result, Paris—and Paris fashion— have been an inspiration and a joy for people from all over the world. That pompous old charlatan, Polonius, may have been on to something when he advised: Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man, And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that.

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Balenciaga Fall/Winter 2016/2017, Paris, France. Photo by Victor VIRGILE/ Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images.

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Endnotes Chapter 1   1 David Gilbert, “From Paris to Shanghai: The Changing Geographies of Fashion’s World Cities,” in Christopher Breward and David Gilbert, eds., Fashion’s World Cities (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2006), pp. 3–4.   2 Joan Dejean, How Paris Became Paris: The Invention of the Modern City (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), p. 145.  3 Dictionnaire universal (1692), quoted in Sarah-Grace Heller, Fashion in Medieval France (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2007), p. 20.   4 Charles Le Maire quoted in Joan Dejean, How Paris Became Paris, p. 162.   5 Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing: Dress and Fashion in the ‘ancien régime,’ translated by Jean Birrell (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), pp. 474–475.   6 Louis Antoine Caraccioli, quoted in Joan Dejean, How Paris Became Paris, p. 144.   7 Ernst Ludwig Carl’s Treatise on the Wealth of Princes and Their States (1772), quoted in Ulinka Rublack, Dressing Up: Cultural Identity in

Renaissance Europe (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), pp. 281–282.  8 Democracy in America, quoted in Philippe Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie (Princeton:Princeton University Press, 1994), p. 189.   9 Emmeline Reymond, “La Mode et la parisienne,” quoted in Patrice Higonnet, Paris, Capital of the World (Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press, 2002), p. 117. 10 Alexandre Dumas, et al., Paris et les parisiennes au XIXe siècle (Paris: Morizot, 1856), p. iii. 11 Taxile Delord, Physiologie de la parisienne (Paris: Aubert, 1841), p. 23. 12 M. Angeline Merritt, Dress Reform Practically and Physiologically Considered (Buffalo: Jewett, Thomas, and Co., 1852), p. 59. 13 Frances E. Russell, “Freedom in Dress for Women,” The Arena 6 (June, 1893), p. 74. 14 Frances E. Russell, “Women’s Dress,” The Arena 3 (February, 1891), p. 359. 15 Jules Michelet, quoted in Perrot, Fashioning the Bourgeoisie: A History

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Endnotes of Clothing in the Nineteenth Century, translated by Richard Bienvenu (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), p. 73. 16 Ladies’ Home Journal (April 1893), p. 29.

masculin moderne au XIVe siècle,” in Actes du Ier Congrès International d’histoire du Costume (Venice: Centro Internazionale delle Arti e del Costume, 1955), pp. 28–41.

19 Goncourt Journal entries quoted in T. J. Clark, The Painting of Modern Life (Princeton:Princeton University Press, 1999), pp. 34–5.

  6 “Fashions and Textiles at the Court of Burgundy,” CIBA Review 51 (1946); Michelle Beaulieu and Jeanne Bayle, Le Costume en Bourgogne de Philippe le hardi à la mort de Charles le téméraire (1364–1477) (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1956), p. 186; Philippe Erlanger, The Age of Courts and Kings (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1967), p. 17. See also François Piponnier, Costume et vie sociale: la cour d’Anjou XIVe–XVe siècle (Paris: Mouton et cie., 1970), and Richard Vaughan, Valois Burgundy (London: Archon Books, 1975).

20 See Stanley Lieberson, A Matter of Taste: How Names, Fashions, and Culture Change (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2000).

  7 Beaulieu and Bayle, Le Costume en Bourgogne, pp. 185–6; “Fashions and Textiles at the Court of Burgundy,” pp. 1843, 1847.

Chapter 2

  8 “Fashions and Textiles at the Court of Burgundy,” p. 1850; Beaulieu and Bayle, Le Costume en Bourgogne, pp. 125–9.

17 Louis Octave Uzanne, The Modern Parisienne (London: William Heinemann, 1912) p. 34. First published in La Femme à Paris (Paris: Quantin,1894). 18 Georges d’Avenel, Le Méchanisme de la vie moderne (Paris: Armand Colin, 1900–1905), vol. 4, pp. 1–2, 4, 12.

  1 Margaret Scott, Late Gothic Europe, 1400–1500, The History of Dress Series (London: Mills & Boon, 1980), p. 58.   2 J. Augustin Challamel, The History of Fashion in France (London: S. Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington, 1882), p. 51.   3 Sarah-Grace Heller, Fashion in Medieval France (Cambridge, UK: D.S. Brewer, 2007), pp. 46, 59.   4 Susan Mosher Stuard, Gilding the Market: Luxury and Fashion in Fourteenth-Century Italy. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2006), pp. 1–4.   5 François Boucher, Histoire du costume en occident de l’antiquité à nos jours (Paris: Flammarion, 1965), pp. 191–5; Paul Post, “La Naissance du costume

  9 Anne Hollander, Seeing Through Clothes (New York: Viking, 1978), pp. 367–9. 10 Ivan Morris, The World of the Shining Prince (New York: Oxford University Press, 1964), pp. 38, 206. 11 Penelope Francks, “Was Fashion a European Invention? The Kimono and Economic Development in Japan,” Fashion Theory Vol. 19 Issue 3 (June 2015), pp. 331–361. See also Eiko Ikegami, Bonds of civility: Aesthetic Networks and the Political Origins of Japanese Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), p. 247. 12 Timothy Brook, The Confusions of Pleasure: Commerce and Culture in

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Endnotes Ming China (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), p. 220. 13 Brook, Ibid., p. 221. 14 José Luis Colomer, “Black and the Royal Image,” in José Luis Colomer and Amalia Descalzo, eds., Spanish Fashion at the Courts of Early Modern Europe (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2014), Vol. 1, p. 78.

and London: Free Press, 2005), pp. 47–48. 24 Paul Lacroix, The Eighteenth Century: Its Institutions, Customs, and Costumes. France, 1700–1789 (London: Bickers & Son, n.d.), p. 458.

15 Colomer, “Black and the Royal Image,” p. 90.

25 The Present State of the Court of France, and the City of Paris (1712), quoted in Aileen Ribeiro, Dress in Eighteenth Century Europe 1715–1789 (London: B. T. Batsford Ltd., 1984), p. 20.

16 Michael Batterberry and Ariane Batterberry, Fashion, The Mirror of History (New York: Greenwich House, 1977), p. 119.

26 The Marquis de Caraccioli (1772), quoted in Perrot, Les Dessus et les dessous (Paris: Fayard, 1981), pp. 34–35.

17 See Aileen Ribeiro, “A Story of Pride and Prejudice: Perceptions of Spanish Dress in Seventeenth-Century England,” in Colomer and Descalzo, Spanish Fashion, Vol. II, (2014) pp. 317–340.

27 Le Tableau de Paris (Amsterdam, 1782–1788), and Le Nouveau Paris (Paris, 1798), abridged and translated by Wilfred and Emilie Jackson, The Picture of Paris Before and After the Revolution (London: George Routledge & Sons, 1929), p. 9; and (Le Tableau de Paris only) by Helen Simpson, The Waiting City, Paris 1782–1788 (London: George G. Harrap, 1933), pp. 240–241, 52. See also Paul-Louis de Giafferri, The History of French Masculine Costume (New York: Foreign Publications, 1927), section 63, and Philippe Perrot, Les Dessus et les dessous de la bourgeoisie: Une histoire du vêtement au XIXe siècle (Paris: Librairie Arthème Fayard, 1981), pp. 33–34.

18 Madame de Motteville, quoted in W. L. Wiley, The Formal French (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967), p. 171. 19 Quoted in Francis Mossiker, Madame de Sévigné: A Life and Letters (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983), p. 224. 20 Daniel Roche, The Culture of Clothing: Dress and Fashion in the Ancient Regime (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), pp. 86–117, 144–145. 21 Clare Haru Crowston, Fabricating Women: The Seamstresses of Old Regime France, 1675–1791 (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2001), p. 12. 22 Mercure Galant (1672) quoted in Crowston, p. 30. 23 Joan DeJean, The Essence of Style: How the French Invented High Fashion, Fine Food, Chic Cafés, Style, Sophistication, and Glamour (New York

28 Ribeiro, Dress in Eighteenth Century Europe, p. 18. 29 Rousseau, La Nouvelle Héloïse, quoted in Perrot, Les Dessus et les dessous, p. 301. 30 Mercier, trans. Simpson, The Waiting City, p. 273. 31 Mercier, trans. Simpson, The Waiting City, p. 135. 32 Mercier, trans. Jackson, The Picture of Paris, p. 18; trans. Simpson, The Waiting City, p. 135.

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Endnotes 33 M. Dorothy George, English Political Caricature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959), p. 147; Macaroni and Theatrical Magazine (October 1772), quoted in M. Dorothy George, Hogarth to Cruikshank: Social Change in Graphic Satire (London: Penguin, 1967), p. 59. See also Valerie Steele, “The Social and Political Significance of Macaroni Fashion,” Costume: The Journal of the Costume Society 19 (1985), pp. 94–109.

42 Ribeiro, Dress in Eighteenth Century Europe, p. 54.

34 Town and Country Magazine (November 1771), p. 598.

45 Quoted in Olivier Bernier, The Eighteenth-Century Woman (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art in association with Doubleday & Co., 1982), p. 138.

35 Isaac Bickerstaff, Lionel and Clarissa (a comic opera), c. 1768, quoted in W. H. Rhead, Chats on Costume (London, 1906), p. 104; The London Magazine: or, Gentleman’s Monthly Intelligencer (April 1772), p. 193. 36 Robert Hitchcock, The Macaroni. A Comedy (New York: A. Ward, 1773), pp. 1, 5, 70. Prologue, Epilogue. 37 Quentin Bell, On Human Finery, 2nd ed. (New York: Schocken Books. 1978), p. 125. 38 Le Petit Dictionnaire, quoted in Ribeiro, p. 146. See also Giafferri, section 62. 39 Mercier, trans. Simpson, The Waiting City, p. 30. 40 Ribeiro, Dress in Eighteenth Century Europe, p. 13. 41 Quoted in Francis Mossiker, The Queen’s Necklace (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1961) p. 162; Lenard R. Berlanstein, Daughters of Eve: A Cultural History of French Theater Women from the Old Regime to the Fin-de-Siècle (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 2001), pp. 56–57; Maria-Theresa of Austria, quoted in Emile L’Anglade, Rose Bertin, The Creator of Fashion at the Court of Marie Antoinette, trans. Angelo S. Rappoport (London: John Long, 1913), p. 58.

43 Oberkirch, quoted in Emile L’Anglade, Rose Bertin, The Creator of Fashion at the Court of Marie Antoinette, trans. Angelo S. Rappoport (London: John Long, 1913), pp. 136, 140, 150. 44 Archives Nationales 0’3,792, described in L’Anglade, p. 153.

46 The Memoirs of Mme Elisabeth Louise Vigée-Lebrun, 1755–1789, trans. Gerard Shelley (London: John Hamilton, 1926), p. 53. 47 James Laver, Taste and Fashion, rev. ed. (London: George G. Harrap & Co., 1945), p. 198.

Chapter 3   1 Daniel Roche, “Apparences Révolutionaires ou Révolution des Apparences?” in Nicole Pellegrin, Les Vêtements de la liberté, (Marsaiiles: Editions ALINEA, 1989), p. 201.   2 Richard Wrigley, The Politics of Appearances: Representations of Dress in Revolutionary France (Oxford/New York: Berg, 2002), p. 2.   3 Lynn Hunt, “Freedom of Dress in Revolutionary France,” in Sara E. Melzer and Kathryn Norberg, eds., From the Royal to the Republican Body. Incorporating the political in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century France (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1998), p. 249.   4 J. Augustin Challamel, The History of Fashion in France (London: S. Low,

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Endnotes Marston, Searle and Rivington, 1882), pp. 180–182.   5 François Auguste René Chateaubriand, Memoirs, trans, and ed. Robert Baldick (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1961), pp. 108, 107.   6 Nicole Pellegrin, Les Vêtements de la Liberté, pp. 161–163.   7 Daniel Roche,” Popular Dress,” originally published in Roche, People of Paris, reproduced in Peter McNeil, ed. Fashion: Critical and Primary Sources, volume 2: The Eighteenth Century (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2009), pp. 75–76.   8 Jennifer Harris, “The Red Cap of Liberty: A Study of Dress Worn by French Revolutionary Partisans, 1789– 1794,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 14 (1981), pp. 283–312. See also Nicole Pellegrin, Les Vêtements de liberté, pp. 31–32, and Wrigley.   9 Nicole Pellegrin, Les Vêtements de la Liberté, p. 111. 10 Lynn Hunt, “The Unstable Boundaries of the French Revolution,” in Nichelle Perrot, ed., A History of Private Life. Volume IV. From the Fires of Revolution to the Great War. Trans., Arthur Goldhammer. Cambridge, MA. And London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1990, p. 18. 11 Quoted in Marilyn Yalom, Blood Sisters: The French Revolution in Women’s Memory (New York: Basic Books, 1993), p. 21. 12 Kimberly Chrisman-Campbell, Fashion Victims: Dress at the court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), p. 288. See also Costumes du temps de la Révolution 1790–1793 (Paris: A. Lévy, 1876); Raymond Gaudriault, La Gravure de mode féminine en France (Paris: Les

Éditions d’Amateur, 1983), pp. 41–42, 44. 13 Memoirs of Madame de la Tour du Pin, trans, and ed. Felice Harcourt (London: Harvill Press, 1969), p. 192. 14 Chateaubriand, Memoirs, pp. 171, 170. 15 Louis Sebastien Mercier, Le Tableau de Paris (Amsterdam, 1782–1788) and Le Nouveau Paris (Paris, 1798), abridged and translated by Wilfred and Emilie Jackson, The Picture of Paris Before and After the Revolution (London: George Routledge & Sons, 1929), pp. 246, 149–150. 16 Ronald Schechter, “Gothic Thermidor: The Bals des victims, the Fantastic, and the Production of Historical Knowledge in Post-Terror France,” Representations 61 (Winter 1998): 78–94. 17 Elizabeth Amann, Dandyism in the Age of Revolution (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2015), p. 63. 18 Georges Lefebvre, The French Revolution 1793–1799 (New York: Columbia University Press, 1962), p. 139. 19 Denis Woronoff, The Thermidorian Regime and the Directory, 1794–1799 (Cambridge: Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme and Cambridge University Press, 1984), pp. 8, 20. 20 Lynn Hunt, Politics, Culture and Class in the French Revolution (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984), pp. 52–53. 21 Elizabeth Amann, Dandyism in the Age of Revolution, pp. 126–127. 22 Richard Cobb, Death in Paris (New York: Oxford University Press, 1978), pp. 73, 76. 23 Cobb, Death in Paris, p. 80. 24 Wrigley, p. 11.

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Endnotes

Chapter 4   1 Anne Martin-Fugier, La vie élégant ou la formation du Tout-Paris, 1815–1848 (Paris: Librairie Arthème Fayard, 1990), pp. 23–24.   2 Honoré de Balzac, Treatise in Elegant Living. Translated by Napoleon Jeffries (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Wakefield Press, 2010), p. 65. See also La Traité de la vie élégant (first published in 1830; Paris: Bibliopolis, n.d.).   3 Shoshana-Rose Marzel, “L’esprit du chiffon: le vêtement dans le roman français du XIXème siècle,” dissertation presented to the Université hébraïque, 2003, p. 8.   4 Helen T. Garrett, “Clothes and Character: The Function of Dress in Balzac.” Philadelphia: Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1941, pp. 9, 13; and Ellen Moers, The Dandy: Brummell to Beerbohm (London: Secker & Warburg, 1960), p. 129.  5 Balzac, Treatise on Elegant Living, (Cambridge, Massachusetts: Wakefield Press, 2010), pp. 3–4, 9.   6 Honoré de Balzac, Lost Illusions, trans. Herbert Hunt (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971), p. 165.  7 Balzac, Lost Illusions, pp. 27, 71.  8 Balzac, Lost Illusions, p. 161. See also pp. 77, 82.  9 Balzac, Lost Illusions, pp. 164–168. See also pp. 168–180. 10 See Eugènie Grandet and Père Goriot. 11 Balzac, Lost Illusions, pp. 618–619. 12 Louis Octave Uzanne, Fashion in Paris (London: William Heinemann, 1901), pp. 81–82.

13 Honoré de Balzac, “Le Notaire,” and Paul Duval, “L’Employé,” in Les Français peints par eux-mêmes (Paris: Fume et cie., 1853), vol. 1, pp. 223–227, 188–192. 14 Honoré de Balzac, “Monographie du rentier,” in Les Français peints par euxmêmes, vol. 2, pp. 3–12, on p. 3. 15 Juste-milieu quote is cited in Garrett, “Clothes and Character,” p. 50; Hulot is described in Honoré de Balzac, Cousin Bette (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1965), p. 55. 16 Garrett, “Clothes and Character,” pp. 61, 56. 17 Balzac, Lost Illusions, p. 651; Honoré de Balzac, A Harlot High and Low, trans. Rayner Heppenstall (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1970), pp. 112–113. 18 Honoré de Balzac, “History and Physiology of the Boulevards of Paris,” in George Sand, P.S. Stahl, Honoré deBalzac, Léon Gozlan, Frédéric Soulié, Charles Nodier, Eugène Briffault, S. Lavalette, P. Pascal, Le Diable à Paris (Paris: J. Hetzel, 1846), pp. 89–92, 98–100. 19 Edmund Texier, Tableau de Paris (Paris: Bureau d’Illustration, 1851), pp. 34–35. 20 Jules Janin, “Grisette,” in Les Français peints par eux-mêmes, vol. 1, pp. 311–315; Louis Huart, Physiologie de la grisette (Paris: Aubert et cie., n.d.), pp. 12, 63. 21 Henriette Vanier, La Mode et ses métiers (Paris: Armand Colin, 1960), p. 19. 22 Janin, “Grisette.” 23 Maria d’Anspach, “Modiste,” in Les Français peints par eux-mêmes, vol. 2, pp. 128–132, on p. 131. 24 Uzanne, The Modern Parisienne, p. 86. 25 Anspach, “Modiste,” pp. 132, 131.

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Endnotes 26 Avenel, La Méchanisme, vol. 4, p. 2; Janin, “Grisette”; Uzanne, The Modern Parisienne, p. 79. 27 Taxile Delord, Physiologie de la parisienne (Paris: Aubert et cie., 1841), pp. 9, 12–13. 28 Louis Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris (Paris: Quantin, 1894), pp. 3–4. 29 Honoré de Balzac, “La Femme comme il faut,” in Les Français peints par euxmêmes, Vol. 1, pp. 321–324. 30 Delord, “Physiologie,” pp. 68, 23; Eugène Lami; Alexandre Dumas; Théophile Gautier; Arsène Houssaye; Paul Edme de Musset; Louis Enault; G Du Fayl; Paul Gavarni; Adolphe Rouargue; Emile Rouargue Paris et les parisiens au XIXe siècle (Paris: Morizot, 1856), p. 414. 31 Léon Gozlan, “Ce Que c’est Qu’une Parisienne,” in Le Diable à Paris. Paris et les Parisiens by George Sand, Théophile Lavallée, Paul Gavarni,. (Paris: Maresque et Compagnie and Gustave Havard, 1853), pp. 14, 18, 22. 32 Dumas et al., Paris et les parisiens au XIXe siècle, pp. 403–4, iii, 413. 33 La Pandore. Journal des Spectacles (8 August 1823), p. 3; La Mode (October 1830), p. 10; (November 1830), pp. 184– 188; (October 1829), pp. 81–82. 34 Moers, The Dandy, pp. 108, 121. 35 Honoré de Balzac, Treatise on Elegant Living, p. 58.

Chapter 5   1 See Susan Fillin-Yeh, ed., Dandies: Fashion and Finesse in Art and Culture (New York and London: New York University Press, 2001); Rhonda K. Garelick, Rising Star: Dandyism, Gender, and Performance in the Fin de

Siècle (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998); Alice Cicolini, ed., 21st Century Dandy (London: British Council, 2003).   2 Patrick Favardin, ed., Splendeurs et misères du dandysme (Paris: Mairie du 6e Arrondissiment de Paris, 1986), p. 45.   3 Barbey D’Aurevilly, Dandyism. Translated by Douglas Ainslie. (New York: PAJ Publications, 1988), pp. 31–32, 64.   4 Quotes from Ellen Moers, The Dandy: Brummell to Beerbohm, (London: Secker & Warburg, 1960), p. 271, and Enid Starkie, Baudelaire (Norfolk, CT: New Directions, 1958), p. 76 (emphasis added).   5 Ian Kelly, Beau Brummell: The Ultimate Man of Style (New York and London: Free Press, 2006), p. 105; Moers, The Dandy, p. 274; Charles Baudelaire, My Heart Laid Bare, ed. Peter Quennell, trans. Norman Cameron (New York: Vanguard Press, 1951), section XVI, p. 180. (I have altered the translation slightly.)   6 Charles Cousin, quoted in F. W. J. Hemmings, Baudelaire the Damned (London: Hamish Hamilton, 1982), p. 33.   7 Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, trans. Jonathan Mayne (London: Phaidon Press, 1964), p. 26; Jerrold Seigel, Bohemian Paris (New York: Viking, 1986), p. 103; Starkie, Baudelaire, pp. 70–83.  8 The Dandy (25 May 1838), p. 4; The Dandy (January 1838), p. 4; The Dandy (February 1838), p. 3.   9 “This black costume,” Nadar, and LaVavasseur, cited in Moers, The Dandy, p. 272; Musset quoted in Moers, p. 143.

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Endnotes 10 “Costume played,” in Champfleury [Jules Fleury], Souvenirs et portraits de jeunesse (Paris: E. Dents, 1872), p. 134; “dozen suits,” in Starkie, Baudelaire, pp. 76–77; “glass-papered,” in Mayne, trans., The Painter, p. 27.

20 Baudelaire, My Heart Laid Bare, sections VIII and XXII (pp. 177, 182– 183), translations slightly altered.

11 Theodore de Banville, Charles Toubin, and Jean Rousseau quoted in Hemmings, Baudelaire, pp. 83–88.

22 Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” pp. 27–28, emphasis added and translation slightly altered. See also Moers, The Dandy, pp. 280–282.

12 Quoted in Hemmings, Baudelaire, p. 113. 13 Champfleury, Souvenirs, p. 134; Gautier quoted in Moers, The Dandy, p. 272; La Fanfarlo, quoted in Lois Boe Hyslop and Francis E. Hyslop, Jr., ed. and trans., Baudelaire: A Self-Portrait. Selected Letters (London: Oxford University Press, 1957), p. 37. 14 Pages from the Goncourt Journal, trans. and ed. Robert B. Baldick (New York: Oxford University Press, 1962), pp. 30–31. 15 Diderot and Manet quoted in Lois Boe Hyslop, ed., Baudelaire as Love Poet and Other Essays (University Park and London: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1969), p. 89; Champfleury quoted in Theodore Reff, Manet and Modern Paris (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, for the National Gallery of Art, Washington, 1982), p. 23. 16 Baudelaire, “On the Heroism of Modern Life,” p. 128. 17 Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modem Life,” p. 29. 18 Charles Baudelaire, “On the Heroism of Modern Life,” in The Mirror of Art, trans. and ed. Jonathan Mayne (London: Phaidon Press, 1955), pp. 127–128; Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” pp. 27–28. 19 T. J. Clark, The Absolute Bourgeois (Greenwich, Conn.: New York Graphic Society, 1973), p. 143.

21 Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” pp. 27–28.

23 Linda Nochlin, Realism (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971), p. 228. 24 Eugène Chapus, Manuel de l’homme et de la femme comme il faut (Paris: Lévy, 1862) p. 82. 25 See John Harvey, Men in Black (Chicago University of Chicago Press, 1995); Michel Pastoreau, Black: the History of a Color (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008) 26 Quentin Tarantino, Reservoir Dogs, quoted in John Harvey, Men in Black, p. 7. 27 Fashion-Théorie (June 1862), pp. 1190–1191. 28 La Génie de la mode (5 April 1862), pp. 1–2. 29 Journal des Modes d’hommes (January 1867), n.p. 30 Chapus, Manuel, pp. 1, 96. 31 Eugène Lami, Alexandre Dumas, Théophile Gautier, Arsène Houssaye, Paul Edme de Musset, Louis Enault, G Du Fayl, Paul Gavarni, Adolphe Rouargue, Emile Rouargue, Paris et les parisiens au XIXe siècle (Paris: Morizot, 1856), pp. 426, 424. 32 Chapus, Manuel, pp. 29, 51, 61, 63, 67, 76. 33 Fashion-Théorie (February 1863), p. 1258; Bertall, La Comédie de notre

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Endnotes temps (Paris: E. Plon et cie., 1874), vol. 1, pp. 19–20.

Popular Illustration (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983), p. 42.

34 Bertall, La Comédie, vol. 1, pp. 11–12.

  5 Charles Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” in The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays, trans. Jonathan Mayne (London: Phaidon Press, 1964), pp. 1–2.

35 Fréderic Monneyron, “Du vêtement comme anticipation sociale,” in Fréderic Monneyron, Le vêtement. Colloque de Cerisy. (Paris: L’Harmattan, 2001), p. 213 36 Monneyron, “Du vêtement,” p. 212. 37 Monneyron, “Du vètement,” pp. 214–216. 38 Quoted in Moers, p. 270. 39 Barbey d’Aurevilly, “Happiness in Crime,” Les Diaboliques, in Asti Hustvedt, The Decadent Reader (New York: Zone, 1998), pp. 97–98. 40 Bourgeau, Usages du monde, quoted in Philippe Perrot, Les Dessus et les dessous de la bourgeoisie: Une histoire du vêtement au XIXe siècle (Paris: Librairie Arthème Fayard, 1981), p. 250. 41 La Presse (21 August 1859), quoted in Perrot, p. 249.

Chapter 6   1 Patrice Higonnet, Paris, Capital of the World (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 2002), p. 117.

  6 Baudelaire, “The Painter of Modern Life,” pp. 9, 11, 13.   7 Vyvyan Holland, Hand Coloured Fashion Plates 1770 to 1899 (London: B. T. Batsford, 1955), p. 152. Information on the Colin family can be found in George Gustave Toudouze, Le Costume Français (Paris: Larousse, 1945), p. 154.   8 Julie de Marguerittes, The Ins and Outs of Paris; or Paris by Day and Night (Philadelphia: William White Smith, 1855), pp. 160–161.  9 Album du Salon de 1842 (Paris: Chez Challamel, 1842), p. 54. 10 Holland, Fashion Plates, p. 160; Gaudriault, La Gravure, pp. 78, 209. 11 Arnold Bennett, The Old Wives’ Tale, quoted in Richard Ormond, “Pictorial Sources for a Study of Costume,” in Ann Saunders, ed., La Belle Epoque (London: published for the Costume Society, 1968), p. 13.

  2 Ruth E. Iskin, Modern Women and Parisian Consumer Culture in Impressionist Painting (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), p. 185.

12 See Valerie Steele, Fashion and Eroticism: Ideals of Feminine Beauty from the Victorian Era to the Jazz Age (New York: Oxford University Press, 1985), as well as La Vie Parisienne (7 June 1879), pp. 330–331; (23 January 1875), pp. 48–49; (12 May 1877), pp. 258–259.

  3 Raymond Gaudriault, La Gravure de mode féminine en France (Paris: Les Éditions d’Amateur, 1983), p. 8.

13 Bertall, La Comédie de notre temps (Paris: E. Plon & cie., 1874), vol. 2, p. 307.

  4 Noveline Ross, Manet’s ‘Bar at the Folies-Bergère’ and the Myths of

14 La Vie Parisienne (20 February 1875), p. 111.

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Endnotes 15 La Vie Parisienne (20 February 1875), p. 107. 16 For a comparable figure in an orthodox fashion illustration, see Steele, Fashion and Eroticism, p. 77. Notice how the maid sits decorously upright. 17 La Vie Parisienne (20 February 1875), p. 110. 18 La Mode Illustrée (11 February 1877), p. 46; La Vie Parisienne (20 February 1875), p. 111; Stephane Mallarmé, La Dernière Mode, 1874. (Paris: Editions Ramsay, 1978), n.p. 19 Zola, quoted in Joel Isaacson, “Impressionism and Journalistic Illustration,” Arts Magazine 56 (June 1982), p. 100. 20 Beatrice Farwell, The Cult of Images: Baudelaire and the 19th Century Media Explosion (Santa Barbara: University of California at Santa Barbara Art Museum, 1977), pp. 7–15. 21 Mark Roskill, “Early Impressionism and the Fashion Print,” Burlington Magazine 112 (June 1970), pp. 393–397.

  2 Peter Wollen, “The Concept of Fashion in The Arcades Project,” boundary 230:1 (2003), p. 133.   3 Benjamin, “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth Century” (1939) in Benjamin, The Arcades Project, p. 18.   4 Alexandre Dumas, Théophile Gautier, Arsene Houssaye, Paul de Musset, Louis é nault and Du Fayl, Paris et les parisiens au XIXe siècle (Paris: Morizot, 1856), pp. 38–43.   5 Emile Littré, Dictionnaire de la langue française, originally published in 1863, (Versailles, Encyclopedia Britannia France, 1997), vol.2, p. 1297.   6 Valérie Feuillet, Quelques Années de Ma Vie (Paris: Lévy, 1894), p. 202.   7 See S.C. Burchell, Imperial Masquerade: The Paris of Napoleon III (New York: Atheneum, 1971).   8 Pauline de Metternich, “Je ne suis pas jolie, je suis pire.” Souvenirs, 1859– 1871. (Paris: Tallandier, collection “La Bibliotheque d’Evelyne Lever,” 2008), pp. 111–114.

22 Quoted in John Rewald, The History of Impressionism, 4th ed. (New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1973), pp. 70–71.

  9 Bruno du Roselle, La Mode (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1980), p. 30.

23 Rewald, History of Impressionism, p. 208.

11 Claire Goldberg Moses, French Feminism in the Nineteenth Century (Albany: SUNY Press, 1984), p. 25.

24 Louis Octave Uzanne, Fashion in Paris (London: William Heinemann, 1901), p. vi.

Chapter 7   1 Walter Benjamin, “Paris, the Capital of the Nineteenth Century” (1935) in Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project. Translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. (Cambridge, Masachusetts and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999), p. 8.

10 Metternich, p. 116.

12 “Dress in Paris,” All the Year Round (February 28, 1863), p. 9. 13 Pierre Larousse, Grand dictionnaire universel du XIXe siècle (Paris: Grand Dictionnaire Universel, 1866–1890), p. 417. 14 Journal des Modes d’Hommes (January 1869), n.p. 15 Quoted in Françoise Tétart-Vittu, “La naissance d’une haute couture,” in Sous l’Empire des crinolines (1852–1870).

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Endnotes Paris: catalogue of the Palais Galliera, musée de la mode et du costume, 2008), p. 182.

(Paris: Robert Laffont, 1956), vol. 2 (January 15, 1872), p. 491.

16 Hippolyte Taine, Notes sur Paris (Paris: Hachette, 1913, 18th edition), pp. 144–145.

29 La Vie Parisienne (1890), reproduced in Femmes fin de siècle, 1885–1895. Paris: Musee de la mode et du costume, Palais Galliera, 1990) p. 134–135

17 P.N. Furbank and A. M. Cain, Mallarmé on Fashion: A Translation of the Fashion Magazine La Dernière Mode with Commentary (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2004), p. 124.

30 Françoise Tétart-Vittu, “Who Creates Fashion?” in Gloria Groom, ed. Impressionism, Fashion, and Modernity, (Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2012), pp. 63–64.

18 Emile Zola, The Kill, translated by Arthur Goldhammer (New York: The Modern Library, 2004), pp. 98–100.

31 Jules Michelet quoted in Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen: The Modernization of Rural France, 1870– 1914 (Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1976), p. 227.

19 Primoi, quoted in Elizabeth Ann Coleman, The Opulent Era: Fashions of Worth, Doucet and Pingat (New York: The Brooklyn Museum in association with Thames and Hudson, 1990), p. 16. 20 Lillie de Hegermann-Lindencrone, In the Courts of Memory, 1912 (New York: Da Capo Press, 1980), pp. 188–189.

32 Girouard, Cities and People, pp. 291, 293. 33 Philip G. Nord, Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), pp. 257–258.

22 Metternich, p. 68.

34 Françoise Tétart-Vittu, “Shops versus Department Stores,” in Gloria Groom, ed., Impressionism, Fashion & Modernity, pp. 209–210, 212.

23 Anon., Grand Hotel Guide de l’étranger dans Paris et ses environs (Paris: Grand Hotel, 1877), pp. 5, 10, 14.

35 Emile Zola, Au bonheur des dames, 1883. (Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 1980), pp. 7–8.

24 La Corbeille (1 December 1854), pp. 1–2.

36 Zola, Au bonheur des dames, p. 124.

21 Hegermann-Lindencrone, In the Courts of Memory, pp. 32–35.

37 Zola, Au bonheur des dames, pp. 478, 104, 130.

25 Edith Thomas, The Women Incendiaries. Translated by James and Starr Atkinson. (New York: Brazillier, 1966), p. 75.

Chapter 8

26 Thomas, The Women Incendiaries, p. 156.

  1 René König, A La Mode (New York: Seabury Press, 1973), pp. 122–124, 179.

27 Alistair Home, The Fall of Paris, The Siege and the Commune, 1870–1871 (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1965), p. 405.

  2 Honoré de Balzac,George Sand, Pierre-Jules Hetzel [P.-J. Stahl], Léon Gozlan, Frédéric Soulé, Charles Nodier, Eigéne Briffault, S. Lavalette, P. Pascal, Alphonse Karr, Méry, Gérard de Nerval, Arséne Houssaye, Théophile Gautier, Alfred de Musset, Le Diable

28 Edmond and Jules de Goncourt, Journal: Mémoires de la vie litteraire

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Endnotes à Paris: Paris et les Parisiens (Paris: Marescq et Compagnie, 1853): p. 100. [Originally published by J. Hetzet, in 1846]; Alexandre Dumas, Théophile Gautier, Arsène Houssaye, Paul Edme de Musset, Louis Enault, G Du Fayl, Paul Gavarni, Adolphe Rouargue, Emile Rouargue, Paris et les parisiens XIXe siècle (Paris: Morizot, 1856), p. 44.   3 Alfred Delvau, Les Plaisirs de Paris: Guide pratique des étrangers (Paris: Faure, 1867), pp. 7–8, 10, 66.   4 Amy LaTour, Kings of Fashion (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1958), pp. 129–130.   5 Anne Martin-Fugier, Comédienne: De Mlle Mars à Sarah Bernhardt (Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 2001), p. 67. See also Fugier, pp. 58, 70.  6 Le Monde Illustré, quoted in Lenard R. Berlanstein, Daughters of Eve. A Cultural History of French Theater Women from the Old Regime to the Fin-de-Siècle (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 2001), p. 104.  7 Berlanstein, Daughters of Eve, p. 112. For wardrobe costs, see p. 111.  8 Berlanstein, Daughters of Eve, p. 234.  9 Fugier, Comédienne, p. 70. 10 Amy LaTour, Kings of Fashion, p. 146. 11 Fugier, Comédienne, p. 71. 12 Julie de Marguerrites, The Ins and Outs of Paris; or, Paris by Day and Night (Philadelphia: William White Smith, 1855), pp. 39–40. 13 Marguerrites, The Ins and Outs of Paris, pp. 39–41, 118, 121–123. 14 Jules Janin, The American in Paris During the Summer (London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman, 1844), p. 37.

15 Anon., Paris: Guide économique dans le Paris nouveau et à l’exposition universelle de 1867 (Paris: Galerie du Petit Journal, 1867), p. 109. 16 Marguerrites, The Ins and Outs of Paris, pp. 110–111. 17 Marguerrites, The Ins and Outs of Paris, pp. 32, 350, 358. 18 Louis Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris (Paris: Quantin, 1894), pp. 290, 293–294. 19 H. Despaigne, Le Code de la mode (Paris: Chez l’auteur, 1866), pp. 8–9. 20 Alice Ivimy, A Woman’s Guide to Paris (London: James Nesbet, 1909), pp. 78–83. 21 Louis Octave Uzanne, The Mirror of the World (London: John C. Nimmo, 1890), pp. 99–100. 22 Quoted in Theodore Reff, Manet and Modern Paris (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, for the National Gallery of Art, Washington, 1982), p. 131. 23 La Mode (November 1830), pp. 184– 185; Grande Encyclopédie (Paris: H. Lamirault et cie., 1886–1902), vol. 5, pp. 375–382. See also La Corbeille (1 May 1854), p. 1, and La Sylphide (1 June 1845), p. 323. 24 Janin, American in Paris, pp. 82–83. 25 Emile Zola, Nana, trans. George Holden (1880; Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972), p. 345. See also Grande Encyclopédie, vol. 5, pp. 375–382. 26 Man about Paris: The Confessions of Arsène Houssaye, trans. Henry Knepler (New York: Morrow, 1970), p. 76. 27 Ivimy, Woman’s Guide, p. 92. 28 La Vie Parisienne (22 May 1875), pp. 286–289.

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Endnotes 29 Marguerite d’Aincourt, Études sur le costume féminin (Paris: Rouveyre, 1885), pp. 6–11. 30 Anne Coffin Hanson, Manet and the Modern Tradition (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), p. 66. 31 André-Valdès, Encyclopédie illustrée des élégances féminines. Hygiène de la beauté (Paris: Librairie Marpon et Flammarion, 1892), p. 346. 32 Les Modes (May 1901), p. 13. 33 Arsène Alexandre, “All Paris A-Wheel,” Scribner’s Magazine (August 1895), pp. 195–201. Unless otherwise noted, all subsequent quotations in this chapter are from this article. 34 André-Valdès, Encyclopédie illustrée, pp. 346–348. 35 Flobert, La Femme et le costume masculin, pp. 14–26.

(Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1966), p. 130.  6 Coles, Stevens, p. 29.  7 Coles, Stevens, pp. 51–53.  8 Coles, Stevens, pp. 10, 22.   9 François Boucher, Alfred Stevens (Paris: Les Éditions Rieder, 1930), p. 18. 10 Saunier, “Alfred Stevens,” p. 461. 11 Huysmans, quoted in E. John Bullard, Mary Cassatt: Oils and Pastels (New York: Watson-Guptill, 1972), p. 31. 12 Coles, Stevens, p. xviii. 13 Quoted in Sweet, Cassatt, p. 61. 14 Louis Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris (Paris: Quantin, 1894), pp. 215, 218. 15 Stevens, Impressions, pp. 42–43. 16 Quoted in Sweet, Cassatt, p. 130.

Chapter 9   1 Vicomtesse Nacia (1897), quoted in Anne Martin-Figier, La Bourgeoise (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1983), p. 21.   2 La Grande Dame, quoted in Anne Martin-Fugier, Les salons de la IIIe République: Art, littérature, politique (Paris: Perrin, 2003), p. 101.   3 Anne Martin-Fugier, Les salons de la IIIe République, p. 102.   4 Alfred Stevens, Impressions on Painting (New York, 1886), pp. 23, 9; Camille Lemonnier, Alfred Stevens et son œuvre, (Brussels, 1906), p. 1; William A. Coles, Alfred Stevens (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Museum of Art, 1977), p. ix; Charles Saunier, “Alfred Stevens,” La Revue Blanche (15 March 1900), p. 461.   5 Frederick Sweet, Miss Mary Cassatt, Impressionist from Pennsylvania

17 Remy Z. Saisselin, “From Baudelaire to Christian Dior: The Poetics of Fashion,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 18 (1959–60): 109–10. 18 Baroness d’Orchamps, Tous les secrètes de la femme (Paris: Bibliothèque des Auteurs Modernes, 1907), p. 41. 19 Anne Buck, Victorian Costume and Costume Accessories (London: Herbert Jenkins, 1961), p. 66. 20 d’Orchamps, Tous les secrètes de la femme, pp. 98–100. 21 Countess Tramar, Le Bréviaire de la femme. Pratiques secrètes de la beauté (Paris: Victor Havard, 1903), pp. 189– 190, 180. 22 Marcel Proust, Within A Budding Grove, trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom, Remembrance of Things Past (New York: Random House, 1927–1932), p. 468.

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Endnotes 23 Tramar, Le Bréviaire de la femme, p. 185: d’Orchamps, Les secrètes, p. 99; The Queen (5 July 1902), p. 12.

Chapter 10   1 Marcel Proust, The Guermantes Way. Translated by Mark Treharne. (New York: Penguin Books, 2002), p. 138.   2 Marcel Proust, The Captive. Translation by C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom (New York: Random House, 1927–1932), pp. 400-401.   3 Marcel Proust, Cities of the Plain, Translated by Moncrieff and Blossom, pp. 323–324.   4 George D. Painter, Marcel Proust, 2 volumes (New York: Vintage Books, 1978), vol. 2, p. 10.   5 Anne Favrichon, Toilettes et Silhouettes chez Marcel Proust (Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 1987), p. 9.   6 Marcel Proust, Selected Letters, 1880– 1903. Edited by Philip Kolb, translated by Ralph Manheim. (New York: Doubleday, 1983), Letter 34, pp. 50–51.  7 L’Art et la mode (4 July 1903), quoted in Laure Hillerin, La comtesse Greffulhe: Lombre des Guermantes (Paris: Flammarion, 2014), p. 223.   8 Robert de Montesquiou, La Divine Comtesse, Étude d’après Madame de Castiglione (Paris, 1913), p. 203.   9 Edmond de Goncourt, quoted in Philippe Julian, Prince of Aesthetes: Count Robert de Montesquiou, 1855– 1921 (New York: Viking Press, 1968), p. 78. 10 Edmond and Jules Goncourt, Journal: mémoires de la vie littéraire, edited by Robert Ricatte (Paris: Robert Lafont, 1989. Copyright Fasquelle et Flammarion, 1956), vol. 3, 16 February 1890, p. 388.

11 Le Gaulois (5 April 1882), quoted in Hillerin, La comtesse Greffulhe, p. 222. 12 Marcel Proust, Swann’s Way. Translation by Lydia Davis. (New York: Penguin, 2003), pp. 178–179. 13 The Guermantes Way, trans. Treharne, p. 22–23 14 The Captive, trans. Montcrief, pp. 400–403. 15 Valerie Steele, “L’aristocrate, comme oeuvre d’art,” in La Mode retrouvée: Les robes trésors de la comtesse Greffulhe, (Paris: Palais Galliera, 2015), pp. 60–75. 16 Painter, Marcel Proust, vol. 2, pp. 177, 314; Proust, Le Banquet (1892), quoted in André Maurois, Proust: Portrait of a Genius, trans. Gerard Hopkins (New York: Carroll & Graf, 1950), p. 60. 17 Swann’s Way. Translation by C.K. Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom (New York: Random House, 1927– 1932), p. 151. See also the translation by Lydia Davis, pp. 204–205. 18 Swann’s Way, translation by Lydia Davis, pp. 228, 230. 19 Swann’s Way, translation by Lydia Davis, pp. 228–229. 20 Swann’s Way, translation by Moncrieff, p. 178. See also Lydia Davis, pp. 240–241. 21 Festa-McCormick, Proustian Optics, Stanford French and Italian studies, v. 29. (Saratoga: Anma Libri, 1984), p. 17. 22 Proust quoted in Rose Fortassier, Les écrivains français et la mode: De Balzac à nos jours (Paris: Pres Universitaires de France, 1988), p. 154. 23 Montesquiou quoted in Rose Fortassier, Les écrivains français et la mode, p. 154. 24 Swann’s Way, trans. Montcrieff, pp. 186– 187. See also Lydia Davis, pp. 251–253.

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Endnotes 25 Swann’s Way, trans. Moncrieff, p. 187. 26 Susan B. Kaiser, The Social Psychology of Clothing (New York: Macmillan, 1985), p. 337. 27 Marcel Proust, Within a Budding Grove, trans. Montcrieff, (New York: Random House, 1927–1932). pp. 471, 453, 484. 28 Within a Budding Grove, p. 471. 29 Within a Budding Grove, p. 483. 30 Within a Budding Grove, pp. 452–3; Festa-McCormick, Proustian Optics, p. 22. 31 Within a Budding Grove, pp. 403, 452. 32 Within a Budding Grove, p. 412. 33 Within a Budding Grove, pp. 484–485. 34 The Guermantes Way, p. 1140. 35 The Captive, pp. 400, 403. 36 The Captive, p. 407. 37 Marcel Proust, The Past Recaptured (New York; Randon House, 1927–1932), pp. 1096–1097. 38 Painter, Marcel Proust, vol. 1, pp. 90–91. 39 See Valerie Steele, A Queer History of Fashion: from the Closet to the Catwalk (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013) 40 Patrick Chaleyssin, Robert de Montesquiou, mécène et dandy (Paris: Somogy, 1992), p. 27. 41 Robert de Montesquiou, quoted in Edgar Munhall, Whistler and Montesquiou: The Butterfly and the Bat (New York and Paris: The Frick Collection and Flammarion, 1995), p. 145. 42 Quoted in Fortassier, Les écrivains français et la mode, p. 148.

43 Chaleyssin, Robert de Montesquiou, p. 44. 44 Chaleyssin, Robert de Montesquiou, p. 41. 45 Within a Budding Grove, pp. 569–570. 46 Festa-McCormick, Proustian Optics, pp. 93–103; The Captive, p. 527. 47 Within a Budding Grove, p. 552. 48 Maurois, Proust, pp. 33–34, 66, 93–94. 49 The Guermantes Way, pp. 742–54; for Albertine’s “Doucet wrapper,” see The Captive, p. 421. 50 Painter, Marcel Proust, vol. 1, p. 152. 51 Within a Budding Grove, pp. 595, 664. 52 Within a Budding Grove, pp. 674, 677. 53 Within a Budding Grove, p. 675. 54 Quoted in L’Atelier Nader et la Mode 1865–1913 (Paris: Musée de la Mode et du Costume 1978), p. 83. 55 Liane de Pougy, My Blue Notebooks (London: Andre Deutsch, 1979), p. 169. 56 Within a Budding Grove, p. 674; Guillermo de Osma, Mariano Fortuny: His Life and Work (New York: Rizzoli, 1980), p. 110. 57 The Captive, pp. 400–401, 407, 638–639. 58 The Captive, p. 656. 59 Festa-McCormick, Proustian Optics, pp. 72–87. 60 The Captive, pp. 662–663. 61 The Captive, p. 639. 62 Swann’s Way, pp. 320–321. 63 Swann’s Way, pp. 323–325. 64 Within a Budding Grove, p. 487.

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Endnotes

Chapter 11   1 “Les Arbitres de l’élégance,” FigaroModes (15 April 1903), pp. 13–14.   2 Paul Poiret, King of Fashion. The Autobiography of Paul Poiret, (Philadelphia and London: J.B. Lippincott, 1931), pp. 76–77.   3 Madeleine Vionnet, quoted in Bruce Chatwin, What Am I Doing Here? (New York: Viking, 1989), p. 89.   4 Ella Fletcher, The Woman Beautiful (New York: Brentano, 1900), p. 397.   5 “Les Arbiteurs d’élégance,” FigaroModes (April 15, 1903), pp. 252–253.   6 Deborah L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France: Politics, Psychology, and Style (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), p. 11.

mode féminine en France (Les Éditions de l’Amateur, 1983), pp. 102–103; Helmut and Alison Gernsheim, The History of Photography, 1865–1914 (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1969), p. 235; A. Huart and A. Grevin, Les Parisiennes (Paris: Librairie Illustrée, n.d. [c. 1880]), p. 521. 12 Paul Poiret, En habilant l’époque, pp. 84–85. 13 Claude Lepape and Thierry Defert, From the Ballets Russes to Vogue. The Art of George Lepape, trans. Jane Brenton (New York: The Vendome Press, 1984), pp. 35–37. 14 Gazette du Bon Ton, quoted in Lepape and Defert, Ballets Russes to Vogue, pp. 72–73. 15 Edna Woolman Chase, Always in Vogue (Garden City: Doubleday and Co., 1954), p. 112.

  7 Rosalind Williams, Dream Worlds: Mass Consumption in Late NineteenthCentury France (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1982), caption to illustration 9.

16 Gustave Babin, “Gravures de modes,” L’Illustration (5 July 1913), pp. 13–16.

 8 See Les Toilettes de la collectivité de la couture (Paris: Société de Publications d’Art, 1900); Musée retrospectif des classes 85 et 86. Le Costume et ses accessoires à l’exposition universelle de 1900 Paris (Paris, 1900); Philippe Jullian, The Triumph of Art Nouveau. Paris Exhibition 1900 (London: Phaidon Press, 1974).

18 Palmer White, Poiret (London: Studio Vista, 1973), p. 73.

  9 Gaston Worth, quoted in Poiret, En habilant l’époque (Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1930), pp. 65, 67.

21 Lady Cynthia Asquith, Diaries, 1915– 1918 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969), pp. 11, 51.

10 Dorothy Behling, “French Couturiers and Artist-Illustrators: Fashion from 1900 to 1925” (Ph.D. dissertation, Ohio State University, 1977), pp. 40–41, 91.

22 La Femme Chic, cited in Doris Langley Moore, The Woman in Fashion (London: B. T. Batsford, 1949), p. 170.

11 See Nancy Hall-Duncan, The History of Fashion Photography (New York: Alpine Book Company, 1979), pp. 13–16; Raymond Gaudriault, La Gravure de

17 “Le Vrai et le faux chic,” L’Illustration (28 March 1914), pp. 243–248.

19 Poiret, En habilant l’époque, p. 93. 20 See Adelaide Rasche, ed., Wardrobes in Wartime, 1914–1918. Fashion and Fashion Images during the First World War (Berlin: Kunstbibliothek, 2014).

23 New York Times (27 September 1914 and 21 February 1915). 24 Chase, Always in Vogue, pp. 118–127; see also Martin Battersby, Art Deco

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Endnotes Fashion: French Designers, 1908–1925 (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1974), p. 78. 25 The 1915 Mode as Shown by Paris (New York and Paris: Condé Nast Publications, 1915); New York Times (6 September 1912). 26 Marcel Proust, The Past Recaptured, trans. C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom, Remembrance of Things Past (New York: Random House, 1927–1932), p. 893. 27 Proust, The Past Recaptured, pp. 894, 899, 921. 28 Chase, Always in Vogue, p. 118; “Mourning Dresses,” Femina (June 1917), p. 70. 29 “Fashion During the War,” Femina (March 1917), pp. 17–19; see also Femina (June 1917), pp. 17–18.

Chapter 12   1 Cecil Beaton, The Glass of Fashion (New York: Doubleday & Comapny. Inc., 1954), p. 192.   2 See Valerie Steele, Women of Fashion: Twentieth-Century Designers (New York: Rizzoli, 1991); Jean-Luc Dufresne and Olivier Messac, eds., Femmes Créatrices des Années Vingt (Paris: Éditions Arts & Culture, 1988); and Adeleide Rasche, ed., Wardrobes in Wartime: Fashion and Fashion Images during the First World War, 1914–1918 (Berlin: Kunstbibliothek Staatliche Museen zu Berlin and E.A. Seeman, 2014), p. 66.   3 Diana de Marly, The History of Haute Couture. 1850–1950 (New York: Holmes & Meier, 1980), p. 147.   4 Mary Louise Robert, Civilization Without Sexes: Reconstructing Gender in Postwar France, 1917–1927 (Chicago:

University of Chicago Press, 1994), p. 66; see also p. 19.   5 Quoted in Robert, Civilization Without Sexes, p. 20.  6 Goncourt Journal (16 January 1877), and E. Gomez Carillo, Psychologie de la mode (1910), quoted in DelbourgDelphis, Le Chic et le Look, pp. 86–87.   7 H. W. Yoxall, A Fashion of Life (New York: Taplinger, 1967), p. 57.   8 Thérèse and Louise Bonney, A Shopping Guide to Paris (New York: Robert McBride, 1929), p. 29.   9 Michael Arlen, The Green Hat (New York: George H. Doran, 1924), pp. 18, 26; F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, quoted in Meredith Etherington-Smith, Patou (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1984), p. 66. See also Jardin des Modes (15 February 1927), quoted in Marylène Delbourg-Delphis, Le Chic et le Look (Paris: Hachette, 1981), p. 112. 10 Bonney and Bonney, Shopping Guide, pp. 10–11. 11 Bonney and Bonney, Shopping Guide, pp. 68–69. 12 Bonney, and Bonney, Shopping Guide, pp. 50–1. 13 Ballard, In My Fashion, pp. 71–77. 14 Delbourg-Delphis, Le Chic et le Look, pp. 161–166. 15 Tony Allan, Paris: The Glamour Years, 1919–1940 (New York: Bison Books, 1977), pp. 41, 59. 16 Robert Forrest Wilson, Paris on Parade (Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1924, 1925), pp. 38–60. 17 Quoted in Eugen Weber, The Hollow Years: France in the 1930s (New York and London: W.W. Norton, 1994), p. 30.

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Endnotes 18 Bettina Ballard, In My Fashion (New York: David McKay, 1960), p. 62. 19 Elsa Schiaparelli, Shocking Life (London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1954), pp. 70, 53. 20 Jean Cocteau in Harper’s Bazaar, quoted in Palmer White, Schiaparelli: Empress of Paris Fashion (New York: Rizzoli International, 1986), pp. 176, 179.

Chapter 13  1 La Gerbe, 26 December 1940.   2 Carmel Snow with Mary Louise Aswell, The World of Carmel Snow (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1962), pp. 136–137.   3 Dominique Veillon, La mode sous l’Occupation (Paris: Payot, 1990), pp. 151–153.   4 Quoted in Veillon, La Mode, p. 49.   5 Frederic Spotts, The Shameful Peace: How French Artists and Intellectuals Survived the Nazi Occupation (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008), p. 21.  6 Veillon, La mode, pp. 204–205.

Institute of Technology Library, New York. 12 Veillon, La Mode, p. 210. 13 Veillon, La Mode, p. 71 14 David Drake, Paris at War, p. 170. 15 Veillon, La mode, p. 61. 16 George E. Linton Scrapbook, in FIT Library department of Special Collections. 17 Richard Cobb, French and Germans, Germans and French: A Personal Interpretation of France Under Two Occupations, 1914–1918/1940–1944 (Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 1983), pp. 170–175. 18 Veillon, La Mode, p. 214. 19 Bruno du Roselle, La Mode (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1980), pp. 209–210; David Drake, Paris at War, p. 281–282. 20 Christian Dior, quoted in Edmonde Charles-Roux, et al., Theatre de la Mode (New York: Rizzoli in cooperation with The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1991), p. 89.

 7 Veillon, La mode, pp. 178–180; Alan Riding, And The Show Went On: Cultural Life in Nazi-Occupied Paris (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2010), p. 104.

21 De Holden Stone, “Fashion Survives the Nazis.” in Art and Industry (July 1945), pp. 8–9.

  8 Alan Riding, And The Show Went On, (New York: Vinatge, 2011), p. 105.

23 Quoted in Veillon, La mode, pp. 155, 157.

  9 David Drake, Paris at war, 1939–1944 (Cambridge and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2015), p. 349

24 Gertrude Bailey, “Paris Fashions, Liberation Style,” Tricolor (November 1944), pp. 102–109.

22 Linton, Scrapbook.

10 Veillon, La mode, p. 180; Rhona K. Garelick, Mademoiselle: Coco Chanel and the Pulse of History (New York: Random House, 2014), pp. 330–332.

25 Thelma Sweetinburgh in Ruth Lynam, ed., Couture: An Illustrated History of the Great Paris Designers and Their Creations (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1972), p. 139.

11 George E. Linton, Scrapbook. In the Special Collections of the Fashion

26 Alan Riding, And The Show Went On, p. 335. See also Hal Vaughan, Sleeping

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Endnotes with the Enemy: Coco Chanel’s Secret War (New York: Vintage. 2011). 27 Janet Flanner, Paris Journal 1944– 1965 (New York: Atheneum, 1965), December 15, 1944, pp. 7–8. 28 Flanner, Ibid., February 21, 1945, pp. 15–16. 29 Flanner, Ibid., June 12, 1946, p. 59. 30 Le Théâtre de la Mode, catalogue published in New York in 1945 by American Relief for France under the auspices of L’Association Française d’Action Artistique. 31 Carmel Snow, The World of Carmel Snow, p. 158.

Chapter 14   1 Christian Dior, Christian Dior et moi (Paris: Amiot-Domont, 1956), p. 35. Translation in text by Valerie Steele.   2 Christian Dior quoted in Carmel Snow and Mary Louise Aswell, The World of Carmel Snow (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1962). p. 159.   3 Susan Mary Alsop, To Marietta from Paris, 1945–1960 (Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1975), pp. 92–93. See also pp. 94, 72.   4 Marie-France Pochna, Christian Dior: The Man Who Made the World Look New (New York: Arcade Publishing, 1996), p. 137.   5 Lucie Noel, “Triuomphe de la couture française,” France – Arts, Industrie et Commerce (Summer, 1949), p. 26.  6 France—Art, Industrie et Commerce (Summer, 1949), Noel, pp. 26–29, editorial, p. 21.   7 Alexandra Palmer, Couture & Commerce: The Transatlantic Fashion Trade in the 1950s (Vancouver: UBC

Press in association with the Royal Ontario Museum, 2001), p. 16.   8 Valerie Steele, Fifty Years of Fashion: New Look to Now (London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 1997), pp. 12–13.   9 Diana de Marly, Christian Dior (London: B.T. Batsford, 1990), p. 31. 10 Dior quoted in “Claire Wilcox, “Dior’s Golden Age: The Renaissance of Couture,” in Claire Wilcox, ed., The Golden Age of Couture, Paris and London 1947–1957. (London: V&A Publications, 2007), p. 30. 11 Ethelbert Robinson, “Behind Your Paris Gown,” Holiday, 17.3 (March, 1953), p. 30. 12 Richard Donovan, “That Friend of Your Wife’s Named Dior,” Colliers (June 10, 1955), pp. 34–39; Paul E. Deutschman, “How to Buy a Dior Original,” Holiday (January, 1955), pp. 44–47. 13 Deutschman, “How to Buy a Dior Original,” pp. 44–47. 14 Donovan, Ibid. 15 “The Undressed Look,” Time Magazine (August 13, 1956), p. 66. 16 Claire Wilcox, ed. The Golden Age of Couture, Paris and London1947–1957 (London: V&A Publications, 2007), p. 56; Alexandra Palmer, Couture & Commerce: The Transatlantic Fashion Trade in the 1950s (Vancouver: UBC Press in association with the Royal Ontario Museum, 2001), p. 18. 17 Bettina Ballard, In My Fashion (New York: David McKay company, 1960), p. 243. 18 Alexandra Bosc, “Les Années 1950, une simple histoire des silhouettes?” in Les Années 50: La mode en France 1947–1957 (Paris: Palais Galliera, Paris Musées, 2014), pp. 41–42.

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Endnotes 19 Alexandra Bosc, “Produire la mode: de la haute couture au prêt-à-porter, une evolution necessaire?” in Les Années 50, p. 189. 20 Marya Mannes, “The Fine Italian Hand,” American Vogue (January, 1947), p. 119. 21 Nicola White, Reconstructing Italian Fashion: America and the Development of the Italian Fashion Industry (Oxford: Berg, 2000), p. 5. 22 “Italy Gets Dressed Up,” Life (August 30, 1951), pp. 104–112. 23 Paris-Presse (August 6, 1951), p. 1. 24 Bettina Ballard, In My Fashion (London: Secker and Warburg, 1960), p. 244. 25 “Dramatic Decade of Italian Style,” Life (December 1, 1961), pp. 66–69. 26 “Battle of the Pitti Palace,” Newsweek (August 2, 1965), p. 44. 27 Mary Quant, Quant on Quant (London: Cassell & Co., 1966), p. 48. 28 Janey Ironside, Janey (London: Michael Joseph, 1973), pp. 113–114 29 Piri Halasz, “Great Britain: you can walk across it on the grass,” Time (April 15, 1966), p. 32. 30 Laurence Benaïm, Yves Saint Laurent (Paris: Grasset, 1993), p. 158. 31 Courrèges and Quant quoted in Ruth Lynam, ed., Couture: An Illustrated History of the Great Paris Designers (Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Co., 1972), p. 198. 32 Benaïm, p. 193.

35 Quoted in Joel Lobenthal, Radical Rags (New York: Abbeville Press, 1990), p. 45 36 Bender, The Beautiful People, pp. 198–199. 37 Yves Saint Laurent quoted in Lobenthal, Radical Rags, pp. 53–54. 38 Yves Saint Laurent quoted in Madsen, Living by Design, p. 120. 39 Elle (26 Aug 1968) quoted in Benaïm, Saint Laurent, p. 199. 40 Bender, The Beautiful People, pp. 201, 217. 41 Lobenthal, Radical Rags, pp. 45, 68. 42 Marylène Delbourg-Delphis, Le Chic et le Look (Paris: Hachette, 1981) pp. 216–219. 43 Eugenia Sheppard, “Saint Laurent: Truly Hideous,” International Herald Tribune (30 January 1971), quoted in Alexandre Samson, “Chroniques du Scandal,” inYves Saint Laurent 1971: La Collection du Scandal (Paris: Flammarion and Fondation Pierre Bergé Yves Saint Laurent, 2015), p. 42 44 Kennedy Fraser, The Fashionable Mind: Reflections on Fashion, 1970–1981 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1981), p. 132. 45 See Robin Givhan, The Battle of Versailles (New York: Flatiron Books, 2015), p. 77, 214. 46 “The Italian Look,” Newsweek (22 October 1978), p. 136. 47 Jay Cocks, “Suiting Up for Easy Street: Giorgio Armani defines the new shape of style,” Time (5 April 1982), p. 60.

33 Bruno du Roselle, La Mode (Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1980), p. 244.

48 Woody Hochswender, “Images of Man, Labeled Armani,” The New York Times (21 December 1990), p. C36.

34 Marilyn Bender, The Beautiful People (New York: Coward-McCann, 1967), p. 193.

49 Bernadine Morris, “Milan: Italian Designers Turn to Clean Lines,” The New York Times (5 October 1982), p. C8.

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Endnotes 50 Ernestine Carter, The Changing World of Fashion (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1977), pp. 57–58. 51 Diana Vreeland, “Introduction” to Yves Saint Laurent (New York: Clarkson N. Potter and the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1983), p. 7. 52 Lobenthal, Radical Rags, p. 53 53 Judith Miller, “Paris Fashion, Beyond Chic, Is also a Major Moneymaker,” New York Times, (30 October 1985), pp. Al, A5. 54 Miller, “Paris Fashion.” See also The New York Times (4 February 1986), p. C18. 55 New York Times (25 March 1986), p. C14. 56 Olivier Assouly, Christel Carlotti, Evelyn Chaballier, Vingt ans de system de mode (Paris: InstituteFrançais de la Mode, 2010), pp. 25–27. 57 Carrie Donovan, “The Bubble and Bounce of Paris,” New York Times Magazine (7 September 1986), p. 78. 58 Holly Brubach, “In Fashion,” New Yorker (10 September 1988); see also “In Fashion,” The New Yorker (27 February 1989). 59 Olivier Saillard, Histoire idéale de la mode contemporaine: Les plus beax défilés de 1971 à nos jours (Paris: Éditions Textuel, 2009), p. 54. 60 Corinne La Balme, “Is Paris Still the Capital of Style?” Accent, The Magazine of Paris Style (Winter 1987), pp. 16–17.

Chapter 15

World Cities,” in Christopher Breward and David Gilbert, eds., Fashion’s World Cities (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2006), p. 3.   3 Didier Grumbach, quoted in Olivier Assouly, Vingt ans de système de mode, (Paris: Editions des Regard, 2008), p. 182.   4 Suzy Menkes, “The Couture Controversy,” Vogue (October 1991), p. 263.   5 Quoted in Katherine Betts, “The Glorious Tradition,” Vogue (December 1995), p. 247.   6 Liz Tilberis, “Editor’s Note,” Harper’s Bazaar (October 1995), p. 50.   7 Agnès Rocamora, Fashioning the City: Paris, Fashion and the Media (London and New York: I.B. Taurus, 2009), pp. 77–78.   8 Teri Agins, The End of Fashion (New York: Harper Collins, 1999), pp. 280, 11.   9 Alexander Fury, “Haute Couture: Fashion’s Premier League—an artful craft that requires years of practice,” The Independent (July 6, 2014) pp. 4–5, 8; http://www.independent.co.uk/life -style/fashion/features/haute-couture -fashion-s-premier-league-an-artful-craft -that-requires-years-of-practice-9587796 .html. Accessed September 22, 2016. See also Alexander Fury, “The Enigma of Haute Couture,” T Magazine (March 3, 2015); http://www.tmagazine. blogs.nytimes.com/2015/03/31/whobuys-haute-couture/?_r=0. Accessed September 22, 2016.

  1 Joelle Diderich, “Fashion Scoops,” Women’s Wear Daily (16 December 2015), p. 9.

10 See Didier Grumbach, History of International Fashion (Northamoton, Massachusetts: Intterlink, 2014), pp. 340–343.

  2 David Gilbert, “From Paris to Shanghai: The Changing Geographies of Fashion’s

11 Pierre Hardy, quoted in Olivier Assouly, Vingt ans de système de mode, p. 100.

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Endnotes 12 Suzy Menkes, “Sign of the Times: Something is Wrong Here” T-Magazine (August 25, 2013), p. 91. 13 Alber Elbaz quoted in “Overheated? Is Fashion Facing a Burn-Out?” Women’s Wear Daily (October 27, 2015). 14 Marcus Fairs, “‘It’s the end of fashion as we know it’ says Li Edelkoort,” Dezeen, (1 March 2015); http://www .dezeen.com/2015/01/li-edelkoort -end-of-fashion-as-we-know-it-design -indaba-2015 and Marcus Fairs, “Li Edelkoort publishes manifesto explaining ‘why fashion is obsolete’” Dezeen, (2 March 2015); http://www .dezeen.com/2015/03/02/li-edelkoort -manifesto-anti-fashion-obsolete. 15 See Ander Haug and Jacob Busch, “Towards an Ethical Fashion Framework,” Fashion Theory: The Journal of Dress, Body & Culture, Volume 30, Issue 3 (2016): 317–339.

Culture,” in Stella Bruzzi and Pamela Church Gibson, eds. Fashion Cultures: Theories, Explorations and Analysis (London: Routledge, 2000), p. 20. 17 Agnès Rocamora, Fashioning the City, p. 79. 18 Dominique Waquet and Marion Laporte, La Mode (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1999), p. 97. 19 Lydia Kamitsis, Mode en movement, mouvements de mode (Paris: SODES for prêt-à-porter paris, 2005), unpaginated. 20 Domnique Waquet and Marion Laporte, La Mode (Paris: Presses Universitaires de france, 1999), pp. 101–110. 21 Agnès Rocamora, Fashioning the City, p. 32. 22 Agnès Rocamora, Fashioning the City, pp. 70–71.

16 David Gilbert, “Urban Outfitting: The City and the Spaces of Fashion

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Image List Chapter 1 p. xi

Fashion plate by Georges Barbier for Journal des Dames et des Modes (1913).

p. xii

John Galliano for Christian Dior, Haute Couture. Spring–Summer 1998. Photograph © Guy Marineau.

p. 3

Doll’s dress, robe à la française. European, 1750–1790. Silk taffeta. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston: The Elizabeth Day McCormick Collection, 43.1772a-b. Photograph © 2017 Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

p. 4

Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes (Year 9).

p. 4

Fashion plate, The Ladies Magazine (February 1801).

p. 5

Fashion plate, “Grande robe à la Sultane . . .” From Gallerie des Modes et Costumes Français (1782).

p. 6

Fashion plate, “Morning dress in taffeta, hat à la Harpie, Chinese style shoes . . . “ (1787).

p. 8

Constantin Guys, A Conversation, pen and ink and watercolour on paper, Private Collection/Photo © Christie’s Images/Bridgeman Images.

p. 10 Fashion plate, Godey’s Ladies’ Book (July 1858). p. 10 Laure Colin Noël, fashion plate for Petit Courrier des Dames (4 July 1857). p. 11 “The Last of the Boulevard Lions,” from Louis Octave Uzanne’s Fashion in Paris (1898). p. 12 Jean Béraud, Boulevard Montmartre, c. 1880. Oil on canvas. Private Collection. p. 13 M. de Charly, Dans l’atelier, 1862. Albumen silver print. Courtesy of George Eastman Musuem. p. 14 Pierre Brissaud, fashion illustration for Femina (15 December 1911). Paris, Editions Pierre Lafitte, 1911. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris.

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Image List p. 15 Dress by Yves Saint Laurent (1968). Photo by Bill Ray/The LIFE Picture Collection/ Getty Images. p. 16 John Galliano for Christian Dior Haute Couture. Autumn/Winter 2000. Photograph by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

Chapter 2 p. 18 François Boucher, The Modiste, c. 1746. Oil on canvas. © The Wallace Collection, London. p. 20

Jean Fouquet, The Virgin and the Infant Jesus, c. 1450. Royal Museum for Fine Arts Antwerp. www.lukasweb.be—Art in Flanders vxw, photo Hugo Maertens.

p. 21

Roger van der Weyden, Remise d’un manuscrit à Philippe le Bon, c. 1448. Courtesy Bibliothèque Royale de Belgique.

p. 24

Titian (Tiziano Vecellio). Seated portrait of Emperor Charles V, 1548. Alte Pinakothek, Munich, Germany/Bridgeman Images.

p. 27 Henri Bonnart and Jean Baptiste Bonnart, Recueil des modes de la cour de France, ‘Dame en Robbe.’ France, Paris, 1683. Hand-colored engraving on paper (M.2002.57.18). Courtesy of Los Angeles County Museum of Art, www.lacma.org. p. 28 Diderot (Denis) and D’Alembert (Jean le Rond), La Marchande de Modes. Paris, Le Breton, 1769. Courtesy Diktats Books. p. 30 Francois Boucher, Madame de Pompadour, 1756 (oil on canvas). Alte Pinakothek, Munich, Germany/Bridgeman Images. p. 31

Fashion plate by Le Clerc for La Gallerie des Modes et Costumes Français (c. 1779).

p. 33

Jean-Baptiste Perronneau. Portrait of Jacques Cazotte, (1760–1764). Oil on canvas. © The National Gallery, London.

p. 34 James Gillray, “Politeness” (1779). Hand-coloured etching. Courtesy of The Lewis Walpole Library, Yale University. p. 35 Joseph Wright of Derby (1734–1797). Sir Brooke Boothby, 1781. © Tate, London 2015. p. 36 Fashion plate. “Habit à la française de Printemps,” Le Clerc for La Gallerie des Modes et des Costumes Français (c. 1779). p. 37 Eighteenth century design detail for a man’s waistcoat. p. 38 Fashion plate. Marie Antoinette in court dress, (c. 1780). p. 41 Marie Antoinette (c. 1783, attributed to Elizabeth Vigée-Lebrun). Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington; Timken Collection.

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Image List 

Chapter 3 p. 42 Joseph Boze, Portrait of Honore Gabriel de Mirabeau Riqueti (Bignon-Mirabeau, 1749–Paris, 1791) French politician and orator, at National Assembly. DEA / G. DAGLI ORTI / Getty Images. p. 45 Dominique Doncre, Portrait of Pierre-Louis Joseph Lecocq and his Family, 1791. Oil on canvas. The French Revolution Museum. Inv. MRF 1984-263. © Coll. French Revolution Museum/Domaine de Vizille. p. 47 Portrait of Maximilien de Robespierre, French School, 18th century. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images. p. 48 Louis Léopold Boilly. Portrait of the Actor Chenard in the Costume of a Sans Culotte, 1792, France. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/ Bridgeman Images. p. 49 Louis Léopold Boilly, The Triumph of Marat (1743–1793). Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France/Bridgeman Images. p. 50 Musée Rétrospectif des Classes (Paris, 1900). Image courtesy of Fashion Institute of Technology | SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives. p. 52

Louis Léopold Boilly, Incroyable et Merveilleuse in Paris, 1797 (oil on canvas). Private Collection / Archives Charmet / Bridgeman Images.

p. 53 Circle of Jacques-Louis David. Portrait of a Young Woman in White, c. 1798. Oil on canvas. Accession No.1963.10.118. Chester Dale Collection, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington. p. 55 Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, Year 9. p. 55 Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, Year 11. p. 56

Louis Léopold Boilly, Portrait of a Woman in a Cave, possibly Madame d’Aucourt de Saint-Just, 1805 (oil on canvas). Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France / Bridgeman Images.

p. 57 Louis Léopold Boilly, Portrait of a Man, possibly Monsieur d’Aucourt de Saint-Just, c. 1805 (oil on canvas). Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France / Bridgeman Images. p. 58 Fashion plate from Observateur des Modes (c. 1820). Demi-cosack trousers. Vest with shawl collar. Blue coat. Black moire cravat. Cane. Top hat. p. 59 Ferdinand Victor Eugène Delacroix, Liberty Leading the People, 28 July 1830, c. 1830–1831 (oil on canvas). Louvre-Lens, France/Bridgeman Images. p. 60 “Bourgeois, if you want to get your hat back, it will be five sous!” A caracature by Beaumont for Le Charivari (1848) shows a “Vésuvienne” of the Second Republic.

Chapter 4 p. 62 Paul Gavarni, illustration for La Mode (c. 1830). p. 66 Fashion plate, Petit Courrier des Dames (1822).

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Image List p. 68 Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes (1823). p. 69 Paul Gavarni, “The Sportsman,” (c. 1840). p. 72 Paul Gavarni, “Grisette,” Les Français peints par eux-mêmes (1840–1842). p. 73 Paul Gavarni, The Worker’s Wife (c. 1840). p. 74 Eugène Lami,”The Milliner,” Les Français peints par eux-mêmes (1840–1842). p. 76 Fashion plate by Numa, (c. 1845).

Chapter 5 p. 78

Emile Deroy (1820–46), Portrait of Charles Baudelaire, 1844 (oil on canvas). Château de Versailles, France/Bridgeman Images.

p. 80 Emile Lévy, Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly,1881. Oil on canvas. Inv. MV6369. Photo by Franck Raux. Chateaux de Versailles et de Trianon, Versailles, France. © RMNGrand Palais/Art Resource, NY. p. 87 James Tissot, The Circle of the Rue Royale, 1868. Oil on canvas. Paris, Musée d’Orsay Photo: Patrice Schmidt. © Musée d’Orsay, dist. RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY. p. 88 Bertall, Illustration for Comédie de notre temps (1874). p. 90

Gustave Caillebotte, Man on a Balcony, Boulevard Haussmann, 1880 (oil on canvas)/ Private Collection/Photo © Christie’s Images/Bridgeman Images.

Chapter 6 p. 92 Original watercolor by Héloïse Colin Leloir. p. 95 Alexandre Colin, Héloïse Colin dessinant dans la campagne nîmoise; au fond, la tour Magne, 1836. Oil on canvas. Paris, Musée Carnavalet. © Musée Carnavalet/ Roger-Viollet/The Image Works. p. 97 Anaïs Colin Toudouze, illustration for Le Conseiller des Dames et des Demoiselles (December, 1855). p. 98 Edouard Toudouze, Salomé Triomphant, 1884. This painting was exhibited at the Paris Salon of 1884. p. 99 Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, (1804). p. 99 Fashion plate, Journal des Dames et des Modes, (1827). p. 100 Anaïs Colin Toudouze, Le Follet (c. 1845). “Dresses by Camille.” p. 100 Watercolor by “Numa,” (c. 1848). p. 100 Fashion illustration from Petit Courrier des Dames (July 20, 1830). Image courtesy of Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, FIT Library Dept. of Special Collections and FIT Archives, New York, NY, USA.

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Image List  p. 100 Héloïse Colin Leloir, Fashion plate for La Mode Illustrée (c. 1868). p. 101 Jules David, original watercolor from which a fashion plate was made (c. 1879). p. 102 Fashion plate by the illustrator known as B.C. Journal des Demoiselles (c. 1885). p. 103 Héloïse Colin Leloir, Fashion plate for La Mode Illustrée (c. 1875). p. 104 Jules David, original watercolor (1887). p. 104 “The Latest Fashions.” Illustration from Le Moniteur de la Mode (May 1887). p. 105 “Modes & Confections, 1877,” from La Vie Parisienne. p. 106 Bertall, illustration from La Comédie de notre temps, 1874. p. 107 La Vie Parisienne (1875). p. 107 La Vie Parisienne (1875). p. 110 Claude Monet, Femmes au Jardin, 1866–1867 (oil on canvas). Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images. p. 111 Afternoon dress. White cotton piqué and black cotton cording. 1867, USA. The Museum at FIT. Photo © The Museum at FIT. p. 112 Eugène Boudin. Beach Scene, 1865; graphite and watercolor on paper; Saint Louis Art Museum, Museum Purchase 109:1939. p. 112 Isabelle Toudouze Desgranges, fashion plate from La Mode Illustrée (1882). p. 113 Auguste Toulmouche, Woman and Roses, 1879 (oil on canvas). Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts, USA/Bridgeman Images. p. 114 Paul Cézanne, La Promenade, c. 1871. Private Collection, Japan. Photograph © All rights reserved, courtesy Sotheby’s, London. p. 114 Fashion plate from La Mode Illustrée (1871). Courtesy of The Irene Lewisohn Costume Reference Library, The Costume Institute, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. p. 115 “At the Cabinet des Étampes—In Search of the Fashions of the Past” by François Courboin from Louis Octave Uzanne’s Fashion in Paris (1898).

Chapter 7 p. 116 Charles Frederick Worth, Woman’s Dress: Evening Bodice, Day Bodice, and Skirt. French c. 1866–1868. Silk satin with lace and silk tulle. Evening Bodice Center Back Length: 13 inches (33 cm) Skirt Center Back Length: 72 inches (182.9 cm). 125th Anniversary Acquisition. Gift of the heirs of Charlotte Hope Binney Tyler Montgomery, 1996. 1996-19-5a–c. Photo courtesy of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. p. 119 Franz Xaver Winterhalter, Portrait of the Empress Eugénie Surrounded by Her Ladies-in-Waiting, 1855 (oil on canvas). Chateâu de Compiègne, Oise, France/ Bridgeman Images.

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Image List p. 120 Portrait of Frederick Charles Worth. The Art Archive at Art Resource, N.Y. p. 121 Charles Frederick Worth, caricature by Bertall from La Comédie de notre temps (1874). p. 122 Monsieur Redfern with his female assistants and model. From Les Créateurs de la mode, 1910. p. 125 Pierre-Louis Pierson, Elvira, 1861–1867, printed 1940s. Gelatin silver print. New York, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY. p. 126 Fashion plate featuring masquerade costumes from Le Monde Elegant (1865). p. 126 Fashion plate featuring costumes for fancy dress balls from Journal des Demoiselles (1865). p. 126 Unidentified fashion plate depicting fancy dress costume (c. 1885). p. 127 Unidentified print of a woman in trousers smoking (1850). p. 127 “It’s fun to be a man” declares the caption of a caricature by Grévin from Les Parisiennes (1872). p. 129 “Before the Capitulation—A Stroll on the Boulevards, Paris.” Illustration from the American newspaper Every Saturday (11 March 1871). p. 131 Jean Béraud. Workers leaving the Maison Paquin, in the rue de la Paix, c. 1900 (oil on canvas). Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images. p. 131 Girl employees of famous dressmaking shops, Paquin and Worth, Paris. Stereoscope card. Underwood & Underwood Publishers, 1907. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris. p. 132 Seamstresses at a couture house, 1890s, from A. Alexandre, Les Reines d’Aiguille (1902). p. 132 François Courboin, “The Salon of Madame Callot,” (1901). p. 133 Luis Jimenéz y Aranda. Le Carreau du Temple, Paris, 1890 (oil on canvas). Private Collection © Arthur Ackermann Ltd., London/Bridgeman Images. p. 134 Edgar Degas, The Millinery Shop, 1879/86. Oil on canvas. 39 3/8 x 43 9/16 in. (100 x 110.7 cm). Mr. and Mrs. Lewis Larned Coburn Memorial Collection 1933.428. The Art Institute of Chicago, Photography © The Art Institute of Chicago. p. 135 An illustration from the Almanach de La Vie Parisienne (1868) shows ladies looking at a display of Léoty corsets. p. 136 Frederic Lix & Auguste Deroy, “The New Staircase in ‘Au Bon Marche,’” from Le Monde Illustré, c. 1875. Private Collection/Bridgeman Images. p. 137 James Tissot, The Shop Girl, c. 1883–1885. Oil on canvas. Art Gallery of Ontario. Gift from Corporations’ Subscription Fund, 1968, 67/55. © 2016 Art Gallery of Ontario.

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Chapter 8 p. 138 Mary Stevenson Cassatt. Woman with a Pearl Necklace in a Loge, 1879. Oil on canvas 32 x 23½ inches (81.3 x 59.7 cm) Framed: 42 x 333∕8 x 43∕8 inches (106.7 x 84.8 x 11.1 cm). Philadelphia Museum of Art. Bequest of Charlotte Dorrance Wright, 1978, 1978-1-5. p. 141 Georges Clairin. Sarah Bernhardt in the Role of the Queen in “Ruy Blas” by Victor Hugo, 1879 (oil on canvas). Bibliothèque de la Comédie Française, Paris, France/ Bridgeman Images. p. 142 Anaïs Colin Toudouze, fashion plate from Le Conseiller des Dames et des Demoiselles (1857). p. 143 Eva Gonzales, A Box at the Italians’ Theatre, 1874. Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France/ Bridgeman Images. p. 144 Eugène Lami, illustration of a box at the opera from Jules Janin’s American in Paris (1844). p. 145 “Le grand escalier” in Le nouvel Opéra, by Charles Nuitter. Image courtesy Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles (2928-944). p. 146 Pierre Auguste Renoir. A Box at the Theatre (At the Concert), 1880 (oil on canvas). Sterling and Francine Clark Art Institute, Williamstown, Massachusetts, USA/ Bridgeman Images. p. 147 Illustration from Octave Uzanne, La Femme à Paris (1894). p. 149 Giuseppe De Nittis, Races in the Bois de Boulogne. In the Forum (Le Corse al Bois de Boulogne. Nella tribuna), 1881. Detail. Right panel of a triptych. Pastel on canvas. Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Moderna, Rome, Italy/Mondadori Portfolio/ Bridgeman Images. p. 151 Charles Émile Auguste Carolus-Duran, Equestrian Portrait of Mademoiselle Croizette, 1873 (oil on canvas), Musée des Beaux-Arts, Tourcoing, France / Bridgeman Images. p. 152 Fashion plate by Le Francq from Le Salon de la Mode (1889). p. 154 An illustration from Octave Uzanne’s book La Femme à Paris (1894). p. 155 Jean Béraud, Chàlet du Cycle in the Bois de Boulogne, c.1900. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images.

Chapter 9 p. 156 Alfred Stevens, The Cup of Tea, c. 1874–1878. Oil on panel. Musée royal de Mariemont, Morlanwelz. © Musée royal de Mariemont—Photo M. Lechien. p. 160 Anaïs Colin Toudouze, fashion plate from Le Conseiller des Dames et des Demoiselles (1855).

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Image List p. 162 Mary Stevenson Cassatt, The Tea (c. 1880). Oil on canvas. Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, Massachusetts, USA/M. Theresa B. Hopkins Fund/Bridgeman Images. p. 164 Mary Stevenson Cassatt, The Cup of Tea (1880–1881). Oil on canvas. Courtesy of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York. From the collection of James Stillman, Gift of Dr Ernest G. Stillman, 1922 (22.16.17). The Metropolitan Museum of Art. © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image Source: Art Resource. p. 167 Francesc Masriera, A Schubert’s Melody,1896. Oil on Canvas. © Museu Nacional d’Art de Catalunya, Barcelona 2016. Photo: Jordi Calveras. p. 168 Tea-gown by Redfern from Figaro-Modes (1903). Photograph by Paul Boyer. p. 169 Woman’s Dressing Gown (Tea Gown). Designed by Jeanne Hallée, French, 1907. Silk chiffon over silk satin, with lace, silk ribbon, ribbon flowers, and fly fringe. Photo courtesy of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Chapter 10 p. 170 Jean Béraud. The Soirée, c. 1880. Musée de la Ville de Paris, Musée Carnavalet, Paris, France/Bridgeman Images. p. 173 Photograph by Paul Nadar, the Countess Greffulhe wearing the “Lily Dress” by the House of Worth, 1896. Galliera, Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris. © Nadar/ Galliera/ Roger-Viollet. p. 174 House of Worth, tea gown, c. 1897. Blue cut velvet on a green satin ground, Valenciennes lace. Galliera, Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris. © Stéphane Piera/Galliera/Roger-Viollet. p. 176 An illustration from La Vie Élégant (1882). p. 182 Giovanni Boldini, Count Robert de Montesquiou, 1897. Oil on canvas, Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France. RF1977-56. Photo: Hervé Lewandowski. © RMN-Grand Palais/Art Resource, NY. p. 189 Two designs by Mariano Fortuny as illustrated in Femina (1913). p. 191 Anaïs Colin Toudouze, fashion plate from La Mode Illustrée (1890).

Chapter 11 p. 192 Illustration by Paul Iribe from Les Robes de Paul Poiret, 1908. p. 194 Photograph by Reutlinger of Madame Réjane, Figaro-Modes (1903). p. 195 Illustration by George de Feure for Le Journal de la Décoration. p. 196 House of Worth, Evening dress, French, 1898–1900. White silk satin and black silk voided velvet, white silk net, black silk velvet. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, Gift of Miss Eva Drexel Dahlgren, 1976 (1976.258.1a, b) Photograph by Sheldan Collins © The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image source: Art Resource, NY.

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Image List  p. 197 Dragonfly corsage ornament made of gold, enamel, chrysoprase, moonstones, and diamonds, designed by René Lalique, 1897–1898; in the Gulbenkian Museum, Lisbon. © Art Media/Heritage-Images.com. p. 198 Illustration, “Les Salons de Lumière—Avant la presentation,” from L’Exposition de Paris, (1900). p. 198 Illustration, “Les Salons de Lumière—Une des vitrines de la Collectivité de la Couture française,” from L’Exposition de Paris, (1900). p. 199 Photograph from L’Exposition de Paris, (1900). p. 200 “Robe satin blanc voile, Modèle de Worth,” (Dress of white satin voile, Model by Worth), Plate from Les toilettes se la Collectivité de la Couture Exposition Universelle de 1900. Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology | SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives. p. 201 Henri Gervex, Cinq Heures chez le Couturier Paquin, 1906. House of Worth, London, UK/Bridgeman Images. p. 202 Les MaÎtres de la Mode (Paquin, Beer, Worth, etc.). Paris, Dreager pour Weeks, 1908. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris. p. 203 Edward Steichen, photograph of a dress by Paul Poiret from Art et Décoration (1911). p. 204 Fan design illustrated by Paul Iribe for the House of Paquin (1911). p. 205 A dress by Paquin featured in Comoedia Illustré (1912). Photographed by Félix. p. 206 Georges Barbier, “Au jardin des Hesperides,” fashion plate for Gazette du Bon Ton (1913). p. 207 “Réminiscences de la Mode: cent ans après,” illustration by André Marty for Femina (1913). © 2016 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris. p. 208 The caricaturist Sem mockingly depicted a fashion show for L’Illustration (1913). p. 209 This illustration by Sem depicts “true chic” (1914). p. 210 Jeanne Paquin “war crinoline.” Illustration by Jean Brock for Les Derniers Créations de la Mode (1916). p. 213 André Marty, “La Dêmobilisation,” illustration for Modes et Manières D’Aujourd’hui, 1919. Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.© 2016 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York/ADAGP, Paris.

Chapter 12 p. 214 Gabrielle “Coco” Chanel. Photograph from Mode in Paris (1932). p. 216 A day dress by Chanel from Femina (1927). Image courtesy of Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives.

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Image List p. 218 Bernard Boutet de Monvel, fashion plate from Journal des Dames et des Modes (1913). p. 219 Les Garçonnes (Bibi, Olga Day et Michele Verly), Paris, April 1928. Photograph by Jacques Henri Lartigue. © Ministère de la Culture—France/AAJHL. p. 220 Ensemble for air travel by Madeleine Vionnet. Illustrated by Thayaht for Gazette du Bon Ton (1922). p. 221 “Three Creations by Jeanne Lanvin,” a fashion illustration from Art, Goût, Beauté (1925). p. 222 “Couture—Sport” fashion by Jane Régny. Illustration from Art, Goût, Beauté (July 1927). Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology|SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives. p. 223 Golf ensemble by Lucien Lelong. Illustration from Art, Goût, Beauté (June 1927). Image courtesy Fashion Institute of Technology| SUNY, Gladys Marcus Library Special Collections and College Archives. p. 225 Josephine Baker posing with her automobile, Paris, 1931. Photo © Bettmann/ Contributor/Getty Images. p. 227 Suit and shoe hat designed by Elsa Schiaparelli, 1937. Photo by ullstein bild/ullstein bild/ Getty Images.

Chapter 13 p. 228 Fashion during WWII. Suit designed by Robert Piguet. © Albert Harlingue/RogerViollet/The Image Works. p. 231 Madame Grès draping a gown on the model Muni, 1942. Paris, France. Photograph by Philippe Pottier. Courtesy Diktats Books, Paris. p. 234 World War II, Elegant cycling, Paris, June 1942. Photo by LAPI/Roger-Viollet/Getty Images. p. 238 Look by Pierre Balmain. Paris, France, 1946. Photo by © Bettmann/CORBIS/ Bettmann Archive.

Chapter 14 p. 240 Model wearing the Mystère coat by Christian Dior in Paris at Malmaison. Photograph by Louise Dahl-Wolfe, featured in Harper’s Bazaar, November 1947. Courtesy of The Museum at FIT, Photograph © 1989 Center for Creative Photography, Arizona Board of Regents. p. 244 Model wearing black satin Christian Dior evening dress, 1949. Photo by Erwin Blumenfeld/Condé Nast via Getty Images. p. 247 A US buyer examines one of the dresses on show at the Autumn-Winter 1951–1952 fashion show in Florence. (July 21, 1951). Photo by Archivio Cameraphoto Epoche/ Getty Images.

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Image List  p. 249 André Courregès, Spring 1967. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 251 Model wearing design by Emmanuelle Khanh, 1966. © Daily Mail/Rex/Alamy Stock Photo. p. 252 A model strikes a masculine look wearing a pinstriped trouser suit by Yves Saint Laurent, 1967. Photo by Reg Lancaster/Getty Images. p. 254 Green fur chubby jacket by Yves Saint Laurent. Featured in Elle Magazine, March 1, 1971. © HANS FEURER/ELLE/SCOOP. p. 255 Models presenting designs by Stephen Burrows at the Battle of Versailles (November 28, 1973). Photo: Reginald Gray/WWD/Rex/Shutterstock. p. 256 Giorgio Armani, Autumn/Winter 1979. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 257 Chanel haute couture, Autumn/Winter 1983–1984. Photo by Pierre Guillaud/AFP/ Getty Images. p. 258 Christian Lacroix Haute Couture, Autumn/Winter 1987–1988. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing. p. 259 Invitation for Jean Paul Gaultier’s Spring/Summer 1988 collection, La Concierge est dans L’Escalier. p. 260 Jean Paul Gaultier, Spring/Summer 1988, La Concierge est dans L’Escalier. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 261 Claude Montana for Lanvin Couture, Spring/Summer 1992. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing. p. 261 Thierry Mugler, Spring/Summer 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing.

Chapter 15 p. 262 Christian Dior Haute Couture, Autumn/Winter 1997. Presented at Jardins de Bagatelle, Paris. Model: Honor Fraser. Photograph © Ann Ray. p. 265 Christian Dior Haute Couture, Autumn/Winter 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing. p. 266 Alexander McQueen for Givenchy, Elect Dissect collection, Autumn/Winter 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing. p. 267 Alexander McQueen for Givenchy, Elect Dissect collection, Autumn/Winter 1997. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing. p. 268 Alexander McQueen, Spring/Summer 1999. Photo by Niall McInerney, courtesy Bloomsbury Publishing. p. 268 Victor & Rolf, Autumn/Winter 2005. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 269 Comme des Garçons, Spring/Summer 2005. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation.

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Image List p. 270 Nicolas Ghesquière for Balenciaga, Spring/Summer 2009. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 270 Rick Owens, Spring/Summer 2009. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 271 Chanel, Spring/Summer 2009. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 271 Raf Simons for Christian Dior, Autumn/Winter 2013. Photo courtesy Fashion Group Foundation. p. 272 Bouchra Jarrar Couture, Collection No. 13. Courtesy of Bouchra Jarrar. p. 274 Iris Van Herpen Haute Couture Fall/Winter 2011–2012 show, Paris, France. Photo by Victor VIRGILE/Gamma-Rapho via Getty Images. p. 276 Balenciaga Fall/Winter 2016/2017, Paris, France. Photo by Victor VIRGILE/GammaRapho via Getty Images.

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Selected Bibliography Primary Sources Album du Salon de 1842. Paris: Chez Challamel, 1842. Alexandre, Arsène. “All Paris A-Wheel,” Scribner’s Magazine (August 1895): 195–201. _____. Les Reines d’aiguille: modistes et couturières. Paris: Théophile Belin, 1902. André-Valdès. Encyclopédie illustrée des élégances féminines. Hygiène de la beauté. Paris: Librairie Marpon et Flammarion, 1892. Arlen, Michael. The Green Hat. New York: George H. Doran, 1924. Asquith, Lady Cynthia. Diaries, 1915–1918. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1969. d’Avenel, Vicomte Georges. Le Méchanisme de la vie moderne. 4 vols. Paris: Librairie Armand Colin, 1900– 1905. Babin, Gustave. “Gravures de modes,” L’Illustration (5 July 1913): 13–16. Bailey, Gertrude. “Paris Fashions, Liberation Style,” Tricolor (November 1944): 102–109.

Ballard, Bettina. In My Fashion. New York: David McKay, 1960. Balzac, Honoré de. Traité de la vie élégante. Originally published in La Mode, 1830. Paris: Bibliopolis, n.d. _____. La Comédie humaine. Title embraces several novels, widely available in various English translations. _____. Lost Illusions, trans. Herbert Hunt. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971. Balzac, Honoré de, Jules Janin, Alphonse Kan, Les Français peints par euxmêmes. 2 vols. Illustrations by Gavarni et al. Paris: Furne et cie, 1853. Balzac, Honoré de, George Sand, PierreJules Hetzel [P.-J. Stahl], Léon Gozlan, Frédéric Soulé, Charles Nodier, Eigéne Briffault, S. Lavalette, P. Pascal, Alphonse Karr, Méry, Gérard de Nerval, Arséne Houssaye, Théophile Gautier, Alfred de Musset, Le Diable à Paris: Paris et les Parisiens Illustrations by Gavarni et al. Paris: Marescq et Compagnie, 1853. Baudelaire, Charles. My Heart Laid Bare, ed. Peter Quennell, trans. Norman Cameron. New York: Vanguard Press, 1951.

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Selected Bibliography _____. The Painter of Modern Life and Other Essays. Trans. by Jonathan Mayne. London: Phaidon Press, 1964.

Delvau, Alfred. Les Plaisirs de Paris. Guide pratique des étrangers. Paris: Faure, 1867.

_____. “On the Heroism of Modern Life,” in The Mirror of Art, trans. and ed. Jonathan Mayne. London: Phaidon Press, 1955.

Demarest, Michael. “Look Out Paris—It’s Chic to Chic in Milan,” Time (6 April 1981).

Beaton, Cecil. The Glass of Fashion. New York: Doubleday & Company Inc., 1954.

Demay, Marcelle. Le Mode en 1912 chez Marcelle Demay, Modiste. Illustrations by Charles Martin. Paris, 1912.

Bédollière, E. de la. Histoire de la mode en France. Paris: Lévy, 1858.

Despaigne, H. Le Code de la mode. Paris: Chez l’auteur, 1866.

Bertall [Charles Albert d’Arnoux]. La Comédie de notre temps. 2 vols. Paris: E. Plon et cie., 1874.

Deutschman, Paul E. “How to Buy a Dior Original,” Holiday 15.1 (January 1955): 44–47.

Bertin, Celia. Haute Couture—Terre Inconnue. Paris: Hachette, 1956. Translated as Paris à la Mode: A Voyage of Discovery. London: Victor Gollancz, 1956.

Devéria, Achille. Dix-huit heurs de la journée d’une Parisienne. Paris: Osterwald, n.d. [1830].

Bibescu, Princess. Noblesse de la robe. Paris: Grasset, 1929. Bizet, René. La Mode. L’Art français depuis vingt ans. Paris: F. Rieder et cie., 1925. Bonney, Thérèse and Louise. A Shopping Guide to Paris. New York: Robert McBride, 1929. Challamel, J. Augustin. Histoire de la mode en France. Paris: A. Hennuyer, 1881. Translated as The History of Fashion in France. London: S. Low, Marston, Searle, and Rivington, 1882. Champfleury [Jules Fleury]. Souvenirs et portraits de jeunesse. Paris: E. Dents, 1872. Chapus, Eugène. Manuel de l’homme et la femme comme il faut. Paris: Michael Lévy Freres, 1862. Chase, Edna Woolman, and Ilka Chase. Always in Vogue. Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Co., 1954. Delord, Taxile. Physiologie de la parisienne. Paris: Aubert et cie., 1841.

_____. Costumes historiques de ville ou de théâtre et travestissements. Paris: Goupil et Vibert, n.d. [1831]. _____. Le Goût nouveau. Paris: Tessare et Aumont, n.d. [1831]. Diderich, Joelle. “The Long View: Didier Grumbach,” Womens Wear Daily (January 16, 2015), p. 9 Dior, Christian. Je suis couturier. Paris: Conquistador, 1951. Translated as Talking About Fashion. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1954. _____. Christian Dior et moi. Paris: AmiotDumont, 1956. Translated as Christian Dior and I. New York: E. P. Dutton, 1957. Donovan, Richard. “That Friend of Your Wife’s Named Dior,” Colliers (10 June 1955). Dufay, Pierre. Le Pantalon féminin. Paris: Charles Carrington, 1906. Dumas, Alexandre, Théophile Gautier, Arsène Houssaye, Paul de Musset, Louis Enault and Du Fayl, Paris et les parisiens au XIXe siècle. Illustrations

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Selected Bibliography by Gavarni, Lami, et al. Paris: Morizot, 1856. Feuillet, Valérie. Quelques Années de Ma Vie. Paris: Lévy, 1894. Flanner, Janet. Paris Journal 1944–1965. New York: Atheneum, 1965. Fletcher, Ella. The Woman Beautiful. New York: Brentano, 1900. Flobert, Laure-Paul. La Femme et le costume masculin. Lille: Imprimerie Lefebvre-Ducrocq, 1911. Forrester, Thomas (ed.). Paris and its Environs. London: Henry G. Bohn, 1859. Garretson, Mrs Regina. Scrapbook. In the Special Collections of the Fashion Institute of Technology Library. Goncourt, Edmond and Jules. Journal: mémoires de la vie littéraire, edited by Robert Ricatte. Paris: Robert Lafont, 1989. Copyright Fasquelle et Flammarion, 1956. Grand Dictionnaire universelle du 19e siècle. Paris: Larousse, 1865–1890. Grande Encyclopédie. Paris: H. Lamirault et cie., 1886–1902.

Iribe, Paul. Les Robes de Paul Poiret. Paris: Société générale d’Impression, for Paul Poiret, 1908. Ironside, Janey. Janey. London: Michael Joseph, 1973. Ivimy, Alice M. A Woman’s Guide to Paris. London: James Nisbet, 1909. Janin, Jules. The American in Paris During the Summer. Illustrations by Eugène Lami. London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longman, 1844. Larousse, Pierre. Grand dictionnaire universel du XIXe siècle. Paris: Grand Dictionnaire Universel, 1866–1890. La Balme, Corinne. “Is Paris Still the Capital of Style?” Accent, The Magazine of Paris Style (Winter 1987), pp. 16–17. Leloir, Maurice. Histoire du costume de I’antiquité à 1914. 10 vols. Published under the patronage of the Société de l’Histoire du Costume. Vol. 10. Paris: Erst, 1935. _____. Dictionnaire du costume. Paris: Gründ, 1951. Lepape, Georges. Les Choses de Paul Poiret vues par Georges Lepape. Paris: Maquet, for Paul Poiret, 1911.

Harrods. Fashionable Rendez-Vous. London: Harrods, 1909.

Linton, George E. Scrapbook. In the Special Collections of the Fashion Institute of Technology Library.

Hawes, Elizabeth. Fashion Is Spinach. New York: Random House, 1938.

Littré, Emile. Dictionnaire de la langue française. Paris, 1863.

Hegermann-Lindencrone, Lillie de. In the Courts of Memory: Musical and Social Life during the Second Empire in Paris. 1912. Reprinted, New York: Da Capo Press, 1980.

McCabe, James D. Paris by Sunlight and Gaslight. Philadelphia: National Publishing Co., 1870.

Huart, Louis. Physiologie de la grisette. Illustrations by Gavarni. Paris: Aubert et cie., n.d. Huart, A., and A. Grevin. Les Parisiennes. Paris: Librairie Illustrée, n.d. [c. 1880].

Mallarmé, Stephane. La Dernière Mode: Gazette du Monde et de la Famille. 1874. Reprinted, Paris: Editions Ramsay, 1978. Marguerittes, Julie de. The Ins and Outs of Paris, or Paris by Day and Night. Philadelphia: William White Smith, 1855.

313

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Selected Bibliography Mercier, Louis Sebastien. Le Tableau de Paris (Amsterdam, 1782–1788), and Le Nouveau Paris (Paris, 1798). Abridged and translated by Wilfred and Emilie Jackson, The Picture of Paris Before and After the Revolution. London: George Routledge & Sons, 1929. And by Helen Simpson, The Waiting City, Paris 1782–1788. London: George G. Harrap, 1935. Merritt, M. Angeline. Dress Reform Practically and Physiologically Considered. Buffalo: Jewett, Thomas, and Co., 1852. Montesquiou, Robert de. La Divine Comtesse, Étude d’après Madame de Castiglione. Paris, 1913. Noel, Lucie, “Triomphe de la couture française,” France – Art, Industrie et Commerce (Summer, 1949): 26–29. d’Orchamps, Baroness. Tous les secrètes de la femme. Paris: Bibliothèque des Auteurs Modernes, 1907.

_____. King of Fashion: The Autobiography of Paul Poiret. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1931. Proust, Marcel. The Captive. Translation by C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom. New York: Random House, 1927–1932. _____. Cities of the Plain, Translated by Moncrieff and Frederick A. Blossom. New York: Random House, 1927–1932. _____. The Guermantes Way. Translated by Mark Treharne. New York: Penguin Books, 2002. _____. A la recherche du temps perdu. Trans by C. K. Scott Moncrieff and Frederick Blossom. New York: Random House, 1927–1932. _____. Swann’s Way. Translation by Lydia Davis. New York: Penguin, 2003. Quant, Mary. Quant on Quant. London: Cassell & Co., 1966.

Paquin, Designs and Publicity. Scrapbooks in the collection of The Costume and Fashion Research Centre, Bath.

Robinson, Ethelbert. “Behind Your Paris Gown,” Holiday 17.3 (March 1953): 30–31.

Paris. Exposition universelle Internationale de 1900. Les Toilettes de la collectivité de la couture. Paris: Société de Publications d’Art, 1900.

Roger-Miles, L. Les Créateurs de la mode. Édition du Figaro. Paris: Charles Eggiman, 1910.

_____. Musée rétrospectif des classes 85 et 86. Le Costume et ses accessoires de l’exposition universelle internationale de 1900. With an essay by Maurice Leloir. Paris, 1900. Paris. Guide économique dans le Paris nouveau et à l’exposition universelle de 1867. Paris: Gallerie du Petit Journal, 1867. Poiret, Paul. En habillant l’époque. Paris: Grasset, 1930. Trans. by Stephen Hadden Guest.

Rouff, Maggy. La Philosophie de élégance. Paris: Éditions Littéraires de France, 1942. Russell, Frances E.. “Women’s Dress,” The Arena 3 (February, 1891), p. 359. _____. “Freedom in Dress for Women,” The Arena 6 (June, 1893), p. 74. Rykiel, Sonia. Et je la voudrais nue . . . . Paris: Grasset, 1979. Schiaparelli, Elsa. Shocking Life. London: J. M. Dent & Sons, 1954.

314

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Selected Bibliography Seilhac, Léon de. L’Industrie de la couture et de la confection à Paris. Paris: FirminDidot, 1897. Snow, Carmel with Mary Louise Aswell. The World of Carmel Snow. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1962. Stevens, Alfred. Impressions on Painting. New York, 1886. Texier, Edmund. Tableau de Paris. Paris: Bureau d’Illustration, 1851. Le Théâtre de la Mode. Catalogue published by American Relief for France under the auspices of L’Association Française d’Action Artistique. New York, 1945. Les Toilettes de la collectivité de la couture. Paris: Société de publications d’art, n.d. [1900]. Toudouze, Georges Gustave. Le Costume français. Paris: Larousse, 1945. Toudouze, Georges Gustave, and Charles Autran. Un Siècle de vie français 1840– 1940. Éditions S.N.E.P., 1949. Tramar, Countess. Le Bréviaire de la femme. Pratiques secrètes de la beauté. Paris: Victor Havard, 1903. Uzanne, Louis Octave. L’Éventail. Paris: Quantin, 1882. Trans, as The Fan. London: J. C. Nimmo, 1884. _____. L’Ombrelle, le gant, le manchon. Paris: Quantin, 1883. Trans. as The Sunshade, Muff, and Glove. London: J. C. Nimmo, 1883. _____. La Française du siècle: modes, moeurs, et usages. Paris: Quantin, 1886; also published under the title Son Altesse la Femme and translated as The Frenchwoman of the Century. London: J. C. Nimmo, 1886. Yet another version appeared as La Française du siècle. La femme et la mode. Métamorphoses

de la parisienne de 1792 à 1892. Paris: Quantin, 1892. _____. Les Ornements de la femme: I’Éventail, l’ombrelle, le gant, le manchon. Paris: Quantin, 1892. _____. La Femme à Paris. Nos contemporaines. Notes successives sur les parisiennes de ce temps dans leurs divers milieux, états, et conditions. Paris: Quantin/Libraries-Imprimeries Réunies, 1894. Trans. as The Modern Parisienne. London: William Heinemann, 1912. _____. Les Modes de Paris: variations du goût et de l’esthetique de la femme, 1797–1897. Paris: Société Française d’Éditions d’Art, 1898. Trans. as Fashion in Paris (in the Nineteenth Century). The various phases in feminine taste and aesthetics from the Revolution to the end of the nineteenth century, 1797– 1897. London: William Heinemann, 1898, 1901, 1908. _____. L’Art el les artifices de la beauté. Paris: Felix Juven et Bibliothèque Femina, 1902. Vingt-cinq ans d’élégance à Paris (1925–1950). Album composed at the request of Marcel Rochas. Paris: Tisne, 1951. Vigée-Lebrun, Louise-Elisabeth. The Memoirs of Mme Elisabeth Louise Vigée-Lebrun, 1755–1789, trans. Gerard Shelley. London: John Hamilton, 1926. “Why Paris Is the Capital of Fashion,” The Delineator (September 1907). Wilson, Robert Forrest. Paris on Parade. Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company, 1924, 1925. Worth, Gaston. La Couture et la confection de vêtements de femme. Paris: Chaix, 1895. Worth, Jean Philippe. A Century of Fashion. Trans. by Ruth Miller. Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1928.

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Selected Bibliography Zola, Émile. Au bonheur des dames. Originally published in 1883. Paris: Le Livre de Poche, 1980. _____. Nana, trans. George Holden (1880). Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972. _____. The Kill. Originally published in 1871. Translated by Arthur Goldhammer (New York: The Modern Library, 2004

Le Journal des Dames et des Modes [1797–1839] Le Journal des Dames et des Modes [1912–14] Le Journal des Demoiselles Le Journal des Modes d’hommes Ladies Home Journal La Mode

Periodicals

La Mode en Peinture

Accent. The Magazine of Paris Style

La Mode Illustrée

L’Art et la Mode. Journal de la Vie Mondaine

La Mode Pratique

Art, Goût, Beauté Colliers Comœdia Illustré La Corbeille. Journal des Modes The Dandy

Les Modes Moniteur de la Mode New York Times Newsweek La Pandore. Journal des Spectacles

Fashion-Théorie

Petit Courrier des Dames

Fémina

Scribner’s Magazine

Le Figaro-Modes

La Sylphide

La Galerie des modes et costumes français, dessinés d’après nature [1778–87]

T-Magazine

La Gazette du Bon Ton La Gerbe

Time Town and Country Magazine Très Parisien

Le Génie de la Mode. Journal d’Élégance Parisienne

La Vie Élégante

Harper’s Bazaar

La Vie Parisienne

Holiday

Vogue

Les Idées Nouvelles de la Mode

Women’s Wear Daily

L’Illustration

The 1915 Mode as Shown by Paris

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Selected Bibliography

Secondary Sources Agins, Teri. The End of Fashion. New York: Harper Collins, 1999. Agron, Suzanne. Le Costume masculin. Paris: Librairie Jacques Lanore, 1969. Allan, Tony. Paris: The Glamour Years, 1919–1940. New York: Bison Books, 1977. Alsop, Susan Mary. To Marietta from Paris, 1945–1960. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Co., 1975. Amann, Elizabeth. Dandyism in the Age of Revolution. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2015. D’Aurevilly, Barby. Dandyism. Translated by Douglas Ainslie. New York: PAJ Publications, 1988. L’Anglade, Emile. Rose Bertin, the Creator of Fashion at the Court of Marie Antoinette. Trans. by Angelo S. Rappoport. London: John Long, 1913. Assouly, Olivie, ed., Vingt ans de système de mode. Paris: Institute Français de la Mode, 2010. Barret, Cristina and Martin Lancaster, Napoleon and the Empire of Fashion, 1795–1815. Milan: Skira, 2010. Batterberry, Michael and Ariane. Fashion, The Mirror of History. New York: Greenwich House, 1982. Battersby, Martin. Art Deco Fashion: French Designers, 1908–1925. New York: St Martin’s Press, 1974. Beaulieu, Michelle, and Jeanne Bayle. Le Costume en Bourgogne de Phillippe le hardi à la mort de Charles le téméraire (1364–1477). Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1956. Behling, Dorothy. “French Couturiers and Artist-Illustrators: Fashion from 1900 to

1925,” (Ph.D. dissertation, Ohio State University, 1977). Bell, Quentin. On Human Finery, 2nd ed. New York: Schocken Books, 1978. Benaïm, Laurence. Yves Saint Laurent. Paris: Grasset, 1993. Bender, Marilyn. The Beautiful People. New York: Coward-McCann, 1967. Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Translated by Howard Eiland and Kevin McLaughlin. Cambridge, Masachusetts and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1999. Berlanstein, Lenard R. Daughters of Eve: A Cultural History of French Theater Women from the Old Regime to the Fin-de-Siècle. Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 2001. Bernier, Olivier. The Eighteenth-Century Woman. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art in association with Doubleday & Co., 1982. Blum, André. Histoire du costume. Les Modes au XIIle et au XVIIIe siècle. Foreword by Maurice Leloir. Paris: Hachette, 1928. Blum, André, and Charles Chasse. Histoire du costume. Les modes au XIXe siècle. Paris: Hachette, 1931. Boucher, François. Histoire du costume en occident de l’antiquité à nos jours. Paris: Flammarion, 1965. _____. Alfred Stevens. Paris: Les Éditions Rieder, 1930. Breward, Christopher. The Culture of Fashion. Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1995. Breward, Christopher and David Gilbert, eds. Fashion’s World Cities. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2006.

317

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Selected Bibliography Bricker, Charles. “Looking Back at the New Look,” Connoisseur (April 1987). Brook, Timothy. The Confusions of Pleasure: Commerce and Culture in Ming China. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998. Bruzzi, Stella and Pamela Church Gibson, eds. Fashion Cultures: Theories, Explorations and Analysis. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Buck, Anne. Victorian Costume and Costume Accessories. London: Herbert Jenkins, 1961.

Charles, Christopher and Daniel Roche, eds. Capitales Culturelle Capitales Symboliques: Paris et les expériences européennes XVIIIe–XXe siecles. Paris: Publication de la Sorbonne, 2002. Charles-Roux, Edmonde. Chanel: Her Life, Her World—and the woman behind the legend she herself created. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1975. _____. Theatre de la Mode. New York: Rizzoli in cooperation with The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1991. Chatwin, Bruce. What Am I Doing Here? New York: Viking, 1989.

Bullard, E. John. Mary Cassatt: Oils and Pastels. New York: Watson-Guptill, 1972.

Chaumette, Xavier. Le Costume tailleur. Paris: Éditions M.P.G.L., 1992.

Burchell, S.C. Imperial Masquerade: The Paris of Napoleon III. New York: Atheneum, 1971.

Chrisman-Campbell, Kimberley, Fashion Victims: Dress at the Court of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2015).

Butazzi, Grazietta. La Mode: art, histoire, et société. Paris: Hachette, 1983.

Cicolini, Alice, ed. 21st Century Dandy. London: British Council, 2003.

Carlano, Marianne, and Larry Salmon, eds, French Textiles from the Middle Ages through the Second Empire. Hartford: Wadsworth Atheneum, 1985.

Clark, T.J.. The Painting of Modern Life. Princeton University Press: Princeton, 1999.

Carter, Ernestine. The Changing World of Fashion (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1977 Chaleyssin, Patrick. Robert de Montesquiou, mécène et dandy. Paris: Somogy, 1992. Chaleyssin, Patrick. La peinture mondaine de 1870 à 1960. Paris: Bibliothèque de l’Image, 1999. Chantrell, Lydie. Les Moires, 1895–1920. Mesdames Callot Soeurs. Paris: Presses du Palais-Royal, 1978. Charles, Christophe. Théâtres en Capitales. Naissance de la société du spectacle à Paris, Berlin, Londres et Vienne, 1860– 1914. Paris: Albin Michel, 2008.

Cobb, Richard. Death in Paris. New York: Oxford University Press, 1978. _____. French and Germans, Germans and French: A Personal Interpretation of France Under Two Occupations, 1914– 1918/1940–1944. Hanover and London: University Press of New England, 1983. Coffin, Judith G. The Politics of Women’s Work: The Paris Garment Trades, 1750– 1915. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996. Colas, René. Bibliographie générale du costume et de la mode. Paris: René Colas, 1933. Coleman, Elizabeth Ann. The Opulent Era: Fashions of Worth, Doucet and Pingat. New York: The Brooklyn Museum in

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Selected Bibliography association with Thames and Hudson, 1990. Coles, William A. Alfred Stevens. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Museum of Art, 1977. Colomer, José Luis. “Black and the Royal Image,” in José Luis Colomer and Amalia Descalzo, eds., Spanish Fashion at the Courts of Early Modern Europe (Madrid: Centro de Estudios Europa Hispánica, 2014), Vol. 1, p. 78. Costumes du temps de la Révolution 1790–1793. Paris: A. Lévy, 1876. Clark, T. J. The Absolute Bourgeois. Greenwich, Conn.: New York Graphic Society, 1973. Crowston, Clare Haru. Fabricating Women: The Seamstresses of Old Regime France, 1675–1791. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2001. Davis, Fred. “Clothing and Fashion as Communication,” in Michael R. Solomon, ed., The Psychology of Fashion (Lexington, MA: D. C. Heath and Company, 1985): 15–26. _____. Fashion, Culture, and Identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. Dejean, Joan. How Paris Became Paris: The Invention of the Modern City. London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2014. Delbourg-Delphis, Marylène. Le Chic et le Look: Histoire de la mode féminine et des moeurs de 1850 a nos jours. Paris: Hachette, 1981.

_____. “Ingres et la mode de son temps,” Bulletin du Musée Ingres 37 (July 1975): 21–26. _____. “Marie Antoinette, reine de la mode,” Versailles 59 (3rd trimester, 1975): 37–46. _____. Dress in France in the Eighteenth Century. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997. Delpierre, Madeleine, et. al. Modes et Révolutions, 1780–1804. Paris: Musée de la Mode et du Costume, Palais Galliera, 1989. Donovan, Carrie. “The Bubble and Bounce of Paris,” New York Times Magazine (7 September 1986): 78. Drake, David. Paris at War, 1939–1944. Cambridge and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2015. Dufresne, Jean-Luc and Olivier Messac, eds. Femmes Créatrices des Années Vingt. Paris: Éditions Arts & Culture, 1988. Dupuis, André. Un famille d’artistes. Les Toudouze–Colin–Leloir, 1690–1957. Paris: Gründ, 1957. Erlanger, Philippe. The Age of Courts and Kings. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1967. Etherington-Smith, Meredith. Patou. London: Hutchinson, 1983. Farwell, Beatrice. The Cult of Images: Baudelaire and the 19th Century Media Explosion. Santa Barbara: University of California at Santa Barbara Art Museum, 1977.

_____. La Mode pour la vie. Paris: Éditions Autrement, 1983.

Fausch, Deborah, Paulette Singley, Rodolphe El-Khoury, and Zvi Efrat, eds. Architecture in Fashion. Princeton: Princeton Architectural Press, 1994.

Delpierre, Madeleine. “L’Élégance à Versailles au temps de Louis XV,” Versailles 55 (2nd trimester, 1974): 6–14.

Favardin, Patrick, et al., Splendeurs et misères du dandyisme. Paris: Mairie du 6e arrondisement de Paris, 1986.

319

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Selected Bibliography Favrichon, Anna. Toilettes et silhouettes feminine chez Marcel Proust. Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 1987.

Gernsheim, Helmut and Alison. The History of Photography, 1865–1914. New York: McGraw-Hill, 1969.

Festa-McCormick, Diana. Proustian Optics of Clothes: Mirrors, Masks, Mores. Stanford French and Italian Studies 29. Saratoga: Anima Libri, 1984.

Giafferri, Paul-Louis de. The History of French Masculine Costume. New York: Foreign Publications, 1927.

Fillin-Yeh, Susan ed.. Dandies: Fashion and Finesse in Art and Culture. New York and London: New York University Press, 2001. Fortassier, Rose. Les écrivains français et la mode de Balzac à nos jours. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1988. Fox-Genovese, Elizabeth. “Yves Saint Laurent’s Peasant Revolution,” Marxist Perspectives 1 (Summer, 1978): 58–92. Francks, Penelope. “Was Fashion a European Invention? The Kimono and Economic Development in Japan,” Fashion Theory Vol. 19 Issue 3 (June 2015): pp. 331–361. Fraser, Kennedy. The Fashionable Mind: Reflections on Fashion, 1970–1981. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1981. Furbank, P.N, and A. M. Cain. Mallarmé on Fashion: A Translation of the Fashion Magazine La Dernière Mode with Commentary. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2004.

Gilbert, David. “From Paris to Shanghai: The Changing Geographies of Fashion’s World Cities,” in Christopher Breward and David Gilbert, eds., Fashion’s World Cities (Oxord and New York: Berg, 2006). Givhan, Robin. The Battle of Versailles. New York: Flatiron Books, 2015. Godart, Fréderic, Sociologie de la mode. Paris: Éditions La Déouverte, 2010. Groom, Gloria ed. Impressionism, Fashion & Modernity. Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago, 2012. Grumbach, Didier. History of International Fashion. Northamoton, Massachusetts: Intterlink, 2014. Guillaum, Valérie and Dominique Veillon. La mode: Un demi-siécle conquérant. Paris: Découvertes Gallimard, 2007. Haedrich, Marcel. Coco Chanel: Her Life, Her Secrets. Boston: Little, Brown & Co., 1972.

Garelick, Rhonda K. Rising Star: Dandyism, Gender, and Performance in the Fin de Siècle. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1998.

Hall-Duncan, Nancy. The History of Fashion Photography. New York: Alpine Book Company, 1979.

Garrett, Helen T. “Clothes and Character: The Function of Dress in Balzac.” Philadelphia: Ph.D. dissertation, University of Pennsylvania, 1941.

Harris, Jennifer. “The Red Cap of Liberty: A Study of Dress Worn by French Revolutionary Partisans, 1789–1794,” Eighteenth-Century Studies 14 (1981): 283–312.

Gaudriault, Raymond. La Gravure de mode féminine en France. Paris: Les Éditions d’Amateur, 1983.

Harvey, John. Men in Black. Chicago University of Chicago Press, 1995.

George, M. Dorothy. English Political Caricature. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1959.

Hegermann-Lindencrone, Lillie de. In the Courts of Memory, 1912. New York: Da Capo Press, 1980.

320

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Selected Bibliography Heller, Sarah-Grace. Fashion in Medieval France. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2007.

Painting. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

Hemmings, F. W. J. Baudelaire the Damned. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1982.

Jarry, Paul. Les Magazines de nouveautés: Histoire retrospective et anecdotique. Paris: André Barry et fils, 1948.

Higonnet, Patrice. Paris, Capital of the World. Cambridge, MA and London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2002. Holland, Vyvyan Beresford. Hand Coloured Fashion Plates, 1770 to 1899. London: B. T. Batsford, 1955. Hollander, Anne. “The Great Emancipator, Chanel,” Connoisseur (February 1983). _____. “Dressed to Thrill: The cool and casual style of the new American androgyny,” The New Republic (January 1985): 28–33.

Johnson, Christopher S. “Patterns of Proletarianization: Parisian Tailors and Lodève Woolens Workers,” in John Merriman, ed., Consciousness and Class Experience in Nineteenth-Century Europe. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1979. Julian, Philippe. Prince of Aesthetes: Count Robert de Montesquiou, 1855–1921. New York: Viking Press, 1968. _____. The Triumph of Art Nouveau. Paris Exhibition 1900. London: Phaidon Press, 1974.

_____. Seeing Through Clothes. New York: Viking, 1978.

Kaiser, Susan B. The Social Psychology of Clothing. New York: Macmillan, 1985.

Home, Alistair. The Fall of Paris, The Siege and the Commune, 1870–1871. New York: St Martin’s Press, 1965.

Kamitsis, Lydia. Mode en movement, mouvements de mode. Paris: SODES for prêt-à-porter paris, 2005.

Hunt, Lynn. “Freedom of Dress in Revolutionary France,” in Sara E. Melzer and Kathryn Norberg, eds., From the Royal to the Republican Body. Incorporating the political in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century France (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1998).

Kellner, Douglas, ed. Baudrillard: A Critical Reader. Oxford: Blackwell, 1994.

_____. Politics, Culture and Class in the French Revolution. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1984. Hyslop, Lois Boe, ed., Baudelaire as Love Poet and Other Essays. University Park and London: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1969. Isaacson, Joel. “Impressionism and Journalistic Illustration,” Arts Magazine 56 (June 1982): 95–115. Iskin, Ruth E. Modern Women and Parisian Consumer Culture in Impressionist

Kelly, Ian. Beau Brummell: The Ultimate Man of Style. New York and London: Free Press, 2006. König, René. A La Mode. New York: Seabury Press, 1973. Lacroix, Paul. The Eighteenth Century: Its Institutions, Customs, and Costumes. France, 1700–1789. London: Bickers & Son, n.d. Langley Moore, Doris. Fashion Through Fashion Plates, 1770–1970. London: Ward, Lock, 1971; New York: Clarkson N. Potter, 1971. _____. The Woman in Fashion. London: B. T. Batsford, 1949. Latour, Amy. Kings of Fashion. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1958.

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Selected Bibliography Laver, James. Taste and Fashion, rev. ed.. London: George G. Harrap & Co., 1945. Lefebvre, Georges. The French Revolution 1793–1799. New York: Columbia University Press, 1962. Lepape, Claude, and Thierry Defert. From the Ballets Russes to Vogue. The Art of Georges Lepape. Trans. by Jane Brenton. New York: The Vendome Press, 1984. Lieberson, Stanley. A Matter of Taste: How Names, Fashions, and Culture Change. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2000. Lipovetsky, Gilles. The Empire of Fashion: Dressing Modern Democracy. Trans. by Catherine Porter. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994. Lobenthal, Joel. Radical Rags: Fashions of the Sixties. New York: Abbeville Press, 1990. Lynam, Ruth (ed.). Couture: An Illustrated History of the Great Paris Designers and Their Creations. Garden City, NY: Doubleday and Co., 1972.

_____. Worth: Father of Haute Couture. London: Elm Tree Books, 1980. Martin-Fugier, Anne. La Bourgeoise: Femme au temps de Paul Bourget. Paris: Bernard Grasset, 1983. _____. Les salons de la IIIe République. Paris: Perrin, 2003. Maury, A. “Quant les aquarellistes creaient la haute couture,” Plaisir de France 422 (September 1974): 30–35. Mayeur, Jean-Marie. Les Débuts de la Troisième République 1871–1898. Nouvelle histoire de la France contemporaine, 10. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1973. Menkes, Suzy, “The Couture Controversy,” Vogue (October 1991): 263. Merriman, John (ed.). French Cities in the Nineteenth Century. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1981. Metternich, Pauline de. “Je ne suis pas jolie, je suis pire.” Souvenirs, 1859– 1871. Paris: Tallandier, collection “La Bibliotheque d’Evelyne Lever,” 2008. Milbank, Caroline Reynolds. Couture: The Great Designers. New York: Stewart, Tabori, & Chang, 1985.

McMillan, James F. Housewife or Harlot: The Place of Women in French Society, 1870–1940. Brighton, Sussex: The Harvester Press, 1981.

Miller, Judith. “Paris Fashion, Beyond Chic, Is also a Major Moneymaker,” New York Times (30 October 1985): A1, A5.

Madsen, Axel. Living for Design: The Yves Saint Laurent Story. New York: Delacourt, 1979.

Miller, Michael B. The Bon Marché: Bourgeois Culture and the Department Store, 1869–1921. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981.

Magraw, Roger. France 1815–1914: The Bourgeois Century. Oxford: Fontana History of Modern France, 1983.

Moers, Ellen. The Dandy: Brummell to Beerbohm. London: Seeker & Warburg, 1960.

Mansel, Philip. “Monarchy, Uniform and the Rise of the Frac, 1760–1830,” Past and Present 96 (August 1982): 103–32.

Morais, Richard. Pierre Cardin: The Man Who Became a Label. New York: Bantam, 1991.

Marly, Diana de. The History of Haute Couture, 1850–1950. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1980.

Morris, Ivan. The World of the Shining Prince. New York: Oxford University Press, 1964.

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Selected Bibliography Moses, Claire Goldberg. French Feminism in the Nineteenth Century. Albany: SUNY Press, 1984. Mossiker, Francis. Madame de Sévigné: A Life and Letters. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1983. _____. The Queen’s Necklace. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1961. Munhall, Edgar. Whistler and Montesquiou: The Butterfly and the Bat. New York and Paris: The Frick Collection and Flammarion, 1995. Nochlin, Linda. Realism. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971. Nord, Philip G. Paris Shopkeepers and the Politics of Resentment. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985. Ormond, Richard. “Pictorial Sources for a Study of Costume,” in Ann Saunders, ed., La Belle Epoque. London: published for the Costume Society, 1968. Pacteau, Francette. The Symptom of Beauty. London: Reaktion Books, 1994. Painter, George D. Proust. Two volumes. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1965. Palmer, Alexandra. Couture & Commerce: The Transatlantic Fashion Trade in the 1950s. Vancouver: UBC Press in association with the Royal Ontario Museum, 2001. Pastoreau, Michel. Black: the History of a Color. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008. Pellegrin, Nicole. Les Vêtements de la liberté: ABÉCÉDAIRE des pratiques vestimentaires en France de 1780 à 1800. Aix-en-Provence: Éitions ALINA, 1989. Perrot, Nichelle ed. A History of Private Life. Volume IV. From the Fires of Revolution to the Great War. Trans., Arthur Goldhammer. Cambridge, MA and

London: The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1990. Perrot, Philippe. Les Dessus et les dessous de la bourgeoisie: Une histoire du vêtement au XIXe siècle. Paris: Librairie Arthème Fayard, 1981. _____. Le Travail des apparences, ou les transformations du corps féminin XVIIIe– XIXe siècle. Paris: Éditions du Seuil, 1984. Picken, Mary Brooks, and Dora Loues Miller. Dressmakers of France. New York: Harper and Brothers, 1956. Pinkney, David H. Napoleon III and the Rebuilding of Paris. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958. Piponnier, François. Costume et vie sociale: la cour d’Anjou XIVe–XVe siècle. Paris: Mouton et cie., 1970. Pochna, Marie-France. Christian Dior: The Man Who Made the World Look New. New York: Arcade Publishing, 1996. Post, Paul.”La Naissance du costume masculin moderne au XIVe siècle,” in Actes du Ier Congrès International d’histoire du Costume. (Venice: Centro Internazionale delle Arti e del Costume, 1955): pp. 28–41. Pougy, Liane de. My Blue Notebooks. London: Andre Deutsch, 1979. Prendergast, Christopher. Paris and the Nineteenth Century. Oxford and Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1992. Prevost, John C. Le Dandyisme en France (1817–1839). Paris: Librairie Minard, 1957. Rasche, Adelaide ed. Wardrobes in Wartime, 1914–1918. Fashion and Fashion Images during the First World War. Berlin: Kunstbibliothek, 2014. Reff, Theodore. Manet and Modern Paris. Chicago and London: University of

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Selected Bibliography Chicago Press, for the National Gallery of Art, Washington, 1982. Rewald, John. The History of Impressionism, 4th ed. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 1973. Ribeiro, Aileen. Dress in Eighteenth-Century Europe, 1715–1789. London: B. T. Batsford, 1984. Riding, Alan. And The Show Went On. New York: Vinatge, 2011. Robert, Mary Louise. Civilization Without Sexes: Reconstructing Gender in Postwar France, 1917–1927. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994. Rocamora, Agnès, Fashioning the City: Paris, Fashion, and the Media. London and New York: I.B. Taurus, 2009. Roche, Daniel. The Culture of Clothing: Dress and fashion in the ‘ancient regime.’ Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Roselle, Bruno du. La Crise de la mode: La Révolution des jeunes et la mode. Paris: Librairie Arthème Fayard, 1973. _____. La Mode. Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1980. Roskill, Mark. “Early Impressionism and the Fashion Print,” Burlington Magazine (June 1970). Ross, Noveline. Manet’s ‘Bar at the FoliesBergère’ and the Myths of Popular Illustration. Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1983 Rublack, Ulinka. Dressing Up: Cultural Identity in Renaissance Europe. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010. Saisselin, Remy G. The Bourgeois and the Bibelot. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1984. _____. “From Baudelaire to Christian Dior: The Poetics of Fashion,” Journal of

Aesthetics and Art Criticism 18 (1959– 60): 109–10. Sargentson, Carolyn. Merchants and Luxury Markets: The Marchands Merciers of Eighteenth-Century Paris. London: The Victoria and Albert Museum in Association with the J. Paul Getty Museum, 1996. Schechter, Ronald. “Gothic Thermidor: The Bals des victims, the Fantastic, and the Production of Historical Knowledge in Post Terror France,” Representations, no. 61, (1998): 78–94. Schreier, Barbara. Mystique and Identity: Women’s Fashions in the 1950s. Norfolk, Va.: The Chrysler Museum, 1984. Scott, Margaret. Late Gothic Europe, 1400–1500, The History of Dress Series. London: Mills & Boon, 1980. Seigel, Jerrold. Bohemian Paris: Culture, Politics, and the Boundaries of Bourgeois Life, 1830–1930. New York: Viking, 1986. Sheridan, George J., Jr. “Household and Craft in an Industrializing Economy: The Case of the Silk Weavers of Lyons,” in John Merriman, ed., Consciousness and Class Experience in Nineteenth-Century Europe. New York: Holmes & Meier, 1979. Silverman, Deborah L. Art Nouveau in Finde-Siècle France: Politics, Psychology, and Style. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. Spotts, Frederic. The Shameful Peace: How French Artists and Intellectuals Survived the Nazi Occupation. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2008. Steele, Valerie. Fashion and Eroticism: Ideals of Feminine Beauty from the Victorian Era to the Jazz Age. New York: Oxford University Press, 1985.

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Selected Bibliography _____. A Queer History of Fashion: From the Closet to the Catwalk. London and New Haven: Yale University Press, 2013. _____. Women of Fashion: TwentiethCentury Designers. New York: Rizzoli International, 1991. Stuard, Susan Mosher. Gilding the Market: Luxury and Fashion in FourteenthCentury Italy. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania, 2006. Sweet, Frederick. Miss Mary Cassatt, Impressionist from Pennsylvania. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1966. Thomas, Edith. The Women Incendiaries. Translated by James and Starr Atkinson. New York: Brazillier, 1966. Vaughan, Richard. Valois Burgundy. London: Archon Books, 1975. Vanier, Henriette. La Mode et ses metiers: Frivolités et luttes des classes. Paris: Armand Colin, 1960.

of the Italian Fashion Industry. Oxford: Berg, 2000. White, Palmer. Poiret. New York: Clarkson N. Potter, 1973. _____. Elsa Schiaparelli: Empress of Paris Fashion. New York: Rizzoli, 1986. Wilcox, Claire ed. The Golden Age of Couture, Paris and London 1947–1957. London: V&A Publications, 2007. Wiley, W. L. The Formal French. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967. Williams, Rosalind H. Dream Worlds: Mass Consumption in Late NineteenthCentury France. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1982. Woronoff, Denis. The Thermidorian Regime and the Directory, 1794–1799. Cambridge: Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme and Cambridge University Press, 1984.

Varagnac, André. French Costumes. London, Paris, and New York: Hyperion Press, 1939.

Wrigley, Richard. The Politics of Appearances: Representations of Dress in Revolutionary France. Oxford and New York: Berg, 2002.

Vaudoyer, Jean-Louis. Les Artistes du livre: Georges Barbier. Paris: Henri Babou, 1929.

Yalom, Marilyn. Blood Sisters: The French Revolution in Women’s Memory. New York: Basic Books, 1993.

Veillon, Dominique. La mode sous l’Occupation. Paris: Payot, 1990.

Yoxall, H. W. A Fashion of Life. New York: Taplinger, 1967.

Vincent-Ricard, François. Raison et passion. Langages de société: la mode 1940– 1990. Paris: Textile/Art/Langage, 1983. Waquet, Dominique and Marion Laporte. La Mode. Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1999. Weber, Eugen. France, Fin de Siècle. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1986. White, Nicola. Reconstructing Italian Fashion: America and the Development

Exhibition Catalogues Musée du costume de la ville de Paris. Modes de la Belle Epoque. Costumes français 1890–1910 et portraits. 1961. _____. Grands couturiers parisiens 1910– 1939. 1965. _____. Élégantes parisiennes au temps du Marcel Proust 1890–1916. 1968.

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Selected Bibliography Musée de la Mode et du Costume. Paris, 1945–1975. Élégance et creation. 1977. _____. L’Atelier Nadar et la mode, 1865– 1913. 1978. _____. La Mode et ses métiers, du XVIIIe siècle à nos jours. 1981. _____. Uniformes civils français, cérémonial, circonstances, 1750–1980. 1982–83. _____. Hommage à Elsa Schiaparelli. 1984. _____. De la Mode et des lettres du XIIIe siècle à nos jours. 1984–1985. _____. Paul Poiret et Nicole Groult: Maîtres de la mode Art Déco. 1986.

_____. Paris Couture—Années Trente. 1987. _____. Modes et Révolutions, 1780–1804. 1989. _____. Femmes fin de siècle, 1885–1895. 1990. _____. Au Paradis des dames. 1992. Palais Galliera, Paris Musées. Les Années 50: La mode en France 1947–1957. 2014. Palias Galliera, Paris Musées. La Mode retrouvée: Les robes trésors de la comtesse Greffulhe. 2015.

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INDEX A

Abetz, Otto, 233 Abetz, Suzanne, 233 Agins, Teri, 269 Alix (Madame Grès), 215, 219, 224 Alsop, Susan Mary, 241 Amann, Elizabeth, 54 The American in Paris (Janin), 144 Americans, women’s fashion, 6–7 Amiot, Félix, 232 Anglomania, 35, 77, 148, 152 Anti-fashion, 253, 255 Anti-Semitic laws, 226, 232 Aristocrat, workwomen of Paris, 73–75 Armani, Giorgio, 256 Arnault, Bernard, 259, 264 Arnould-Plessy, Sylvie, 142 Art Nouveau, 195, 197, 199, 206 Asquith, Lady Cynthia, 210 Audibet, Marc, 260 B

Baker, Jordan, 219 Baker, Josephine, 224, 225 Bakst, Leon, 194, 203, 219 Balenciaga, Cristobal, 229, 245–46, 249, 250–51, 253, 259, 268, 270, 276 Ballard, Bettina, 220, 226, 245, 248 Balmain, Pierre, 238, 246 Balzac, Honoré de, 6, 9, 79, 83, 106, 117, 171 dandyism, 75, 77

dress as expression of society, 63–64 Lost Illusions, 65, 68, 70 Parisiennes, 75, 77 physiology of fashion, 69–71 from provinces to Paris, 64–65, 67–68 working women, 71, 73–75 Banville, Théodore, 81, 83 Bara, Clementine, 119 Barbier, Georges, 203, 206, 209, 219 Bashkirtseff, Marie, 132 Battle of Versailles, anti-fashion and, 253, 255 Baudelaire, Charles, 6, 9, 79, 93–94, 115 “cult of images,” 108 the dandy, 81–83 on dandyism, 83–85 modern life, 156, 166 triumph of black, 85, 89 Beaton, Cecil, 215 Beaumont, caricature by, 60, 61 Beauvoir, Roger, 81 Beckett, Marjorie, 243 Bell, Quentin, 35–36 Bender, Marilyn, 250–51 Benjamin, Walter, 117 Bennett, Arnold, 99 Bérard, Christian, 226, 239 Béraud, Jean, 12, 131, 155, 170 Bergé, Pierre, 253, 256, 264, 270 Berlanstein, Lenard R., 140, 142 Bernard, Augusta, 215

Bernhardt, Sarah, 141, 142 Bertall, Charles Albert d’Arnoux, 88, 89, 106, 121 Bertin, Rose, 2, 28, 39, 50 Black, triumph of, 85–89, 91 Blahnik, Manolo, 260 Bloomers, bicycling in Paris, 155 Bobergh, Otto Gustave, 118 Bohan, Marc, 255, 259 Boilly, Louis Léopold, 46, 48, 49, 52, 56, 57 Bois de Boulogne, 107, 147, 190, 217 bicycling in, 155 races at, 149 ride in the park, 150–53 Boldini, Giovanni, 182, 183 Bonheur, Rosa, 124 Boothby, Sir Brooke, portrait of, 35 Boucher, François, 18, 30, 39 Bouchra Jarrar Couture, 274 Boudin, Eugène, 109, 112 Boulanger, Louise, 215 Boulanger, Margueritte, 124 Boulet, Denise, 201 Boze, Joseph, 42 Braddock, Bessie, 243 Brissaud, Pierre, 14 Brook, Timothy, 23 Brubach, Holly, 259 Brummell, George “Beau,” 64, 77, 79, 81, 203 Brunhoff, Michel de, 235 Burrows, Stephen, 255

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Index C

Caillebotte, Gustave, 90 Callias, Nina de, 132 Callot sisters, 187, 215 Caraccioli, Marquis de, 29 Cardin, Pierre, 249, 251, 255 Carillo, E. Gomez, 218 Carolus-Duran, Charles Émile Auguste, 106, 151 Carter, Ernestine, 256 Cassatt, Mary Stevenson, 138, 143, 158, 161–66 Castiglione, Baldasare, 24 Cayron, Jules, 166 Cazotte, Jacques, 33 Censorship, 105 Cézanne, Paul, 114 Challamel, J. Augustin, 20 Chanel, 257, 264, 270–72 haute couture, 257 revival of, 257 suit, 216, 259 Chanel, Gabrielle “Coco,” 12, 89, 214, 250 the 1930s, 226–27 arrest of, 237 Hollywood, 224 modern fashion, 217–18 perfume business, 232 period between world wars, 215–17 regiment of women, 219–20, 222, 224 relaunch of business, 246 Charles V (emperor), 24 Chase, Edna Woolman, 203, 212 Chateaubriand, François Auguste René, 45–46, 51 Chen Yao, 23 Chevalier, Maurice, 233 China, fashion in, 22–23 Christian Dior, 259. See also Dior, Christian coat by, 240 evening dress, 244 haute couture, 1, 16, 262, 265 John Galliano for, 1, 10, 16, 264 New Look by, 264 Raf Simons for, 271 Clairin, Georges, 141 Clark, T. J., 84 Cobb, Richard, 54, 234

Cocteau, Jean, 226, 227, 239 Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, 2, 26 Coles, William, 159 Colin, Adèle Anaïs, 94, 96–97 Colin, Alexandre, 94, 96 Colin, Isabelle, 94, 97 Colin, Laure, 94, 97 Colin, Paul, 97 Colin sisters, 94, 96–97 Comité Colbert, 26 Commune, 128–29 Costumes of revolt, 53–54 Counter-revolutionaries, 51, 54 Courboin, François, 115, 132 Courrèges, André, 249 Cousin, Charles, 81 Cripps, Sir Stafford, 243 D

D’Alembert, Jean le Rond, 28 Dali, Salvador, 226 Dandyism, 77, 79, 81–85, 89 Dandyism in the Age of Revolution (Amann), 54 d’Anspach, Maria, 74 D’Aurevilly, Barbey, 79, 81, 83, 89, 91 David, Jules, 97, 101, 104 Death in Paris, 1795–1801 (Cobb), 54 De Caraman-Chimay, Élisabeth, 171, 172 De Charly, M., 13 Degas, Edgar, 134, 187 Delacroix, Ferdinand Victor Eugène, 64, 94, 117, 121 Liberty Leading the People (painting), 59, 61 Delbourg-Delphis, Marylène, 253 Delord, Taxile, 75 Demeulemeester, Ann, 260 Demi-couture, 271–72 De Musset, Alfred, 82, 94 De Nittis, Giuseppe, 149, 181 Deroy, Auguste, 136 Deroy, Emile, 78, 81 Desgranges, Isabelle Toudouze, 97, 111, 112 Dickens, Charles, 120 Diderot, Denis, 28, 83–84, 94 Dior, Christian, 235, 239, 241–43, 255. See also Christian Dior Dmitrieff, Elizabeth, 128

Doll’s dress, 3 Doncre, Dominique, 45 Donovan, Carrie, 259 D’Orchamps, Baroness, 167–68 Doucet, Jacques, 142, 180, 181, 187–88, 194, 199, 201–3 Duncan, Isadora, 194 Duse, Eleanora, 142 E

Edelkoort, Li, 272 Elbaz, Alber, 268, 272 Elegance, 87–89 England, men’s clothing, 32–36 Eugénie (Empress), 118–19, 123 Europe, birth of fashion, 20–21 Exposition Universelle of 1900 in Paris, 197, 198, 199, 200 F

Fashion the 1930s, 226–27 Art Nouveau, 195, 197, 199, 206 bicycling in Paris, 153–55 court etiquette, 37, 39–40 court of the Sun King, 26–27 European invention, 22–23 in fashion, 256–57, 259–61 Florence, Italy, 246–48 following power, 24–26 golden age of couture (1947–1957), 242–43, 245–46 incroyables and merveilleuses, 51–54 inequality of dress, 43–44 invention source, 22–23 men’s clothing, 33–36 and modernism, 201–4, 206–9 modernity and, 108–9, 111, 114–15 Napoleon, 54–55, 59–61 Nazi occupation, 229–30, 232–36 Parisian mania for, 29, 31–32 Paris vs. Hollywood and New York, 224, 226 performances and, 140, 142–45, 147 physiology of, 69–71 politics of dress (1789–1794), 44–46, 49–51 private life of Paris, 157–63, 165–66 at the races, 147–48, 150 ready-made clothing, 131–32

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Index regiment of women, 219–20, 222, 224 ride in the Bois de Boulogne, 150–53 “Swinging London,” 248–50 time and, 190–91 war and, 209–13 Fashion in Medieval France (Heller), 20 Fashion plates, 4, 5, 6 costumes, 126 ensemble, 218 Habit à la française de Printemps, 36 how to read, 99–104 Journal des dames et des modes, 55, 68 La Mode Illustrée, 100, 103, 112, 114, 191 Le Salon de la Mode, 152 Marie Antoinette in court dress, 38 Numa, 76 Observateur des Modes, 58 Petit Courrier des Dames, 66 Fashion’s World Cities (Gilbert), 1 Fast fashion, 269–70, 272–73 Fath, Jacques, 230, 245–46 Fémina (periodical), 14, 189, 204, 207, 209, 212, 216, 235 Ferré, Gianfranco, 259 Festa-McCormick, Diana, 183, 189 Feuillet, Valérie, 118 Figaro-Modes (periodical), 168, 193, 194, 195 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 219 Flanner, Janet, 237 Flöge, Emilie, 194 Foale, Marion, 248 Ford, Tom, 260, 268 Fortuny, Mariano, 186–90, 194 Fouquet, Jean, 20 Francis I (prince), 24 Franco-Prussian War, 128 The French Painted by Themselves (collection), 63, 73, 74 French Revolution, 33, 35, 40, 61, 153 liberty of dress, 3–4, 43–44 politics of dress, 44–46 Furetière, Antoine, 2

G

Gâches-Sarraute, Inez, 195 Galbraith, John Kenneth, 257 Galliano, John, 10, 16, 264, 268, 272 Garavani, Valentino, 248 Gaudry, Eugènie, 119 Gaultier, Jean Paul, 259, 260, 269 Gautier, Théophile, 83, 94, 139, 140 Gavarni, Paul, 62, 63, 69, 72, 73, 94 Gervex, Henri, 201 Ghesquière, Nicolas, 268, 270 Gilbert, David, 1 Gillray, James, 34 Givenchy, Hubert de, 246, 253, 255, 264, 266, 267, 271 Givhan, Robin, 255 Godey’s Ladies’ Book (periodical), 7, 10, 97 Golden age of couture (1947–1957), 242–43, 245–46 Goma, Michael, 259 Goncourt, Edmund, 9, 83, 129–30, 172, 217 Goncourt, Jules, 9, 83, 217 Gonzales, Eva, 143 Goubaud, Adolphe, 97 Gozlan, Léon, 75 Greffulhe, Comtesse, 171, 172, 173, 174–75, 177, 183, 186 Greuze, Jean-Baptiste, 94 Grisette, 6, 63, 71, 72, 73–74, 144 Grumbach, Didier, 263 Gucci, 246, 260, 268, 269 Guimard, Marie, 39 Guys, Constantine, 8, 84 H

Hallée, Jeanne, 169 Hallyday, Johnny, 249 Halpert, Joseph, 246 Hardy, Françoise, 249 Hardy, Pierre, 272 A Harlot High and Low (Balzac), 70 Harper’s Bazaar (periodical), 226–27, 229, 240–41, 264 Haussmann, Baron Georges-Eugène, 117 Haute couture, 7, 133, 209, 215 Chanel, 257 Christian Dior, 1, 16, 262, 265 Christian Lacroix, 258

cost of, 271 golden age of (1947–1957), 242–43, 245–46 “haute couture is dead,” 250–51, 253 Iris Van Herpen, 272 Parisian, 230, 235, 253, 259, 264, 271–73, 275 Worth as father of, 118–25 Hébert, Jacques-René, 51 Heim, Jacques, 229, 232 Helieu, Paul, 186 Heller, Sarah-Grace, 20 Hennessey, Moet, 259. See also Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey (LVMH) Henry VIII (king), 24 Hepburn, Audrey, 246 “The Heroism of Modern Life” (Baudelaire), 84, 156 Hess, Johnny, 235 Hollywood, 224 Houssaye, Arsène, 159 Huart, Louis, 71 Hunt, Lynn, 43, 50, 53 Huysmans, Joris-Karl, 162–63, 181 I

Incroyables, 3, 51–54 Iribe, Paul, 193, 202–4 Iris Van Herpen Haute Couture, 272 Italy fashion in, 246–48 real clothes in Milan, 255–56 Ivimy, Alice, 147, 150 J

Jacobin/Jacobinism, 46, 51, 52–53 Jacobs, Marc, 268 Janin, Jules, 71, 73, 144, 148 Jockey Club, 82, 148, 190, 242, 245 John the Fearless (Duke), 21 Jones, Stephen, 260 Journal des Modes d’Hommes (periodical), 86, 120 K

Kawakubo, Rei, 260 Khanh, Emmanuelle, 250, 251 L

Lacroix, Christian, 258, 259 Ladies’ Home Journal (periodical), 7

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Index La femme moderne, 217–18 La Gazette du Bon Ton (periodical), 203–4, 209–10 Lagerfeld, Karl, 217, 257, 264, 268 La Grande Dame (periodical), 157 Lalique, René, 197 Lambert, Eleanor, 255 Lami, Eugène, 74, 84, 144 La Mode Illustrée (periodical), 96, 100, 102, 103, 108, 112, 114, 191 La mode retrouvée Albertine, fashion and Fortuny, 186–90 Baron de Charlus, 181, 183–84 Duchesse and Princesse de Guermantes, 184–86 elegance, 172, 174–75 Odette de Crécy (Madame Swann), 175, 177–79 Proust inspiration, 171–72 red shoes of Duchesse de Guermantes, 179–81 Lansdale, Avril, 243 Lanvin, Jeanne, 202, 215, 219, 221, 224, 230, 233, 259, 261, 268 Larousse, Pierre, 120 Lavallière, Eve, 142, 195 La Vie Élégant (periodical), 176 La Vie Parisienne (periodical), 105–8, 130, 135, 148, 150, 152 Le Bon Ton (periodical), 96 Le Charivari (periodical), 60, 61 Lecocq, Pierre-Louis Joseph, 45 Le Dandy (periodical), 75, 77, 82 Lefebvre, Blanche, 128–29 Lefebvre, Georges, 52 Leloir, Auguste, 96 Leloir, Héloise Colin, 92, 94, 96, 100 Leloir, Maurice, 96 Lelong, Lucien, 223, 230, 239, 246 Leloup, Marie, 128 Le Maire, Charles, 2 Lepape, Claude, 203 Lepape, Georges, 202–3 Le Salon de la Mode (periodical), 152 Liberty Leading the People (painting), 59, 61 Lix, Frederic, 136 London, fashion in, 248–50 Lorrain, Jean, 91 Lost Illusions (Balzac), 65, 68, 70

Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey (LVMH), 259, 264, 269 Louis XIV (King), 2, 25–27, 29, 32–33, 39, 152, 250 Luxury wars, 269 M

Macaronis, 33–35 McQueen, Alexander, 264, 266, 267, 268, 271–72 Malibran, Hippolyte, 97 Mallarmé, Stephane, 9, 108, 121, 181 Mallet, Anna, 128 Manet, Edouard, 83, 106, 166 Margiela, Martin, 260, 268 Marguerittes, Julie de, 94, 143–45 Marie Antoinette (Queen), 2, 28, 123, 199 fashion of, 37, 39–40 fashion plate of, in court dress, 38 portrait of, 41 Mariton, Louis-Joseph, 96 Martin-Fugier, Anne, 63, 140 Marty, A. E., 206, 207, 213 Marx, Karl, 63, 128 Masriera, Francisco, 166, 167 Massigli, Renée, 237 Memories, fashion and time, 190–91 Menkes, Suzy, 263–64, 272 Mercier, Louis Sebastien, 19, 29, 31–33, 36, 51–52, 71 Merveilleuses, 3, 51–52 Metternich, Pauline de (Princess), 118, 120, 124, 163 Michelet, Jules, 7, 132 Milliners, 2 male, 120, 260 shops, 133–34, 147, 235 women, 6, 27, 31, 71, 74, 148, 165, 215 Ming dynasty, 23 Mitterand, Francois, 260 Miyake, Issey, 260 Modern fashion, emergence of, 6 Modernism, fashion and, 201–4, 206–9 Modernity, fashion and, 108–9, 111, 114–15 Moers, Ellen, 77, 85 Molyneux, Edward, 229, 237, 246 Monet, Claude, 109, 110, 111, 186 Monneyron, Fréderic, 89

Montaland, Céline, 140 Montana, Claude, 259, 260, 261 Montespan, Madame de, 27, 123 Montesquiou, Count Robert de, 91, 171–72, 177, 181, 183–84 Morton, Camilla, 270 Motteville, Madame de, 25–26 Mugler, Thierry, 260, 261 Musset, Jeanne, 128 N

Nadar, Paul, 82, 173 Napoleon (Emperor), 54–55, 59–61 Napoleon III (Emperor), 84, 117, 119, 123–24, 128, 130 Nazi occupation, 229–30, 232–36 Neoclassicism, 193, 206 Newsweek (periodical), 248, 255 New York, 224, 226, 227, 236, 239 New York Times (newspaper), 210, 253, 257 Nochlin, Linda, 85 Noël, Gustave, 97 Noël, Laure Colin, 7, 10 Noel, Lucie, 242 Nord, Philip G., 133 Nuitter, Charles, 145 Numa, 76, 100 O

Oberkirch, 39 Orientalism, 193 Owens, Rick, 270 P

“The Painter of Modern Life” (Baudelaire), 6, 81, 84, 93 Palmer, Alexandra, 242 Palmyre, Madame, 75, 117, 119 Paquin, Jeanne, 130, 197, 203, 224 actresses preferring, 142 dresses by, 163, 165, 180, 187, 199, 205, 224 House of, 130, 131, 204, 246 suits by, 204 war crinoline, 210 Paris allies confronting fashion, 236–37, 239 bicycling in, 153–55 birth of fashion, 19–20

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Index from boulevards to barricades, 125, 128–30 cultural history of, 1–12, 14–15, 17 Exposition Universelle of 1900, 197, 198, 199, 200 fashion mania in, 29, 31–32 haute couture, 242–43, 245–46 la femme moderne, 217–18 motto of, 1 Nazi occupation of, 229–30, 232–36 ride in the Bois de Boulogne, 150–53 rise of fashion, 27–29 shopping in, 130–37 siege of, 128 world capital of fashion, 260, 273, 275 Peacock Revolution, 249 Perronneau, Jean-Baptiste, 33 Petain, Philippe, 229 Philip II (Emperor), 24 Philip the Good, 21 Physiology of the Grisette (Huart), 71 Picart, Jean-Jacques, 259 Pierson, Blanche, 140 Pierson, Pierre-Louis, 125 Poiret, Paul, 12, 193–95, 199, 201–3, 207–8, 209, 215–17 Politics of dress (1789–1794), 44–46, 49–51 Pompadour, Madame de, 31, 37, 39 Portrait of the Actor Chenard in the Costume of a Sans Culotte (painting), 46, 48 Pottier, Philippe, 230 Power, fashion following, 24–26 Prévost, Marcel, 218 Primoli, Joseph, 123 Private life Paris fashion, 157–63, 165–66 tea-gown, 166–68 Prohibition, 222, 224 Prost, Rosalie, 119 Proust, Marcel, 9, 168, 171–72, 211. See also La mode retrouvée Albertine, fashion and Fortuny, 186–90 Baron de Charlus, 181, 183–84 Duchesse and Princesse de Guermantes, 184–86 elegance in novels, 172, 174–75

fashion and time, 190–91 Odette de Crécy, 175, 177–79 red shoes of Duchesse de Guermantes, 179–81 Pucci, Emilio, 248 Putnam, Samuel, 224 Q

Quant, Mary, 248–50 R

Rabanne, Paco, 250 Races, fashion at the, 147–48, 150 Raymond, Emmeline, 6 Ready-to-wear fashion, 86, 246, 264, 268 American, 256 Chanel, 257, 259–60 designers, 271–72 “haute couture is dead,” 250–51, 253 production of, 130–33 Redfern, Monsieur, 122, 168, 203 Régny, Jane, 215, 219, 222 Reign of terror, 40, 46 Réjane, Madame, 142, 187, 193–94 Renoir, Pierre Auguste, 143, 146, 151 Reservoir Dogs (film), 85 Rewald, John, 114 Ribeiro, Aileen, 37 Roberts, Mary Louise, 217 Robespierre, Maximilien, 46, 47, 51 Rocamora, Agnès, 264 Rochas, Marcel, 230, 246 Roche, Daniel, 28, 43, 46 Roselle, Bruno du, 232 Rosier, Michèle, 250 Roskill, Mark, 109 Rouff, Maggy, 224, 230 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 32 S

Sacerdote, Jenny, 220 Sack dress, 31, 245, 251 Saillard, Olivier, 260 Saint Laurent, Yves, 249–50 chubby jacket, 254 couture collection, 253 dress by, 15 ready-to-wear, Rive Gauche, 251 trouser suit, 252

Sandoz, August, 103 Sans-culottes, 3, 44, 46, 48, 49, 51, 52–53 Sans-culottism, 52 Schiaparelli, Elsa, 12, 215, 220, 224, 226–27, 229, 233, 236, 246, 270 Scribner’s Magazine (periodical), 153, 154 Sem (caricaturist), 207, 208, 209 Settle, Alison, 243 Sévigné, Madame de, 27 Shanghai, “the Paris of the East,” 1 Shoplifting, 134 Shopping in Paris, 130–37 Simons, Raf, 271 Sixtus V (Pope), 25 Snow, Carmel, 229, 239, 241 Soeurs, Callot, 199 Spanish black, 24–26 Spanish fashion, 24–26 Sports, fashion at the races, 147–48, 150 Steichen, Edward, 202, 203 Stephen, John, 249 Stevens, Alfred, 156, 158–63, 165 Strauss, Émile, 175, 181 Sun King, fashion of, 26–27 Swanson, Gloria, 224 Swinging London, 248–50 T

Taine, Hippolyte, 117, 121 Tarantino, Quentin, 85 Tétart-Vittu, Françoise, 130, 133 Texier, Edmund, 71 Theatre, performing fashion, 140, 142–45, 147 Tilberis, Liz, 264 Tissot, James, 87, 134, 137 Titian (Tiziano Vecellio), 24 Toubin, Charles, 83 Toudouze, Anaïs Colin, 97, 100, 102, 142, 158, 160, 161, 191 Toudouze, Edouard, 97, 98 Toudouze, Gabriel, 96 Toudouze, Georges Gustave, 96, 97 Toulmouche, Auguste, 111, 113 Town and Country Magazine (periodical), 33 Tramar, Countess, 168

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Index Treacy, Philip, 260 Tuffin, Sally, 248 Twentieth-century fashion, la femme moderne, 217–18 U

Ungaro, Emanuel, 253, 255 Utility Clothes, 236 Uzanne, Louis Octave, 9, 11, 74–75, 115, 145, 147, 154, 157, 163 V

Valentino, Rudolph, 224 van der Weyden, Roger, 22 Van Noten, Dries, 260 Veillon, Dominique, 230 Véron, Pierre, 140 Vésuvienne, 60, 61 Victor & Rolf, 268 Victory Suit, 236 Vigée-Lebrun, Elizabeth, 39–40, 41

Vionnet, Madeleine, 12, 187, 194–95, 208, 215–16, 219–20, 270 Vogue (periodical), 210, 216, 226, 235, 246 Vreeland, Diana, 256 Vuitton, Louis, 259. See also Louis Vuitton Moet Hennessey (LVMH)

House of Worth, 75, 123, 130, 172, 174, 196, 201, 212 portrait of, 120 woman’s dress by, 116 Worth, Jean Philippe, 142 Worth, Roger, 237 Wright, Joseph, of Derby, 35

W

Y

War, fashion and, 209–13, 218 Wertheimer, Paul, 232 Wertheimer, Pierre, 232 Winterhalter, Franz Xaver, 119, 159 Women fashion designers, 219–20, 222, 224 grisette, 6, 63, 71, 73–74, 144 working, 71, 73–75 Wornoff, Denis, 52 Worth, Charles Frederick, 7, 117, 268 father of haute couture, 118–25

Yamamoto, Yohji, 260 Yves Saint Laurent. See Saint Laurent, Yves Z

Zazous, 235 Zhang Han, 23 Zola, Emile, 108, 122, 132, 135, 137, 148

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