Casual Friday Video: Hamlet Mash-Up

Isabella reporting,

What better way to start off the first holiday weekend of the summer than with an awesome mash-up? Everyone knows at least one line from William Shakespeare's Hamlet - often without knowing they know it - and this video is the proof. In the words of Geoff Klock, the video's creator, it's "198 movies and TV shows quoting Hamlet in less than 15 minutes, because I thought that was funny."  We did, too.

Enjoy your weekend!

Tambour Work Embroidery, 1730-1840

Isabella reporting,

After Loretta's post earlier this week featuring a tambour work petticoat border, I thought I'd elaborate a bit on this once-popular form of embroidery.

Although the origins of tambour embroidery are a bit hazy, it appeared in Europe in the 18th c. and quickly became a popular pastime for ladies. It was considered exotic stitchery, which contributed to its popularity, and many of the finest commercial examples were imported to Britain and France from India and Persia. The rather fanciful portrait of an 18th c. Turkish lady (or more likely a French lady in Turkish dress), left, shows her working tambour embroidery on a large hoop tambour frame.

There is only one stitch to master in tambour embroidery. Instead of a needle, very fine, sharp hook is punched through a tightly stretched fabric to catch a fine thread from beneath and draw it up, creating a linked, chain-like stitch. The name "tambour work" comes from the way the fabric is held taut between two round, fitted hoops, resembling the head of a small drum, or tambour. (Demonstrating tambour work, below left, is our friend Janea Whitacre, mantua-maker from Colonial Williamsburg.)

A pattern was usually marked on the fabric, to be followed by the embroiderer, and designs were commercially available. Because the thread is continuous, a practiced worker could stitch more rapidly than by other traditional embroidery methods. It also required less concentration, which made it perfect for being industrious while socializing with friends. The finished work could be almost lacy – a popular effect when working with white thread on a white fabric – or dense with shades of color. By working rows of chained stitches closely together, it was possible to achieve beautifully shaded colorwork with a great deal of depth and subtlety, such as in this fragment, upper right.

With its single rows of chained stitches, the Hedge House petticoat border was likely the work of an industrious amateur, a lady proudly enhancing her own clothing. Much more elaborate tambour work was produced by professional embroiderers, to be made up into fashionable garments by tailors and mantua-makers. Sometimes this embroidery was done to a specific size, like the front of a gentleman's waistcoat, while other examples show an entire length of cloth covered with embroidery to achieve an overall pattern. The detail of the petticoat, lower right, shows how two such lengths were stitched together.

While tambour work embroidery was wildly popular from the mid 18th c. through the early 19th c., needlework goes in and out of fashion like everything else. In 1834, a French machine was introduced that could reproduce tambour-style embroidery at a rate 140 times faster than a woman working by hand. The commercial embroiderers vanished, and the ladies who were the amateur tambour workers were developing other interests as well. Victorian tastes shifted away from delicate needlework to the less demanding Berlin work in wool on canvas, and by the 1840s, tambour work was relegated to something your grandmother had done, and virtually forgotten.

Top left: A Turkish Woman, by Angelica Kauffmann, 1773, The Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts, Moscow.
Top right: Fragment of Tambour Work, India, 1700-1800, silk on cotton. Winterthur Museum.
Lower right: Tambour Petticoat, France, 1700-1750, wool on linen. Winterthur Museum.
Bottom left: Photograph of Tambour Work,  by Susan Holloway Scott.

Doll Houses at the 1809 Hedge House

Loretta reports:

More from the 1809 Hedge House in Plymouth, MA.

Among the 1809 Hedge House's many interesting objects are two doll houses.

A relatively intact doll house helps us get an idea of the way a home was furnished and decorated.  The actual house, on the other hand, having undergone numerous changes over the years, demands quite a bit of historical detective work to restore it to the way it looked during a given era.

I'm not sure there were any descriptive placards for these doll houses.  If there were, we failed to get pictures of them, and so I'm going to have to use my best guess, and invite audience participation.

The one with the dolls seems to be Victorian, given the doll's clothing.  Though the floor and wall coverings are badly damaged, it has several charming pieces, like the dog. It's also retained its tiny cookware and dishes. The one without dolls may be Victorian, too, given the floor coverings and the style of the love seat and sofa. You'll note that the beds do not have box springs, or the sort of mattress familiar to us. Under the mattress are rope supports. If any of you has ever slept on this kind of bed, I think we'd all like to know how comfortable it is or isn't.

It doesn't look like a commode

Loretta reports:

More from the 1809 Hedge House in Plymouth, MA.

I spent a lot of time early in my career trying to get straight the matter of Where They Went.  By the early 1800s, Some houses did boast lavatories, but even in many great homes, chamber pots and furniture like this prevailed.

This one is particularly elegant, and shows well against its dramatic (and historically correct, yes) wallpaper. Our guide very kindly opened it for us.

The bedroom where it's located holds many other beautiful objects, including a pristine shaving stand, a cradle, and the elegant Knapp Bedstead.

The bed hangings are still in the collection, but too fragile for display  I was just as happy without them, because one can clearly see the structure of the bed. The room's darkness helps us understand why the wall paper used such bold, vivid designs.

How to Embroider Your Gown

Loretta reports:

I recently attended a Jane Austen Tea at the 1809 Hedge House,
one of three historic properties the Plymouth Antiquarian Society maintains in Plymouth, MA.  You’ll be hearing about it for most of this week, because Executive Director Donna Curtin and her team very kindly answered questions, and allowed me to take photographs.  But as you know, photos are nothing like the real thing—so if you’re in the Northeast U.S., put this on your field trip list.

Today we’re taking a close-up look at a beautiful piece of embroidery that was once a border for a skirt or petticoat.  Because of the length, we had to photograph it in sections (the photos have been cropped a little, too).  Since tambour work was something the lady of the house or her daughters would do, this might be the work of the dress’s owner, whoever she was.  It was not only a ladylike occupation, but a wonderful form of artistic expression.

Why do we have only the border?  Maybe the dress was damaged in some way, or went out of style, and the border was meant to be used in another article of clothing.  Or maybe the work was done by a loved one, and preserved out of sentiment.  Whatever the reason for our having a fragment, we can get an idea of what the complete dress looked like here at the Met Museum.