The Making of the Dress

The Making of the ‘Dress’ in The Dress (words by Harry Quinert)

The process of creating a costume to fit a performance is a process involving multiple layers and stages, not unlike the process of painting a portrait. From the first rough outlines to the last hairline stroke, every aspect of the ensemble must be thoughtful and deliberate, so as to evoke not merely the image of a character, but their personality. Their moods, status, personal affectations and so on. It takes a lot of scrutiny and purposeful adjustments to make the full effect, paradoxically, as natural as possible. Consider, then, the daunting task of starting the storytelling process from the end and working backwards; of creating a performance to fit the costume.

From the outset of this project, the team and I were adamant that the pieces created for “The Dress” should be thoroughly researched in order to make the final reveal less of a costume, and more a working replica of extant garments of the period.

First, the concept.

When looking at the fashion world at the turn of the 19th century, it is important to note that many institutions we associate with the industry were non-existent. Fashion shows, catwalks, glossy magazines, films and most forms of visual media that usually disseminate modes to the masses were limited instead to illustrated pamphlets, and whatever one’s nearest dressmaker might have to offer from a recent trip abroad.
In terms of “international fashion designers”, there was really only one:
Charles Frederick Worth, the father of modern couture.

The ball gowns of Worth were wild, opulent and outrageous; festooned with ostrich feathers, precious stones, and sporting an incredible variety of silhouettes that spanned the Victorian era. This style of conspicuous decadence was an obvious jumping-off point for our own design. In addition, the paintings of Boldini and John Singer-Sargent, with their heroic, white-powdered heiresses surrounded in billowing swathes of taffeta, provided an expressive counterbalance to the weighty opulence of 1890’s couture.

The fact that the gown was to be worn for a masquerade ball, additionally, meant that the metaphorical gloves were off (yet, for proper evening-wear in the 1890’s, literal gloves would most certainly be on). Although we still adhered as strictly as possible to the construction methods and social mores of the period, the context of a-costume-within-a-costume gave us ample room for exploration.

Next, the gritty part.

As Christian Dior once said, “Without foundations, there can be no fashion.”
This was incredibly true of the Victorian period, with its implications of heavy swagging skirts and sculpted bodices. None of it is possible, of course, without a corset.
The process of custom-making a corset began with locating the correct materials.The base was made of an extremely stiff yet flexible gummed canvas known as Coutil, moulded to the actress’ body, covered with silk and adjusted to give the desired shape. Contrary to popular belief, the main aim of the corset is not to compress the body, but to provide support for the wearer and a stable foundation for the garments worn over it. The waspish waist we associate with the period is less to do with excruciatingly tight lacing, and more to do with clever trickery of proportion.
To wit, the tornure; a bizarre contraption of silk and steel that closely resembles a lobster tail, which lifts and displays the skirts of the gown, creating the iconic bustle silhouette of the 1880’s/1890’s, as well as visually narrowing the waist.

These two pieces, in conjunction with various articles of linen and hosiery, constitute the base upon which our gown will be created.

In selecting the fabrics, I opted for a custom often observed by dressmakers of the time, which was to use two contrasting fabrics in the design. One being fairly accessible and plain, the other being heavily decorated and rare.
After months of searching, I procured a dozen or so meters of a fine silk dupioni in a magnificently complex shade of porcelain blue, and to contrast, a single precious length of highly expensive silk brocade, imported from Spain, with a faux-silver pattern. The pattern jumped out at me immediately because of the way the silver leaves seem to both fall gently and reach upward, their true direction unclear. I felt this was the perfect visual metaphor for the character’s personal struggle with her grief and identity after losing her husband.

In order to correctly construct the garment, I researched extant garments from the period and discovered first-hand just how much the methodology of haute couture has evolved. In my daily life, I work as a dressmaker and junior couturier at a leading bridal atelier in High St, Armadale. The gowns we create for modern clients often feature elements of corsetry and silhouette manipulation, but with a softer overall effect, and all built into the lining of a single garment. For 19th Century dressmaking, the process is almost entirely inside-out. The full outfit features no lining, hundreds of yards of hand stitching and no fewer than 12 separate pieces, all individually fitted and hand-finished.

Where possible, I have deferred to any possible resource on period techniques and materials, including a fine woven horsehair interlining inside the skirt, which helps the brocade sit perfectly without wrinkles, but did indeed make my studio smell like Flemington for a while. I have also sourced a number of period-accurate accessories, including a knitted shawl, custom-woven in Europe from an authentic late-Victorian pattern, and 2 pairs of exceptionally beautiful (and eye-wateringly expensive) recreated 19th Century boots. The latter pair coincidentally featured a blue suede panel that matched perfectly the shade of silk already used in our dress and is proof that money can indeed buy some degree of happiness.

Throughout this process, my eternal insistence on accuracy has no doubt been a particular challenge for the actors, from my drawn-out lessons on the correct sequence of layering petticoats to my unyielding ban on Velcro and bobby pins. However, for all the challenges this project has posed, I believe it has given me a true insight and appreciation for the craftsmanship in a world of couture that came before me. And hopefully, the result is not merely a costume, but an accurate representation of a piece of history, which can be shared and treasured.