You Can Leave Your Hat On

The Vintage Hat Series: Victorian miniature velvet top hat, sequin trimmed

The top hat, also known as a beaver hat, high hat, silk hat, cylinder hat, chimney pot hat or stove pipe hat, and sometimes simply as a ‘topper’, is predominantly a man’s hat. It first appeared atop men’s heads around the end of the eighteenth century and continued to be worn until the middle of the twentieth. Today it is worn chiefly by magicians, bridegrooms, and doormen.

But way back in the nineteenth century, in Victorian times, a London milliner pooh-poohed this blatant sexism and created this saucy little miniature topper. Decorated with sequin trim, it’s patently an evening hat and is best worn on a rakish tilt. It must have been rather racy back then, perhaps something only an actress or demimondaine might have worn.

A Victorian illustration of hat-tippingWhile tipped hats look becoming on a woman, back then ladies generally didn’t tip their hats to passers-by. This gesture of respect belonged almost exclusively to the male domain, and was a non-verbal greeting between friends or acquaintances, made during encounters on the sidewalk, or at social functions, or as a respectful acknowledgement when meeting a lady. One possible explanation of why women did not tip their hats could be that their hats, being far more elaborate, were often anchored firmly to their hairdos with hatpins.

The style of hat-tip could also indicate differences in social class: the subordinate was obliged to make a more elaborate gesture, such as entirely removing his hat while the superior merely touched his – assuming an appropriate lordly and lofty manner.

The origins of hat tipping are thought to be the same as the military salute and hark back to medieval times when knights wore visors. They would raise them to show friendliness. (Unfriendly ones raised their lances.)

Today’s version of the hat tip is the nod, and is restricted only to those who have a head on top. 

Read more about men’s hat etiquette here. 

Fashion Notes

I purchased this Victorian hat online from the UK. I haven’t been able to find any references to indicate how common this kind of hat was in that era. However, women then certainly wore full-size top hats either when horseback riding, in vaudeville, or as a fashion statement. 

Marlene Dietrich wears a top hat in the film Morocco, 1930

Voyeur/Viewer

Bergdorf Goodman, Fifth Avenue windows, ph Alfred Eisenstaedt 1942There is something about views through windows that fascinate me. Looking out, and looking in. Once I saw an exhibition by an artist who had painted views from the windows of all the hotels she’d stayed in around the world. How wonderful, I thought. Perhaps looking into someone’s window is voyeuristic, like peeping into their soul, but looking out … that is like looking out onto the soul of the world as it passes before you.

I also love black and white street photography of the early twentieth century. It is rather different from our own blogosphere that is flooded with images from around the world of people preening like peacocks in their fine and borrowed designer feathers. The people in these decades-old photographs aren’t posing, they are often quite ordinary and the picture rather reveals the photographer’s eye – the photographer’s soul.

Bergdorf Goodman, Fifth Avenue windows, ph Alfred Eisenstaedt 1942Shop windows are a completely different kettle of fish however: these are designed to be looked into. One can peer through the glass quite legitimately. Even more fascinating is this glimpse onto 1940s 5th Avenue past the mannequins’ legs and through the shop windows. Now the position is reversed: the ladies looking in are in turn being looked upon. It’s quite poetic.

The fashions of the 1920s and 1940s neatly date these images, yet they are alternately serene, timeless in their stillness and full of life with all the bustle of the street outside. They whisk me away to another world.

Saks, Fifth Avenue windows, ph Alfred Eisenstaedt 1942Midtown, Fifth Avenue windows, ph Alfred Eisenstaedt 1942Lingerie in a Parisian window, 1920s1920s winter coatsMarshall Fields window, 1920s‘Travel Smartly in Tweed’ window display for Franklin Simon, 1929

Music in My Ears

Well, well. So here is another abject lesson in following you heart when you fall in love … most especially important when you are shopping in a market on the other side of the world!

I fell for a pair of giant silver hoops suspended with little bells from a shop deep in the heart of the souq in the Djemaa el Fna in Marrakesh. They were very expensive, and informed that I would most likely find similar earrings in Essaouira for less, I held off purchasing them. What a mistake that was. There were none to be found there, and I passionately wished I had bought the earrings in Marrakesh.

Back home, yielding to the pangs of long-lost love, I became crafty. I tracked down some giant sterling silver hoops from a seller in Queensland, and then I found lots and lots of little sterling silver bells from other eBay sellers. By the time I added up the total, you betcha – they cost just a little less than the original pair in Marrakesh. Ka-ching-a-ring!

I don’t know what it is about bells that I like so much – I have another necklace that jingles with every step, and a vintage skirt that tinkles rather elusively (I caused much mystery in the office today when I wore it – it took time for people to track down the source of faint music). I’m reminded of that old nursery rhyme Ride a Cock-Horse to Banbury Cross, only I’ve written a new version for the occasion:

With hoops hanging with bells on her ears
She shall have music whatever she hears …

Head Over Heels

Fashion is a wonderful thing. Not everyone works in a creative field in everyday life, but personal adornment is a form of self-expression that anyone may indulge in and take flight in realms of fancy. There is certainly a place for basic or merely functional clothing, but those plain white tees and straight grey business suits don’t usually make your heart go pitter-pat (unless they’re designed by Roland Mouret).

Sometimes when shopping you might spy some item and instantly fall in love. (You know you’re in love because suddenly you realise life would hold no meaning unless said dress/shoe/bag was in it.) Usually such garments are utterly frivolous and unnecessary because you already own three – but this latest discovery happens to be just exactly the thing you’ve always been looking for but didn’t know it.

At this juncture you might pause for a moment of prudent reflection. Ignore this impulse. This is no reason to pull back. It is always better to give in immediately rather than regret it forever.

Last Christmas my entire department went as an Alice in Wonderland collective for the office costume party – I dressed up as the Queen of Hearts. I knew straight away what I would wear: five things I had purchased after following my heart. Here are their stories …

The Skirt

This dusky pink pinstriped silk skirt is an original piece from the 1920s. It has black velvet hearts and trim around the hems of the two tiers, and it is also sewn with bells all around. It’s the latter that make me suspect the skirt was a costume for a theatre group. Some of them are missing, which is probably a good thing as I’d jingle even more as I moved about in it.

I love the sense of history that comes along with the rust spots in the cream cotton underskirt …

As soon as I stumbled upon this skirt on Etsy I fell in love. It is not in perfect condition, but I couldn’t care in the slightest – I love the sense of history that comes along with the rust spots in the cream cotton underskirt. For the party, I borrowed a vintage petticoat from the theatre’s costume department (see previous story) to fluff out the full skirts on the day. The belled shape is lovely and story-bookish, but the skirt still looks beautiful without the added fullness.

The Coat

Probably the most expensive – and oldest – item of clothing I have ever purchased, this museum-worthy silk velvet striped coat is from the 1850s. Its many delightful points include the chenille fringing, the divine, tasselled hood (that is sadly just a bit too short for my head), frog closures at the front, and sleeve cuffs that are cut at an angle, with a slit at the back (to fit over a fur muff?). There is even a pocket on the inside that fits my iPhone exactly.

This coat was so gorgeous it made me swoon. How could it not? I positively adore coats; it was striped, red and white no less, and it was velvet. With a hood. And chenille fringing. And all the rest. I guarded it zealously in my Etsy wishlist for well over a year. Fortunately it was so expensive I knew it wouldn’t sell any time soon, but one day – to my horror – it disappeared from sale. I knew then that I ought to have taken the plunge and purchased it. A day or two later it returned, and I immediately emailed the seller. According to the measurements and the seller’s estimate in modern sizes, I felt fairly certain it would fit me. We discussed insurance and postage, and at last I made it Mine. All mine.

This coat was so gorgeous it made me swoon. How could it not?

I ought really to store it in a proper archival box with acid-free tissue, but I content myself with a heavy canvas garment bag and storing it flat – heaven forfend I should suspend such a precious vintage piece from a hanger! A costume historian would slap me.

I have worn it just a few times in the year it has been my pleasure to gloat over it. It just fits me, although my neck is patently too long for the hood to sit comfortably on my head, and I certainly wouldn’t want to have shoulders any wider. Its original owner must have been much smaller than me, and at 166cm tall (not quite 5’7”) I am no giant.

It is actually a skating coat, and I would love to know what some young lady wore with it so long ago. I have done some research online and haven’t seen anything like it at all anywhere, although I have gleaned that women usually wore matching coats and skirts. I find it hard to imagine that anyone would really pair such a bold coat with a similarly-striped skirt – perhaps it was merely a plain red skirt, with little red kid skating boots.

The Shell

You’ve all heard that old saying, ‘You snooze, you lose’. Well, once upon a time I spotted a red sequinned 60s shell top on Etsy. It was beaded with a fish scale pattern. It sparkled and it shone. It beckoned me and promised me many delights. The owner wanted $20 for it. I am not sure why I hesitated. A day or two later, my little top was snaffled from beneath my nose. I wiped away a tear or two.

A very long time later along came another shiny red 60s shell top. This one had a harlequin pattern and sported little sequin tassels all around the hem. The owner wanted $40 for it. I clicked ‘add to cart’ immediately.

Vintage beaded wool shell tops like this were extremely common in the 60s, and many of them were imported from Hong Kong. They are now extremely expensive to purchase in Australia (unless one is lucky enough to strike gold in some country charity shop perhaps). A top like this in a vintage boutique here would go for anywhere between $90 and $300 – I’ve seen them in a wide range of prices.

The Tiara

When I picked up this vintage tiara in the Salvos I saw it needed a little TLC, but in spite of this I was immediately charmed. Although I already owned one rhinestone tiara, a 50s or 60s number, I could see this one was very different, and guessed that it was older, perhaps 1940s. Even so, I wasn’t sure whether to purchase it, but some quick research on Etsy discovered that vintage tiaras of this ilk are few and far between – and three or four times the price, even in America. I’d already learned a lesson or two about passing up serendipitous discoveries so I added it to my basket (this one was real, a plastic one from the store was hanging on my arm).

The Shoes

At a cost-per-wear ratio, these Mary-Janes that I bought two Christmases ago from Australian shoe store Wittner must be really cheap by now, I have worn them so many times. I couldn’t go past these either when I saw them in the store: they were red and glittery and even better than Dorothy’s ruby slippers (except they don’t take me home with a click of the heels unfortunately, so maybe they’re not quite as good after all).

… they don’t take me home with a click of the heels unfortunately …

The lovely thing is that infallibly, every time I wear them several people exclaim in delight upon the sight of them. I do love to give fashion pleasure to those around me. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Sometimes Fashion truly takes us to Wonderland. Don’t deny yourself the pleasure.

Underpinnings

Petticoats

Historically, petticoats were a woman’s undercoat worn to be displayed beneath an open gown; or a tight, usually padded undercoat worn by men over a shirt and under a doublet (jacket). The origin of the word is the late Middle English period: ‘petty coat’, literally meaning small coat. Later, worn under outer garments, the function of the petticoat was to give warmth, or to create a fashionable shape by adding volume beneath a skirt or dress – rather than from notions of modesty.

The petticoat has gone in and out of mainstream fashion since the sixteenth century to Christian Dior’s New Look in the mid 1940s and 50s, and to the present day with subcultures such as gothic, steampunk and Lolita.

Arguably today the most popular notion of a petticoat must be the full, ruffled shape associated with Victorian times, or the tulle crinolines of 1950s prom queens. More often than not, these were white. In previous centuries though, petticoats were worn to be seen, either deliberately revealed by openings or draping of the overskirts, or by accident with the force of a high wind lifting a hooped or crinoline skirt. Petticoats were therefore highly decorative, made from beautiful fabrics in glorious colours and trimmed with ribbons and lace. They were gorgeous enough to be worn as skirts in themselves.

Petticoat, probably French, 1870s; click image for more information and alternate viewsCotton and linen petticoat, American, 1883; click image for more information and alternate viewsSilk embroidered French petticoat, 1895-98; click image for more informationSissi, Empress Elisabeth of Bavaria, wears a gown fully supported by petticoats in 1859Fashion that bustles, from The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine, November 1869Susan Lawrence (from Ipswich) wearing a dark coloured dress, with many folds of fabric pulled up over a large bustle at the rear, c 1887

Bustles

By contrast, the bustle was a rather unattractive foundation garment with little or no grace, in fashion predominantly in the mid-to-late nineteenth century. Worn at the back, just under the waist, the primary function of the bustle was to preserve the shape of full, draped skirts and keep them from dragging. The heavy skirts of the day tended to flatten from sheer weight during everyday wear, even merely sitting or moving about.

Different styles of bustles came and went over the decades, initially evolving from a crinoline in the mid 1860s when the shape was worn quite low and often fanning out to form a train. It was then lifted to form a pronounced hump shape immediately below the waist, with the skirts falling sharply to the floor, very much changing the silhouette. It grew to monstrous proportions in the mid 1880s but was out of fashion by the end of the decade.

British bustle made from cotton and metal, c 1871; click image for more information Linen and metal bustle, American, c 1885; click image for more information

The attractive ‘S-shape’ figure of the day that accentuated a tiny waist meant that a curve at the back of the skirt balanced the curve of the bust (exaggerated by corsets in their turn), and gentler versions of the bustle were worn into the early twentieth century.

Today bustles are rarely seen except in the realm of sensationalist haute couture, bridal fashion and the aforementioned subcultures – petticoats, with their more uniform silhouette are easier on the eye and more forgiving to wear.

Fashion Notes

My vintage petticoat was borrowed from the Melbourne Theatre Company’s costume department to give fullness to my own 1920s skirt, which made part of my Queen of Hearts costume for the theatre’s Christmas party last year. The full skirt is gathered at the waist, with rope sewn into the hem to create shape and give weight. There is also what I have dubbed a ‘mini bustle’ at the back.

When I first donned it, the petticoat felt quite heavy, but I became accustomed to it surprisingly quickly and managed to spend quite a bit of time on the dance floor without feeling the weight at all – it created a pleasing swing in fact. The camisole, possibly 80s or 90s, is my own, and was bought in a charity store years ago. 

Gallery

(Left) wire and cotton American bustle, c1880; (right) cotton and metal bustle, probably American, early 20th centurySilk petticoat, British mid-eighteenth century; click image for more information and alternate views(Left) American silk petticoat from the early 1900s; (right) cotton and silk petticoat, American, 1900-1948

* All images in the above gallery are from The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York