Red-Cloak Magic

Shakespeare defined the fashion template for the stereotypical witch when he portrayed his weird sisterhood in Macbeth as 'black, and midnight hags', thereby allowing any New Elizabethan child to advertise her Trick-or-Treat credentials by wearing a cardboard cone and a black plastic bin bag, as she begs from door-to-door in naïve parody of the malevolent beldams invented by seventeenth-century witch hunters. But my favourite witches are those savvy, self-confident matrons in red cloaks, whose witchery was woven into fictional texts by Victorian writers unafraid to rework threads drawn from the witch trials and to interweave them with fairy and gypsy imagery.

For instance, Mary de Morgan's Fairy Taboret is kin to the magical beings whose preference for bright colours, especially red, was noted by nineteenth-century folklorists, but she also bears the traditional witch-marks of a hooked nose, long chin, and the ability to fly and become invisible. In the sparkling fairytale, ‘A Toy Princess’, she rescues her royal godchild from a life of suffocating propriety and replaces her with a submissive, monosyllabic doll, to the delight of the Princess and of her subjects whose wooden mentalities are reflected by the fabric of the puppet. So, cloaked by the colour redolent of danger and of female transgression, a feminist agenda was smuggled into the Victorian nursery.

Thomas Hardy borrowed a fragment from the Biblical Witch of Endor when he fashioned Elizabeth Endorsfield in Under the Greenwood Tree. Those villagers who 'look[ed] no further' than her secluded life-style, pointed chin and red cloak' called her, in plain terms, a witch'. 'The charm' which ensures that Fancy Day's father accepts his daughter's love-choice is basically a brew of emotional blackmail and 'common-sense'. Such enchantment is both simple and powerful, spun from a timeless understanding of human nature. Yet its potency lies in the powerful reputation, 'something between distinction and notoriety' attached to this 'shrewd and penetrating' red-cloaked woman.

Most bizarrely, even the saturnine Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre wraps himself in a red cloak in order to read the character of Jane and to draw her to himself. Masquerading as a gypsy who insists on reading the fortunes of his female guests, he appears to them as 'a genuine witch ... in close alliance' with the Devil, or as an aging 'sibyl'. But red-cloak magic is female magic, so while Jane's clear eye penetrates his disguise, Rochester fails to 'read' Jane or to foretell the future.

The Victorian red-cloaked witch is no midnight hag. She is a mature woman, wise, knowing, free spirited, indomitable, often intimidating and sometimes manipulative, but generally inclined to use her magic for beneficent purposes. As a Victorianist and a W ... um ... a woman interested in the image of the witch, I was thrilled to find, when I tore open the bulky parcel sent by my sister who was then living in China, that it contained the most beautiful red alpaca cloak, as soft and cosy as goose-down. Sylvia Townsend Warner's twentieth-century witch, Lolly Willowes, spoke of the grave-clothes once kept tucked away by respectable countrywomen, and secretly offering the promise that 'once more at any rate' those women would be 'worth dressing with care'. She compares those bleak garments with the witch's secreted robes which also offer psychological comfort, but are 'better worth looking at' because, she implies, they allow a woman to live and to fly, if only in her imagination, whenever she chooses. My red cloak is often put to practical use on chilly evenings when my feet stay (relatively) firmly on the ground but, without even bothering to open the wardrobe door, I can also drape the cloak around my shoulders in virtual form whenever I feel compelled to stir life's cauldron a little, or when my imagination feels the urge to fly a bit nearer to the moon.

I think I should also wear it as defiant and disreputable shroud when the time comes!

Dr Sue Elsley

Wearing the world on your back

Kanga is Kiswahili for guinea fowl. It is also a rectangle of cloth worn in East and Southern Africa. The Masai wear kangas as do women and a few men in towns, cities and villages from Nairobi to Dar es Salaam wherever Kiswahili is spoken.  Kanga cloth is printed with text and images that tell you of the political, social, emotional affiliations of the wearer.

Originally a kanga would be fashioned in black or red cloth punctuated with a design of off white or black contrasts. The predominant pattern was a collection of light spots on a dark ground reminiscent of the feathered back of a guinea fowl. In the first display case to the left as you enter room 91 of the British Museum, Kangas from Kenya bear the image of Barack Obama – Kenya’s most famous son, and another of Michael Jackson. Others reveal affiliations to national parties or local politicians.

The kanga has always been made from cotton with the images and inscriptions rendered by hand block printing. The production of Africa’s biggest local textile industry has been outsourced for decades now to India, the most famous designers originating from Gujarat.

In the final display case, an immaculate blue dress, perfect and timeless in its pristine cotton print clothes a wooden model. The full pleated skirt reveals a horizontal pattern repeat bearing the portrait of Albertina Sisulu, MaSisulu, wife of ANC leader Walter. The dress with its blue bodice, white starched collar, three quarter length French sleeves, pleated dirndl skirt, stands tall over the exhibition as a statue in homage to the extraordinary woman who face encircles the wearer. The exhibition is a testament to how culture, politics, admiration and inspiration are woven into the fabric we wear against our skin. 

The exhibition is accompanied by a BM publication written by art historian and Museum curator Chris Spring, author of a number of important texts on contemporary African visual arts, who led the research project underpinning this exhibition.

The author visited ‘African Textiles Today: social fabric of the east and south’ : a temporary exhibition of the Kanga running from Valentine’s day to 21 April 2013 in room 91 of the British Museum in central London, on Sunday 24 March 2013. 

Prof Claire H Griffiths, University of Chester

Elizabeth Parker’s Sampler: Trauma and Sewing

One of the most intriguing objects in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, is a sampler sewn in 1830 by a young woman, employed as a servant, Elizabeth Parker. The sampler recounts the abuse she suffered, the ‘cruel usage’ of the master of the house, and her subsequent suicide attempt. Her sampler opens with the odd statement: ‘As I cannot write I put this down simply and freely as I might speak to a person’, yet the stitched ‘story’ suggests that Elizabeth Parker could write. It is possible, however, that the kind employer who encouraged her to sew her story wrote this down and Elizabeth copied the shapes of the letters as she sewed. Possibly, Elizabeth’s new mistress knew that her servant needed to express the terrible ordeal she had experienced and record it in a permanent form. This, of course, is conjecture. However, Elizabeth’s moving account indicates the vulnerability of young working-class women employed in households far from their families, as well as the power of needlework as a form of women’s writing.

Elizabeth Parker’s Sampler, V & A Museum Textile Collection

[For an interesting academic analysis of the samples see Nigel Llewellyn, ‘Elizabeth Parker’s “Sampler”: Memory, Suicide and the Presence of the Artist’ in Material Memories (eds) M. Kwint, C. Breward and J. Aynsley (Oxford: Berg, 1999)]

The tiny stitched words read as follows:

As I cannot write I put this down simply and freely as I might speak to a person whose intimacy and tenderness I can fully intrust myself and I know will bear with all my weaknesses – I was born at Ashburnham in the country of Sussex in the year 1813 of poor but pious parents my fathers occupation was a labourer for the Rt Hon the Earl of A My mother kept the Rt Hon – the Countess of A Charity School and by their ample conduct and great industry were enabeled [sic] to render a comfortable living for their family which were eleven in number ... I went to Fairlight housemaid to Lieu. G but there cruel usage soon made me curse my Disobedience to my parents wishing I had taken there [sic] advice and never left the worthy family of P. but then alas to [sic] late they treated me with cruelty to [sic] horrible to mention for trying to avoid the wicked design of my master I was thrown down stairs but I very soon left them and came to my friends but being young and foolish I never told my friends what had happened to me …

After narrating her attempt to commit suicide, Elizabeth Parker ‘writes’:

Oh how can I expect mercy who went on in sin until Dr W reminded me of my wickedness For with shame I own I returned to thee O God because I had nowhere else to go How can such repentance as mine be sincere what will become of my soul ……

The stitching ends here.

Prof Deborah Wynne, University of Chester

Textile Gifts

After always admiring the many knitted outfits made by my Romanian student Floarea, she insisted on treating me to this knitted top, similar to the one she proudly wore to college during the week leading up to the half- term break.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Floarea, though young in age, has embraced old-fashioned values – she appears to share the mentality and personality of the traditional ‘Victorian’ housewife, who prides herself on cooking, cleaning, looking after the family and of course, spending copious time KNITTING for her friends and family.

Although I come from a West Indian background where it was cost effective for friends and family to knit and make their own dresses, I somehow never really developed a passion for knitting. Several years ago a friend of mine gave me a few knitting lessons and I must confess that at first I was excited at being able to use both hands simultaneously. Later, I attempted to knit the odd scarf but realised how soon my patience would wane; besides, in my mind I always thought that the end product would probably never look as good as the ones advertised in shops. So I gave up! Yes, I gave up on knitting but not on admiring the intricate details of a knitted garment.

Here is my hand-made top and as you can see, this beautiful, bright red top can be worn on its own or as a ‘throw on’ over another top. It is warm to the touch and I know the love that went into making it. I know Floarea had spent the half term shopping for the right colour and using her time to knit me this blouse when really she should have been working on assignments.

When Floarea presented the top to me, I gasped! I couldn’t contain my delight and the thrill of having my first knitted top added to my wardrobe. There is something very special about having a gift that is ‘home-grown’; that personal touch weaved into the top means a lot to me and it is with deep appreciation that I cherish it and now it hangs freely in my wardrobe, awaiting springtime when it will blend in with all the budding colourful flowers.

Looking back, I realise how a knitted top managed to open a wonderful window for me to get to know Floarea better both as a student and to some extent on a more personal level. I’m always interested in the culture of other countries and now I know a touch more about Romania; suffice to say, I was smiling like a Cheshire cat when I shared my account on meeting with the Romanian essayist and novelist Norman Manea, whose book, The Black Envelope, is a brilliant read! 

Well, thanks to knitting, other students have expressed interest and moreover, I’m hoping that Floarea will set aside her somewhat modest nature and perhaps one day, showcase her finery online!

 

Elizabeth Negus, Head of English at Barking and Dagenham College, London

Jane Austen, Needlework and Dress

Many women writers of the past were skilled needlewomen. Jane Austen was no exception and she records her needlework activities, including making her own clothes. Edward Austen-Leigh wrote in 1870 that, ‘[H]er needlework both plain and ornamental was excellent […]. She was considered especially great in satin stitch. She spent much time in these occupations, and some of her merriest talk was over clothes which she and her companions were making, sometimes for themselves, and sometimes for the poor’ (Memoir of Jane Austen, p. 98). There is a patchwork quilt made by Jane Austen at Chawton House Museum, along with some items of her clothing, including a white pelisse. Austen’s love of clothes is evident in her letters to her sister, Cassandra. This is a good example of her enthusiasm:
 

Jane Austen’s Cloak

‘My Cloak is come home, & here follows the pattern of its lace. – If you do not think it wide enough, I can give 3d a yard more for yours, & not go beyond the two Guineas, for my Cloak altogether does not cost quite two pounds. – I like it very much, & can now exclaim with delight, like J. Bond at Hay-Harvest, “This is what I’ve been looking for these three years”. I saw some Gauzes in a shop in Bath Street yesterday at only 4d a yard, but they were not so good or so pretty as mine.’  (2^nd June 1799: in Selected Letters (ed.) V. Jones (OUP, 2009), pp.31-32)

Jane Austen’s illustration in the letter of the pattern of the lace on her cloak.

Yet Austen could be wary about expressing an interest in clothes in her novels, knowing that society viewed fashion as trivial and a sign of vanity, as this quotation from Northanger Abbey suggests:

‘Dress is at all times a frivolous distinction, and excessive solicitude about it often destroys its own aim. Catherine knew all this very well; her great aunt had read her a lecture on the subject only the Christmas before; and yet she lay awake ten minutes on Wednesday night debating between her spotted and her tamboured muslin, and nothing but the shortness of the time prevented her buying a new one for the evening.’ (Northanger Abbey)

 

 

 

Pride and Prejudice (1813)

The Drama of Costume

Jane Austen’s novels have been the source of numerous ‘costume dramas’, film and television adaptations which showcase the ‘otherness’ of the past by means of the characters’ dress. The pleasure in costume which fans of Austen adaptations experience is celebrated in the 1995 BBC series, Pride and Prejudice, where the opening credits focus on beautiful and sensuous fabrics, while a needle is shown busily at work:
 

 

This adaptation was renowned for a moment of undressing which gripped the media’s attention for some time, when Mr Darcy (played by Colin Firth), plunged into a lake wearing only a shirt and drawers.

 

 

This, of course, was not a scene depicted by Austen, who rarely describes clothing in Pride and Prejudice, let alone the discarding of clothes. However, we often read a screen adaptation through its presentation of costume, and in the 1990s viewers may have wanted to see Mr Darcy as having qualities of the ‘new man’. The 1940 MGM film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice with Laurence Olivier as Mr Darcy, says more about mid-twentieth-century depictions of ‘the gentleman’, than about Regency styles of masculinity:

 

It is interesting to ponder why Austen spends so much time describing sewing, clothing and fashion in her letters, and so little time discussing these topics in most of her novels. This is rather different from the women writers of the Victorian period, Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot and Elizabeth Gaskell in particular. As I research my book, Literary Fabrics: Texts, Textiles and Costume Dramas, I will be giving this distinction some thought.

Prof Deborah Wynne, University of Chester

The ‘Grandma Blanket’

 

 

This hand-made blanket is one of my most treasured possessions, despite its various holes and wonky sections.

My grandmother (whom we called ‘Manma’) taught me to knit when I was very young – apparently I was pretty keen on knitting when I was little, but as she lived several hours’ flight away, I fell out of practice and forgot entirely how to knit. When I was in my twenties and wanted to learn again, I had to start from scratch. My best friend and housemate Maree had been teaching me how, and I ‘d stumbled my way through a scarf or two, when the news came that Manma was dying.

I flew up to Queensland to nurse her during her final weeks. After the first few days, I decided that the many hours of sitting by her bedside might be a good chance to practice my rediscovered knitting, so the next morning my great aunt Audrey (Manma’s sister, with whom I was staying) drove me to a craft store on the way to the nursing home, and I bought some wool, intending to make a scarf.

As soon as we arrived at the nursing home that morning, it became very clear that Manma had taken a dramatic turn for the worst – her breathing was laboured, she was in and out of consciousness, and she died within several hours.

As I sat by the body that afternoon, I again felt the urge to knit – partly to pass the time, and partly as a way of honouring the woman who had originally taught me how. I couldn’t remember how to ‘cast on’, so I had to phone my friend Maree, who patiently talked me through the process as I sobbed and fumbled.

Over the next few days, in between making funeral arrangements, notifying the family, etc., I found the knitting to be really soothing, and my great aunt Audrey was able to advise me when I got muddled or dropped a stitch.

As soon as Manma had died, I’d decided that rather than a scarf I would make a blanket as a special memento. It was to be made up of small squares of various colours. This project went on for the next year or so. Many evenings, if Maree and I were at home, we’d knit squares as we chatted or watched TV. The little piles of knitted squares became a fixture on our coffee-table.  I posted some of the wool back up to Queensland, and my beloved great aunt Audrey knitted a few squares (despite her arthritic hands) and posted them back down. My sister Clara also knitted several squares.

When we finally had enough squares, Maree’s grandmother Nell kindly offered to help with sewing the square together.  When I moved to England in 2007, I brought with me a big bag full of the knitted squares, many of them paired up by Nell. Over the next while, I completed the blanket, laying out the squares on the floor of my Chester flat and finally sewing together all the various pieces. The blanket is my favourite thing to cuddle up in on a cold English night, particularly when I’m missing my family in Australia.

A year or two after that, Maree had moved to England to study for a year, when her grandmother Nell died suddenly. I lent Maree the blanket (which we’d come to call ‘the grandma blanket’) and she kept it with her for the rest of her time in England. Maree was on the other side of the world from her family, and couldn’t attend Nell’s funeral, but she found the blanket was a comforting reminder of her grandmother’s kindness.

Every time I snuggle into the blanket, I think fondly of those who contributed to it, and of what it signifies: the passing on of love, skills and generosity between generations, and the astounding network of support that has been provided by the women in my life.

Reading Sarah’s entry on this blog reminds me that that these textile stories seem very often to be about the network of friendships, family and support between women. Indeed, when Sarah was staying with me recently and had forgotten the piece of knitting that she likes to carry with her as a comforting habit, I found a square from the blanket (not all of them had fitted into the final shape) and gave it to her. It felt right that Sarah, who has become a wonderful friend during my time in England, should be drawn in to this network of friends and family.

Dr Francesca Haig, University of Chester

Bachelor

He stands by his bed that he’s covered with washed socks

And couples them, folding black with black, black with black,

Coupling and folding, coupling and folding, coupling and folding,

Until he can throw them, one by one, into the drawer.

He does this every three weeks, or every sixteen days if it’s winter.

He usually does this with a smile, but sometimes he doesn’t.

Ashley Chantler, In Praise of Paving (The Alternative Press, 2003)