Failures in Hat Making

Failure is the best way to learn. The only hope is that when you do fail, you can salvage it into something that will be useful. This was a decent failure in my book, but I think that the lessons learned will make a load of difference the next time that I venture into hat making.

I wanted a fantail hat for less formal occasions that provides more shade than a cocked hat. The design is fairly simple in theory: cock up the back of a round hat and call it a day. There are so many 18th century re-enactors who wear hat blanks as their headgear so this should be a walk in the park. If only it was that easy.  I am not a conscientious objector. If I know that something is wrong, I can't ignore it and say close enough, which is why I couldn't cock the back of hat blank and call it a day.

Many sutlers sell wool hat blanks of a decent quality wool and manufacture that are a good starting point for making a hat. The big problem though is that the blanks are oval blocked as opposed the round blocked, which was exclusive to the 18th century. What does that mean to a non-hat affectionato? The crown on an 18th century hat is a circle as opposed to an oval. The hat won't fit your head as well because your head is not perfectly round, but the crown being the wrong shape is very visible when you can see most of the brim.

My first task was to shape the crown to make it round. If you've ever looked at hat blocks, wooden versions are mad expensive, do not come in a perfectly round pattern, and most will not produce a hat that will fit my giant, 24 1/4" head. To get the round shape, I cut a circle out of a scrap piece of 2x12 that I had laying around. I figured that I would need to make the base of the crown perfectly round using the wood piece, but I could adjust the top part of the crown by hand to make it round throughout. That plan worked for the most part.

I steamed the crown of the hat blank with a kettle to make the wool pliable and then put it over the round block. The band immediately became round, and the crown became misshapen. No problem though, it was to be expected. I put the hat blank on my plywood stand, creased the edges on the band with an iron, and weighed down the brim with some heavy books. Then, I left the hat on the wood piece for a few hours to dry and spot shaped the top of the crown later with a spray bottle and iron. Once I was happy, cut the brim to shape and admired my handiwork. 

The next day, I stiffened the brim using the period application of 2 parts clear shellac to 1 part denatured alcohol. I let that dry and then my hat was ready to be styled... except it didn't fit on my head. Because I was a dummy and didn't let the wool completely dry on the wooden disc, the entire crown shrunk as it dried. It shrunk over 1.5" total making the hat completely unwearable to me. 

I had to resteam the crown to stretch the brim back out. After letting it dry for a few hours, I again spot shaped the crown, and immediately put the hat back on the wood disc so that it would not shrink again. It did not. Unfortunately, because of the multiple steamings, shrinkings, and shellacings, my hat looks a little more worn than it's brand new condition. The crown is lumpy, the brim is warped in places, but it looks like a used hat, so I guess that's a plus. 

Like I said, I failed pretty hard shaping this hat, but I learned a lot. For next time, I'm going to just start with a piece of unshaped felt to make my hat. I found a place that sells round blocks for less than $30 that are made from automotive plastic that will fit my head and stand up to the steam treatment. I will also staple down the raw edges of the hat during the drying process to make sure that everything is even and does not warp. I will also do the hardening process while the hat is stapled down and before cutting. Hopefully it all works, and I will be on my way to hat independence. 

Fireplace Restoration

We'll take a break from sewing for a bit. I've been working to restore my parlor since last September and am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. One of the biggest undertakings was the restoration of the fireplace. Originally, the fireplace was covered with a mantel that went half way up the wall that was adjusted with some cheap plywood to make an arched opening. Behind the arch was yet more plywood that covered the brickwork of the original fireplace.

I wanted to make the fireplace consistent with the decor of the rural federal style, which involved floor to ceiling wood work. My first step was to remove the existing mantel to reveal the brick and see what I was dealing with under the plywood. I immediately realized why the plywood was there when I saw the shoddy masonry underneath. Seriously, who puts in a random cinder block when you run out of bricks! I'm good with wood and I'm good with iron, I have no experience with masonry. Luckily, I'm having a chimney company come out and tear down the crap masonry and they are going to turn it into a false firebox. I would have preferred a working fireplace, but the furnace exhaust that runs behind the bricked up wall prevents that from happening.

The first step is leveling out the wall brick around the brick to frame the fireplace opening, as seen in the picture on the left.  Luckily, the difference between the expose brick and the plaster wall was 3/4" so I was able to use 1" plywood to level the wall. After that, I framed the fireplace exterior and the walls with wood and moulding. To make the framing boards of the period, I routed a bead into the ends.

Once the fireplace was framed, I moved up the wall first starting with the mantel. Mantels in the Federal era a often small and made using and upside-down piece of crown moulding. That's exactly what I've used here. The mantle itself is only about 4" deep and sits a on the crown moulding. You can see the finished and painted mantel on the right.

The most frustrating part came next. I wanted to install two raised wainscoting panels above the mantel. I first tried using a wainscoting bit on my router table to cut the edge into the panels, but it didn't work. I think that the size and density of the pieces made it so that the router bit kept ceasing and it ruined a few panels. To cut the edges, I ended up making a sled for my table saw that slides over the gate. I raised and angled the saw blade appropriately to cut the panel edge, and clamped my panels to the sled. Then it was a simple slide down the track to get clean, solid wainscoting panels.

After mounting and painting the panels, I finished the job by installing two tin scones and display pegs for my musket. The musket is super cool by the way. It is a Pedersoli reproduction Brown Bess that is modified to be a Maryland Council of Safety musket that was made in Maryland during the American Revolution. This musket conforms to the orders placed by the Provincial Assembly of Maryland and even includes the proof stamp on the barrel that was supposed to be on all muskets. This is a one of a kind musket. 

The fireplace looks fantastic, and I can't wait for the mason to do his work and clean up the brick work. Then it will truly be done.

I Don't Speak French

I love primary sources for historic research. I'm a big fan of original recipes, instructional books, and journals. There's a great source document for tailoring methods from 1767 titled: L'Art du Tailleur by M. de Garsault. The short book lists the tools and methods of 18th-century tailoring and also provides a series of plates with stitch diagrams and patterns.

Fortunately, the book has been scanned into the public domain and can be easily be found online. Unfortunately, it's in French. However, I managed to find an English translation of the text and the plates: The Art of the Tailor

It's a good read for anyone interested in the construction of 18th century men's clothing from an original source. You will need to have a minor understanding of basic sewing and 18th century clothing for it to make sense, but it's well worth the read.

Moving Right Along

Made decent progress over the past few days. Interfacing is completely secured on the front and back. Installed the turnback panels on the front edge, and I installed the pockets. My cat got a lot accomplished too. He managed to cover the entire thing in his hair.

Here's a shot of the interior of the waistcoat. The plain linen lining will be slip stitched to the turnback panel once it's installed to conserve fashion fabric. As is stands right now, this waistcoat will have 29 button holes on it. That may reduce to 25, if I change up my sleeve closure plans.

In the 18th century all buttonhole and buttons were functional. I'm currently researching if jiggers (a button on the inside of the coat to hold the interior panel in place) existed in the 18th century, but have not found evidence thus far. There will be a row of 10 buttonholes on the edge of each front panel, and the buttons will be on the inside edge.

The next big thing that I got done were the pockets. Pockets are something that drive me up a wall. I am a measure twice, measure again, and measure a fourth time just in case kind of person, and pockets just do not required that amount of intricacy. It drives me up a wall. I won't got into too much detail about the process of putting together pockets because there is a video of Henry Cooke sewing a pocket out there on YouTube that is much better than anything that I could put together. Check it out. 

Instead of a tutorial, you just get the finished product, cat hair and all. Deal with it. 

On our next episode: Button hole purgatory. 

Progress

Got started on my double-breasted sleeved waistcoat this weekend and things are coming together. My fabric came this weekend, and I have to say that I absolutely love it. I'm using an indigo colored kerseymere from Burnley and Trowbridge, and this fabric is amazing. The color is beautiful and I love how this fabric lays. It even marks well. Too bad that I got purchased the last of it and it was a one-off because I cannot tell you how awesome this stuff is. In a somewhat true-to-history fashion, my fabric came in a 1.5-yard section and two 1-yard sections that I will have to make work to cut all of my pieces.

I got off to a good start this weekend. I cut my linen pieces for the interfacing for the fronts and pockets then coated them with Tragacanth Gum to turn them into buckram. The first coat went fine. After I put the pieces out to dry after the second coat, we had a sudden storm show up and I had to run out in the rain to get them. Luckily, I was able to rapidly dry my pieces with a hair dryer so they weren't ruined and stiffened up nicely. I bet this sort of thing occasionally happened in the 18th century, and I wonder what they would have done in place of using a hair dryer?

These first two images show progress on the pockets. First, you baste the interfacing to the fashion fabric to keep it in place. Then you fold the edges and secure the fabric to the interfacing. Finally, you attach the lining by folding under the seam allowances and sewing an underhand stitch along the edges to secure the fabric. The top example is the finished pocket flap. The bottom example shows the pocket before the lining is attached and the basting stitches are removed.

You can see how nicely the flap cleans up once it's underhand stitched and the basting is removed. I try to keep the stitches small and uniform to keep them like original garments. Unfortunately, occasional imperfections in the linen thread make a clump show up in the outer stitching. Some people do not interface their pockets (I originally didn't), but I've found that they stay in place better and retain their shape on your body better if you interface them. 

If my waistcoat were a turkey, there is no chance that it would be dry with all the basting that I did. Can we first get into how ridiculous the interfacing piece looks? If you want the entire front panel to say in place you have to interface it. Everything about this waistcoat is ridiculous, and I love it. 

Cutting the interfacing piece was a bit interesting. to achieve that interesting shape, I traced the outside edge of the front panel piece on my linen for interfacing. I continued around to trace most of the neck and a few inches of the bottom of the piece. Next, I took the interfacing piece from the single-breasted waistcoat that this pattern is modified from, and lined up the back edge of that piece to the matching location on my pattern and drew the back line for the interfacing piece. I set the interfacing back 1/4" and basted the outside edge of the interfacing.

This was the first project that I've gone baste crazy on the interfacing and it is completely worth it to make your front much smoother and reduce the chances of loose fabric. When basting, I suggested working from the outside edge in to ensure that everything goes down smoothly.

 Personally, I baste from the wrong side of the fashion fabric on the edges of the interfacing to make sure that everything is in place properly, but base from the right sides in the big empty spots to make sure that the fabric is laying flat. If you have nice hard interfacing, you can't tell if your fashion fabric is laying flat against it unless you can see it. Doing the basting on two different sides leads to some pretty cool patterns on the fabric though.

On our next episode, we will be finishing the fronts by securing the edges and interfacing, adding the pockets and flaps, sewing on the turn backs, and sewing the button holes.

Hot Sticky Sweet

Leopard print: not just something for 80s hair bands. It also belongs to the 18th century. If you haven't gone to see it yet, you really should check out CW's current exhibit on printed textiles. It's absolutely fascinating. If you're lucky enough (as we were), you'll get a chance to speak to one of the curators and get all the pressing details about the printing process. One thing that you will notice upon entering the museum is a picture of Mark Hutter, one of their tailors with over 30 years of experience in historic tailoring, sporting the kick-awesome leopard print weskit.

My first thought was: That is so ridiculous! I need one of those!

My second thought was: Maybe I should research it first. But seriously, need one of those.


Leopard print in late 18th century men's clothing is like buying a new model of car--you didn't realize how much of it was out there until you started looking. It is currently believed that the fashion most likely originated in Italy and brought into English fashion by the Macaronis after completing their tours of the continent. The Gentleman in the painting "An Interior with Elegant Company" by Venceslao Verlin was painted sometime between 1760-1780 and shows a fantastic example of matching weskit and breeches.

Leopard print is seen in various examples of English art, the most famous is probably the 1778 portrait of John Campbell, 1st Baron Cawdor. I can only image that he is pointing to the exact location that he would like to have sugar poured on himself.


In these paintings, the fabric appears to be printed velvet. Indeed the created garment at CW is made of cotton velvet, but leopard clothing was made from various textiles including printed silks and linens and actual leopard pelts. A great study of the types of textiles, including more images, can be found here: https://darthkendraresearch.wordpress.com/2015/03/26/leopard-print-in-the-late-18th-century/ Once I finally undertake making my own, I most likely will be using cotton velvet simply because finding a silk or linen print will probably be next to impossible in the 21st century.

The last thing that I want to talk about are these two last English prints. The first, called "The Macarony Dressing Room," from 1772, shows a man on the left side of the room wearing a leopard weskit and breeches. The interesting thing about this picture is that the wearer of leopard print is not the Macaroni himself, instead it is an older portly man without the fashion sense of the Macaroni. We have evidence (though satirical) that leopard was not reserved for the overly foppish and highest rungs of society. Everything about this man seems commonplace. No large wig, no rococo embellishments on his clothing. Everything about him is common, he's wearing a plain coat and his hat isn't even cocked. Side note: What is going on with his right foot? I'm not sure if the artist made a mistake or is trying to depict him with a deformity or missing a foot?

What's the point of this? Perhaps if leopard was being worn by midling persons, there is also a possibility that it was being worn in the colonies. I will continue to search runaway ads and inventories for proof, but it's a pretty good theory.

 The final picture is the famous Dawe mezzotint called "The Macaroni" from 1773. In this particular version of it (because there are many altered versions that change details, add color, etc.), you can make out a pattern on his waistcoat and breeches. The seem to be of some close repeating, non-symmetrical dot pattern. As polka dots did come into the fashion scene until the mid-19th century, what are those dots most likely? You guessed it: Leopard Print. One of the most famous 18th century fashion prints, and one that I have hanging in my sewing room includes leopard print. It was hiding under my nose the whole time.

Facepalm or Burn it all down!

Research and learning are double-edged swords. Although they will make you more of an expert, they will also make you realize how much you didn't know. If you're lucky, you ignorance will fall within the realm of small unnoticed details. Occasionally, they will be systematic and huge. My realization falls within the substantially sized category.

I've learned a fair deal about sewing both modern and period techniques in the past year that I've been undertaking this adventure, but I am by no means an expert. I've helped others and am dangerous enough to start a blog, but now the real fun starts. It's amazing (and frustrating) to reread books that I looked at when I first got into this hobby with a new understanding and realize that a lot of what you've done is wrong. And so, in true 18th century fashion, I will be tearing apart a good deal of my clothing and redoing it.

Why on earth would I be doing something that stupid? Easy! Although my patterns are period correct, my construction methods are not. My next undertaking  (in between other projects) will be to pull apart my exiting clothing and reconstruct using period methods. Through research, I realized that my construction methods have not been period correct and reflective of modern construction. One redeeming detail is that all the pieces are there and the right shape, they're just not put together as an 18th century tailor would have.

So where did I screw up? For one, all my pieces are bag lined and have 5/8" seam allowances. I probably won't be correcting this detail throughout all my existing garments simply because most of the details will not be seen, but I will be correcting the allowances on the the edges. That brings me to my next screw-up, attaching the lining to the garment edges was not done using the period-correct underhand stitch. This will be the fun detail to correct, but it will make my clothing visually correct if I'm wearing it.

We live, we learn, we invest in a good seam ripper.