Hello there and welcome back to part 2 of
this 15th century adventure, in which I am attempting to recreate this gown from ‘Saint
George Slaying the Dragon’ by Jost Haller, dated c 1450. If you missed part 1, you may wish to go back
and give that a quick watch—unless of course you’re only interested in sleeves and trimmings
and finishings, in which by all means do stick around. Without further ado, let’s go finish this
lady. When I left you last, I had just completed
the long process of seaming together the gown panels and checking the fit, so now it’s
time to finish off all these seams. This is done by trimming one side of the seam
allowance to a narrow width, so that the other side can be folded over both edges and stitched
down with a felling stitch—or whip stitch to encase all of the fraying. Funnily enough, I spent so many piecemeal
hours doing this over about two weeks and never actually managed to turn on the camera
for any of it—but not to worry, there’s plenty more felling to come if you need a
demonstration. The center front edges, if you remember, were
cut along the selvedge. This was a common practice used throughout
history in order to save fabric and to eliminate the extra bit of time in trimming and folding
for felled seams, since selvedges can just be running stitched down and won’t fray. Many archaeological finds from the medieval
period actually exhibit raw cut seams finished in this way, but hand-woven fabrics tended
to be much more tightly woven and less prone to fraying, unlike my modern machine woven
fabric; so I’ve just kept with felling for the rest of my seams. And now that the base of the gown is complete,
it’s time to get started on the sleeves. The gown in the painting appears to have a
false under sleeve attached to the long sleeve of the gown. I assume this is the case, rather than it
being the sleeve from an undergown or kirtle, since we do get to see a bit of her shift
between the wide center front opening, with no hint of a green kirtle—or the closures
for one—at this point. False under sleeves are something I understand
to have been a common feature of gowns in the Tudor period a couple of decades later,
so this probably isn’t entirely impossible. So I’ve found this beautiful green changeable
silk on 39th Street which I plan to use for the under sleeves. If you recall from Part 1, my experiment with
marking out the wool in quill and ink was very successful. I decided to try out this method on the silk
with the sleeves and it was much less successful. The silk is much more loosely woven and so
the ink wanted to spread and soak through to the other side. 0/10, would not recommend this method for
finer fabrics. Then I’m just stitching together the sleeve
seams with a very small backstitch. Since the silk thread I’m using is very
fine, I’ve doubled the thread to strengthen the seam, but this probably wouldn’t be
necessary with a heavier thread. Now I’ve decided to put a button placket
in the cuffs of the sleeves, since this was a very common feature of the period in order
to achieve that fashionable tight-fitted look. You can’t see them on the gown in the painting,
but judging from how tightly her sleeves are fitted—without, of course, the generous
help of spandex—I have to surmise that there is some sort of closure method at the inside
seam of the sleeves in order to achieve that fit. Surviving sleeves show that buttonhole edges
were faced with a layer of strong linen—or silk, in the case of finer fabrics such as
this, and so I’ve gone ahead and cut a facing to add to the underside of my buttonhole edge. This has also been backstitched to the edge
of the sleeve seam right sides together, then flipped inside to finish the edge. Then I started marking out the buttonholes—lightly!—with
ink. I did do a sample of this beforehand, which
I highly recommend before starting the buttonhole process, so I knew that the buttons I picked
for this project would require a 1/2 inch hole to go through. Now because this stitch takes quite a bit
of explaining if you’re not yet familiar with it, I’ve gone ahead and filmed a separate
video tutorial if you need a quick lesson on hand-finishing your buttonholes. But since you’re probably just here to see
the making of a 15th century dress, however, I’m going to spare you the details for now
and just get on with it. And now for buttons! Metal cast buttons are a common find in medieval
archaeological sites—though I must disclaim that these look quite different from the ones
that I was able to find in the garment district. These are quite pretty, but from images the
extant examples I found for reference, medieval buttons tended to be flatter, cast in two
halves, with a metal shank on the back. The ones I picked I think are actually supposed
to be beads; I’ve rigged them up with a bit of thread so they attach in a similar
way as the thread-wrapped button styles common by the 16th century, but there probably isn’t
much historical validity to this decision. Oh, and for some reason I forgot to finish
the edges of the sleeve seam when I stitched it together earlier, so I’m doing that now—with
that felling stitch I was talking about earlier. Then I’m just quickly finishing off the
cuff edges with a bit more turning and felling. Ok ok but back to the buttons! I’m using a large tapestry needle to thread
the tails of the button shank through. Then I can just push it through the fabric
where I want the button to sit, and tie it off securely at the back. I tried this at first by making a hole with
an awl and then pushing the tails through, as I thought might have been the more likely
historical method, but this proved to create too large a gap in the weave of the fabric
and the knot at the inside wouldn’t stop the button from pulling free. This method was much more effective—though
I was still too afraid to cut off the excess tails in case they ever need to be re-tied,
so, shhh… Also, I just forgot to address this at the
time, but the edge is just finished off with a really tiny felled hem. I suspect that historically this hem would
have fully encased the beautifully trimmed knots on the inside, but again…I was mistrustful
and wanted to have easy access to them if I needed. This probably wouldn’t have been an issue
with tighter-woven historical fabrics. So now it’s time for the over sleeves. Forewarning here that there is a massive amount
of conjecture in how I decided these sleeves work, so do proceed with caution. I decided that the seam for these sleeves
needs to run down the back of the arm, since there doesn’t appear to be a seam down front
on the painting—and this way I could insert a gore in back to help achieve that voluminous
amount of fabric at the hem. This meant that, in order to be able to even
remotely move my arms, I had to cut a slit to insert a gusset at the underarm point. Again, absolutely zero evidence for this,
but the sleeves just wouldn’t be functional without it; and hey, gussets in general are
period appropriate, so. By the way, I found it really helped to get
my head around the pattern for these sleeves before drafting by making a wee sample piece
just to get an idea of the general shape. Definitely recommend if you’re like me and
extremely geometrically challenged. The piece ended up to be a bit wider than
my fabric, but that’s okay; back in the days of narrower fabric widths and a more
conservative attitude towards fabric usage, piecing was very very common. Speaking of clever fabric usage, this triangular
cutout for the front slit of the sleeve will be inserted at back as a gore. And the pieces are marked out—much more
successfully with the ink on the wool, this time. Now since we get a bit of contrast material
on the reference gown, I’ve made the assumption that the sleeves are lined with a nice peachy
changeable silk; so now I’m just going ahead and repeating the marking and cutting process
for the under sleeve lining. And this time I’m not going to attempt the
ink here with the silk. I know through later periods of dressmaking,
charcoal, graphite and chalk were also used in marking pieces—so I’m taking the liberty
of employing some white tailor’s chalk to mark these out. Yes there is an additional piecing on this
one, since the silk was a bit narrower than the wool and I also needed a piecing for the
gore triangle. First thing’s first is to get the piecings
on so we have our full pattern pieces again. I tried to do that clever thing where at least
one edge of a seam is cut on a selvedge to eliminate having to turn an extra time in
finishing, but then I remembered that the under sleeve is lined so I don’t have to
finish the raw edges anyway. The piecings are attached with a quick running
backstitch. These seams aren’t structural and don’t
need to take any stress, so speed was definitely more my priority over strength. Now to start actually putting the sleeves
together. I’m starting by pinning the gore into place
with the tip finishing just at the elbow point. I’m then stitching it into place with a
running back stitch, using some linen thread. I had dyed this with the intention of matching
the red fabric, but it came out decidedly pinker than intended. Ah well; maybe it’s a bit better than white. And again, this is repeated on the lining
pieces. Then the center back seam can be finished,
running straight down the other side of the gore panel. Once again, this is attached using a running
back stitch. Then I can finally put the lining and fabric
pieces together. To finish off the edges, I started by turning
in the edges of both layers and slip stitching them together, but for the hem edge I figured
out that the layers could be turned and felled, which I think might be the slightly more historically
accurate method. Now I’m inserting the under sleeves, matching
them up (without balance marks, because I am a heathen), and basting them together. Then they’re attached to the gown with a
strong back stitch, using plain heavy linen thread. Then I’m finishing off the raw edge of the
armscye by felling it down with some red silk thread. This was a bit of a struggle since I had cut
my upper seam allowance a little bit too narrow, so it ended up a bit sloppier than I had hoped. Then I’m finishing them hem with—you guessed
it—some more felling. You might have noticed that I like to anchor
my seams at the nearer end, here by pinning it to a small cushion. This was a common practice used throughout
history, and I’ve become quite fond of it; it allows you to pull the fabric taught and
keep the work at a nice tension, so your stitches are more even and go much quicker. And now it’s just time for a bit of finishing. The reference gown gets some little gold detail
round the neck edge. I found a nice semi-metallic trim here in
the garment district, which seemed to have a nice echo of the dotted effect on the reference
gown. This just gets folded in half over the raw
edge and felled into place with a plain lightweight linen thread. I played with the idea that this might be
beading. I imagined that beadwork as chunky as it seems
in the picture would be quite heavy and would want to warp against the bias edges. A bit of metallic trim, however, would not
only reinforce the edge with a bit of stiffness and strength, but could also act as a binding
for the raw edge. So this is what I decided to go with. Right at the top of the sleeve slits is a
small bit of lacing, so now I’m just putting in the eyelet holes for that. Remember, when making your eyelet holes, use
an awl to gently separate the weave of the fabric without actually breaking any of the
threads to ensure that your eyelet holes are durable and your fabric remains stable. Once the eyelets are all bound off, I like
to go through and widen them a bit more with a bodkin—but since I don’t actually have
a proper bodkin, I’m just using one of my hair pins. It works just the same. Then the lace can be inserted into the eyelet
holes. This is a 5-strand finger loop braid that
I plaited myself in a previous video, if you’re curious on how to make some historically accurate
lacing strands for yourself. And last but not least, the closures! I found some nice little cast metal hook clasps
here in the garment district that have a similar feel to the ones in the painting—but of
course probably have very little actual historical authenticity. This is something that I decided to just embrace,
since I don’t at present have the resources to cast them—or have them cast—custom. And with that, the gown is complete. Similar enough? I know I addressed the possibility of a waist
seam in my previous video in order to achieve the pleating effect happening at center front
of the reference. I wish I’d also cut the slits in the sleeves
a bit higher. And used whatever sorcery was applied to achieve
those perfectly smooth sleeves and bodice. But I guess we can’t have it all. For the photos I just used a metal plate girdle
that I had handy—a style that was utilised in the period—but the one in the reference
clearly isn’t made from metal pieces. I discovered that many extant girdles were
tablet woven in narrow, girdle-sized widths—and in this case looks as if it might contain
metallic fibres. So as soon as I take up tablet weaving, I
shall get back to you with an updated replica. So that’s all for this project! Thanks for sticking with it this far, I hope
it was at least vaguely of interest. I’m always over here making things by hand
and generally just screaming about the wonders of historical dress, so if you want to join
in the fun, tap that little red button down there, and I shall see you soon on my next
historical sewing adventure.
