dishabillic

10

It’s FRIDAY FASHION FACT! Today’s topic is another fantastic example about how fashion was a reflection of society. This is a particularly important example, though, because this fashion reflected the early seeds of feminism, as women fought for the right to an education in an age where they were only allowed to pursue domestic endeavors. We’re talking about dishabille.

(Sidenote: This was another section of my masters dissertation, where I also discussed how riding habits reflected another angle of the early feminist movement. You can read my Fact on that here.)

Dishabille, derived from the French word “déshabille” meaning “undressed,” has it’s origins as private homewear in the 17th century, yet it first became commonplace as a fashion to be seen when the banyan rose in popularity in men’s portraits (read here.) Not long after the style became popular for men, though, women began claiming the trend as their own.

There was a huge range of dishabille among women. It could mean anything from a disheveled look to undergarments and a robe. Sometimes stays were simply loosened, other times women went without stays altogether. A woman might wrap herself in a shawl, or wear an banyan and turban very similar to that worn by men. As with the men, these styles were intended to be worn in private, yet it became a common, and very meaningful, choice for portraits.

Some women may have wished to be depicted in dishabille because it seemed shocking and rebellious. More often, though, it appears as though women wished to display their own intelligence by wearing similar fashions to those worn by male scholars and intellectuals. Women strove to demonstrate that they embraced the pursuit of intellectual endeavors, and were fully capable of achieving academic accomplishments. As with men’s banyans, dishabille was a sign of function over fashion. This is emphasized by the fact that over half of all female dishabille portraits depict the sitter with a book in hand, or sometimes a pen. They also are often depicted with a pensive expression. Many of the top members of the Bluestocking Society, an organization which promoted the education of women, were depicted in dishabille. The look was also often melded with classical inspirations, as neoclassicism was simultaneously gaining popularity (read here).

It is important not to confuse dishabille in portraiture with boudoir or toilette genre paintings, which were also common at the time. Those genres were intended to either be seductive images or realistic depictions of everyday life. Dishabille was meant to imply a disregard for high fashion in lieu of more substantive and intelligent pursuits. Of course,  as the dishabille style gained popularity into the late 18th Century, women may have begun to choose to be portrayed in such a manner because it became the fashionable thing to do. Additionally, as it gained popularity in portraits, it also gained more popularity in real life. With the help of Marie Antoinette’s casual cotton chemise (read here) women began to wear mild forms of dishabille outside the house. Naturally, traditionalist were shocked and appalled by the loose, relaxed fashions. But as we know, the softer styles would eventually take over the formal rococo fashions, and by the end of the century, classicism reigned supreme.

Have a question about fashion history that you want answered in the next FRIDAY FASHION FACT? Just click the ASK button at the top of the page!

There are the nights when no one dreams, or dreams are small and life-sized—broken strings and shipwrecked boats, dishabille, or seagulls.

There are the nights when Newt can sleep, the dawns he doesn’t see.

Of those, there are not many.

But there are some.

(Designations Congruent With Things, cleanwhiteroom)

We have raised the battle cry of There Must Be More Than This

—Judith Wright, Australian poet, environmentalist, critic, and advocate of aboriginal land rights


Tiffany Aching’s fairy tales are full of fair-haired princesses and gentle milkmaids and goose girls who are artistically dirty, disheveled in a way that does not obscure their loveliness. None of them look like Tiffany. 

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I don’t give a Zlobenian fart what you’ve got stuffed down your trousers, soldier! Sergeant Polly Perks bellows at the quaking private. Perks’ gaze lingers over the line of new recruits, before flashing a grin at the vampire beside her, who looks thoroughly dishabille despite the corporal’s braid and a lacy collar. 

Girl or boy, Polly says, you are all my little lads, and I will look after you.    

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Sybil Ramkin has always taken up more room than is allowed. She lives in perpetual embarrassment of how wood flooring creaks underfoot, the accidental bump of her hips, how just her presence blocks the doorway. She learns to move almost apologetically, a skittery, jumpy attitude that Mistress Trunbull always says gave her the vapors.

Yet when the famous swamp dragon breeder, Madame Leopold, comes to give all the girls a tutorial, Sybil is chosen for the demonstration. She reaches for the dragon gingerly, afraid she might upset it—

I told you to pick the thing up, not tickle its sides, Madame Leopold says, and Sybil flushes. When she tightens her grip, the dragon makes a squeaking noise and wriggles out of her hands without much effort.

Oh, that won’t do. Let the old girl know you’re here! Madame Leopold orders, and Sybil finds herself bringing all her strength to bear, scooping the dragon up and swinging it beneath one arm. Madame Leopold nods approvingly.

It feels like being given permission to breathe. (Sybil did not even know how starved for air she was.)

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Yes, Conina said patiently, I understand that it’s standard-issue heroine armor. But where is the rest of it?

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Esk’s hands tremble on the scissors, and for a minute Esk is worried it won’t come out right, they’ll be left with a long and ragged mop of hair. Esk wants it short, wants it gone, like the dresses burned in the courtyard, like the rig they’d bought in Dolly Sisters to keep their breasts flattened against the chest.

Esk walks to the lecture hall with only slightly messy hair, and minor injuries. Simon’s eyes go wide when they slide into the seat beside him, 

It’s still Esk, Esk tells him. I’m just—I’m a wizard.

Simon smiles slowly. Yeah, all right, Esk.

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If the collar doesn’t fit, find a bigger collar, Angua von Uberwald whispers to herself as the carriage rattles over another pothole on the road to Ankh-Morpork. 

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Lower your gaze, Tears of the Mushroom’s elders chide her. It is not for a goblin to stare so

They do not like it when she asks why. They do not like how Mrs. Beedle teaches her the humans’ tongue, teaches her to play the harp. Such unnecessary noise, they say. Why must you do these things?

To hang, she answers. We must hang. 

(Tears of the Mushroom turns her face up to the sky, and sings.)

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Cheery was armored against their disgust long ago; the whispers and badly-hidden sneers no longer surprise her. Still, she won’t deny how it aches when the dwarf courting her shows no interest in bringing her home to meet his parents; when she has to explain again, no, it’s ‘she’, it’s ‘her’. 

But sometimes dwarves new to the city look at her like she is an answer to a question they were afraid of asking out loud, and every time Cheery squares her shoulders, and goes on.

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One fair morning, Esme Weatherwax puts on her best dress, brushes her hat clean, and goes walking. She has made it only so far as the little copse of trees by the Gower farm when, a man in a long black robe falls into step beside her. His great scythe makes a faint scraping noise where it drags in the dust.

They make their way in companionable silence, up the highest hill in Lancre—the one where you could see clear to the Sto Plains. Esme takes a little while to catch her breath, but when she straightens, she can see all of Lancre laid out. All the sleepy farms, the faint glitter of the new clacks towers. The sound of the train whistle is faint so high up.

I’m ready now, she informs Death with a little sniff. Will there be more, do you think?

OH, Death says, MUCH MORE, I IMAGINE.

anonymous asked:

can you share some part of Jeanne's scene? :))

Of course I can. So much happens as Mme Jeanne’s from the first time that Jamie and Claire make love in 20 years, to Claire and Fergus reuniting and so many classic lines that we love. But to go with some humor and because I can just see Cait during this scene, I’ll give you the next morning. Jamie is off to look for Young Ian, Claire is confined to her room with no clothes and is getting hungry.


Rather than go on sitting here in the nude, receiving random deputations from the outside world, I thought it time to take steps. Rising and carefully wrapping a quilt around my body, I took a few, out into the corridor. 

The upper floor seemed deserted. Aside from the room I had left, there were only two other doors up here. Glancing up, I could see unadorned rafters overhead. We were in the attic then; chances were that the other rooms here were occupied by servants, who were presumably now employed downstairs. 

I could hear faint noises drifting up the stairwell. Something else drifted up, as well— the scent of frying sausage. A loud gustatory rumble informed me that my stomach hadn’t missed this, and furthermore, that my innards considered the consumption of one peanut butter sandwich and one bowl of soup in one twenty-four-hour period a wholly inadequate level of nutrition. 

I tucked the ends of the quilt in, sarong-fashion, just above my breasts, and picking up my trailing skirts, followed the scent of food downstairs. 

The smell— and the clinking, clattering, sloshing noises of a number of people eating— were coming from a closed door on the first floor above ground level. I pushed it open, and found myself at the end of a long room equipped as a refectory. 

The table was surrounded by twenty-odd women, a few gowned for day, but most of them in a state of dishabille that made my quilt modest by comparison. A woman near the end of the table caught sight of me hovering in the doorway, and beckoned, companionably sliding over to make room for me on the end of the long bench. 

“You’ll be the new lass, aye?” she said, looking me over with interest. “You’re a wee bit older than Madame usually takes on— she likes ’em no more than five and twenty. You’re no bad at all, though,” she assured me hastily. “I’m sure you’ll do fine.” 

“Good skin and a pretty face,” observed the dark-haired lady across from us, sizing me up with the detached air of one appraising horseflesh. “And nice bubbies, what I can see.” She lifted her chin slightly, peering across the table at what could be seen of my cleavage. 

“Madame doesna like us to take the kivvers off the beds,” my original acquaintance said reprovingly. “Ye should wear your shift, if ye havena something pretty to show yourself in yet.” 

“Aye, be careful with the quilt,” advised the dark-haired girl, still scrutinizing me. “Madame’ll dock your wages, an’ ye get spots on the bedclothes.” 

Keep reading

valkyrie1969  asked:

Pretty please, may we have some RPF of Sam and Cait being reunited in Scotland after the press tour? (Pretend this is a Thai restaurant and I asked for it extra spicy...)

I received the above post (thanks Val - hugs) and earlier today I was tagged in this post:

                                           

                                      

outlandish-blog:

myguiltyolpleasure:

“We should have a game afterwards” while he looks at her like wolf to sheep and smacks the paddle repeatedly against his hand. 😳 The fan fiction writers have really gotten to me, I must say.

First thing I thought when I saw him smack that paddle against his hand was “You dirty, dirty blond!!”.

You listening, @supertam87 and @cricketjames - pretty please?

So I decided that my next Sassenach chapter should be a little bit sporty. It’s more fluffy than spicy, Val, but I hope you like it anyway.

FANFIC MASTERLIST

MY SASSENACH

CHAPTER 8


“I’m so tired I could sleep for a week straight.” Sam groaned as he arched his back and felt the bones crack. It had been a VERY long time since he’d been home, and he estimated he hadn’t had more than 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night since shooting ended and his promotional tour started. He was used to a rigorous schedule and frankly, preferred to be busy rather than sit around, but even he had limits. This tour had proven that. Sam intended to grab a quick bite, take a long hot shower and then sink into his bed, allowing oblivion to take him for as long as it wished.

“Shall I call for some take-away?” Cait inquired, walking into the front room, just as Sam entered from the kitchen, a jar of almond butter in one hand, and a finger in his mouth. She was wearing one of his shirts, having left most of her things over at her place, as that was where they had spent the most time before the tour.

“Oh, gag, Sam! Do you really have to eat that with your fingers? You are such an adolescent.” She teased, breaking into a delighted smile. She loved how adorably unassuming he was.

“Nah, I’m not that hungry. I’m so knackered I couldn’t eat a proper meal right now. And just what’s wrong with my fingers?” Sam huffed. “You didn’t mind eating from them the other night.” He quirked a mischievous brow in question, but said no more, choosing instead to admire the slow flush rising in Cait’s face.

That had been quite a night. Both high on the success of Outlander’s premier, they had returned to their hotel room and spent hours indulging in whisky, room service and well…cardiovascular exercise. He didn’t think he’d ever had a better workout.

“No, I didn’t.” Caitriona murmured coyly, “but it wasn’t almond butter you were feeding me was it?” Her slow flush turned into a full heated blush and Sam’s belly clenched remembering her luminous skin bared and on display just for him. God, he loved this woman. His shirt was just long enough to cover her best bits, but she’d only done a few of the buttons in the middle, and he was craning his eyes in an effort to see if she’d left her bra on. She knew how much he loved taking it off of her. Come to think of it, maybe he wasn’t that tired.

Sam and the almond butter wandered back to the bedroom, wondering how much convincing he’d have to do to get those mile long legs wrapped around his hips. A few minutes later, he called out, “Cait, have all the bags been brought up yet? Will you dig in my carry-on and look for my phone charger?”

A few minutes later, Cait popped her head around the partially closed door. Sam was undressing, his back to her, as he stripped of shirt and jeans, and she couldn’t breathe for just a moment, just like every time she saw this man en dishabille.

“Sam? Why is this in your bag?” She asked in mock sternness, smacking a silver and red table tennis paddle against her open palm.

“Och, that? Well, ah, I just thought I’d bring it home as a wee souvenir and…” He trailed off in a small voice, his eyes large and round with feigned innocence.

“And what, Sam? Just what were you planning on doing with only one paddle?”

“Weel,” Sam replied, broadening his Scots accent measurably, “You see, ye wee vixen, we’ve an account to settle between us. Last we left it, you were at two, and I only had one. I mean tae even the score.” He advanced on her, stripping off his pants as he crossed to her in two enthusiastic bounds.

Snatching the paddle from her hands, he lifted her bodily and tossed her onto the bed, where he proceeded to tickle, pinch and wheedle her out of his clothes. When she was fully divested of all unnecessary covering, he picked up the paddle and slapped it against his thigh.

“Sam!” Cait squeaked, “Just what do you think…” She choked off the rest of her sentence when Sam nipped at her neck, running his heated lips down to her clavicle and on to her breasts, nipples taut with anticipation.

Cait thrust her hand through the riot of curls at the back of his head and brought him back up for a long and thorough kiss. When he was panting as hard as she was, she broke away, pulling on his hair as she tugged his head back far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Really, Sam?” She challenged. “You think you’ll be able to get even with me?”

“Nay, lass, I’ll not get even with you.” He menaced. “By the time I’ve finished with ye, I’ll be well ahead, and ye ken that fine.” Grasping Cait by her hips, he flipped her over, cupping one bare cheek in his large, soft hand. “Be sure to keep track, aye?”

anonymous asked:

Any sort of Captain Swan fluff! Please give us something that isn't just pain and heartache!

The day the three of them – her family – walk up the steps of their new home is the day, after over thirty years, the lost girl lies down to sleep for the last time, and does not wake up. That the woman covers her gently with a blanket, and kisses her forehead, and lets her slip softly away. As the sun splashes on the white picket fence and on the wraparound porch and on the kitchen inside, as she’s holding her husband’s hook with one hand and her son’s shoulder with the other. After a quiet wedding on the Jolly Roger and a honeymoon for a full blissful week with absolutely no monsters, memory curses, minions of the underworld, or misplaced pickaxes at all, they’re here.

Home. For their future. Together.

Emma had built it as a place where she’d live with her boys. Put in a telescope, a view of the sea, a bedroom for Henry with all his video games, planning to have him switch off between here and Regina’s place. But before, it was a sterile, stunted dream of an impossible future, cold and bare, no true home at all, and now she has to make it one. She has to hang Killian’s jacket in the closet and put up with the fact that she’ll always be tripping over Henry’s shoes, that sometimes the dishes will pile up and not get done every night. That things will break, that the water heater will inexplicably bang away for three days in a row, then explode, and she’ll have to perform the dubious feat of finding a fairytale plumber while the basement is flooded. That the TV will be on when she wants it off, that there’s something inexplicably sticky on the kitchen table, that things drop. That things get lost (she just bought that pack of socks, damn it!) That it’s noisy. That it’s busy.

That it’s hers.

She gets to sleep in long, lazy weekend mornings with Killian warm and shirtless at her side, wrapped up in his arms, nose buried in the hollow of his throat, listening to him breathe, his chin on her head, as he rolls her over for a slow, deep coupling. (And yes, they’ll inevitably have to contend with Henry charging in when they are in dishabille, yelling, “Oh my god, Mom, Killian, lock the door next time!” and sprinting back out, presumably to wash out his eyes with bleach.) They’ll eat breakfast together on the porch. They’ll fight whatever needs fighting, because life in Storybrooke will never be picture-perfect. It’ll never be that easy.

But it will always be hers. Hers. Hers.

They think about kids. Their own. Maybe adopting one, or two, or more, from a group home like the ones she lived in, now that they have the room to take all those lost girls – and lost boys – who used to be her, and who used to be him. In this or any world, there are always orphans.

But not her, Emma Charming Swan Jones. The Savior, the wife, the daughter, the mother, the sister and friend, the auntie, the sheriff, the woman.

Not her.

Not them.

Not any more.