Introduction

As a historian of the body and a dress scholar, I am used to relying on a variety of textual, material and visual sources in order to recapture the life of absent and long-lost bodies. Collaborating with the ‘Refashioning the Renaissance’ project, I braced myself for a methodological challenge: exploring the heuristic potential of my own embodied experiences as a research tool. During six sessions at the School of Historical Dress in London, I was measured, fitted and finally wore the tailor-made doublet modelled on the giubbone of black stamped mockado (mock velvet) owned by the Florentine waterseller Francesco Ristori, who died in 1631 (See Experiment in focus III) (Figure iv.1).

The experiment

It is undeniable that my body differs in many ways from that of the waterseller Ristori. Moreover, the conditions of the fittings at the School of Historical Dress were certainly not meant to replicate the atmosphere of an early modern tailor’s workshop. The experiences I discuss, therefore, have no pretension to perfect authenticity. After each fitting I recorded the bodily sensations felt and the thoughts they generated. I then reflected on how my own experiences could be used to shed light on those of Ristori and countless other early modern men and women who underwent a similar process to have their garments made to fit.

In the first session I was measured by the School Principal Jenny Tiramani, who started by tying a tape around my torso to mark the waist. She immediately noted that my waistline was quite high, adding that this would suit the intended shape of the doublet. As the meticulous measuring progressed, she then observed that one of my shoulders was higher than the other, a fact that would have to be corrected with some light padding. This discovery sparked a brief discussion about the possible cause of this physical irregularity, until we agreed that it was probably due to the long practice of a unilateral racket sport. Thus, the measuring turned into an occasion to reflect on specific features of my body, either inherent or acquired through habit, some desirable and others implicitly undesirable since they would have to be artificially remedied. Early modern ‘artisans of the body’ possessed a considerable degree of medical knowledge in addition to the skills specific to their trade.¹ The experience of being measured provided me with a space to reflect on my lifestyle while also gaining new insights about my health and anatomy. This made me consider that tailors too performed a medical function in so far as they possessed the ability to identify and qualify salient corporeal features which they could, if necessary, enhance, conceal or correct. Like a patient’s consultation with a physician, this knowledge was generated through conversation between customer and artisan. Yet there was no doubt that the latter wielded more authority.

Figure IV.1 The outfit of reconstructed doublet worn over a shirt with hat, sword belt, hose, stockings, garters and shoes.

The same power dynamic persisted during the fittings that followed, when a team of makers progressively assessed how the doublet looked and felt on my body. The successful fitting normally developed through a flow of questions and answers going both ways, while the experience remained overall marked by a fundamental disparity. As the wearer, I had to provide crucial information on how clothing felt, articulating physical sensations as clearly as possible.

However, it was not uncommon for this information to be reinterpreted by the makers present, who would also offer advice on how I should stand and move to be more comfortable. An additional challenge was posed by the fact that I had to rely almost entirely on the people around me to form an impression of how the doublet looked on my body. People of Ristori’s standing almost certainly did not have access to a full-length mirror, so I too decided to experience the fitting with a limited visual perspective. Since I had to rely on external eyes to evaluate the success of the doublet and the outfit as a whole, I came to appreciate the high level of trust customers had to place on the tailor’s aesthetic judgement.

Once I moved past the initial frustration, I also found that the absence of a mirror helped me to better appraise how the garment felt. It must be said that being aware of physical sensations during fittings was not always a matter of choice. Standing still for up to an hour did take its toll on the body: my legs started to hurt and lose sensitivity while my hands invariably turned purple when I left them dangling at my side for too long. Once again, I had to rely on the tailors’ expertise in picking up on the signs of physical discomfort and suggesting ways to cope with it. Upon Tiramani’s suggestion, I began holding one arm akimbo and shifted my body weight from one leg to the other, assuming a stance that can be admired in many Renaissance portraits. Few artisans could aspire to having their likeness painted, yet when being fitted they too needed to develop the physical skills necessary to hold a pose.

So far, I have emphasised the tailor’s agency in shaping my carriage and embodied sense of self. However, the most important influence was exercised by the garment itself as it progressively came together. During the first fitting, I tried on a canvas model of the doublet without sleeves, fixed with only a few safety pins at the front (Figure iv.2a and iv.2b). Despite the lightness of the material at that stage, the perfect cut of the model was sufficient to instantly change my posture. My shoulders were pulled back and I was forced to keep straight. I felt the garment’s full force when I first tried on its main body, still sleeveless but cut from actual fabric and provided with buttons. That day, my neck and back hurt from exercising and I experienced discomfort when standing straight. Wearing the doublet immediately made it easier for me to keep an upright posture and I gradually felt more comfortable. When I expressed my relief, I was told that the remarkable effect was achieved through the insertion of thin baleen strips and light fustian padding at the front. I realised the extent of the aid provided by the doublet only once I had to take it off half an hour later and I felt the pain creeping up again. It may be easy to imagine that a garment of this type – tightly cut, padded and reinforced – would feel constrictive, especially on a body used to an active lifestyle or even physical labour. Many articles of historical clothing worn by both men and women have traditionally been deemed uncomfortable and cumbersome on the basis of visual and textual sources. Pioneering experiments of scholarly re-enactment, however, are starting to reassess such assumptions in favour of more balanced accounts.² My own experience of wearing the doublet similarly attests that its perfect fit translated into greater support (Figure iv.3).

Figure IV.2a Front view of the fitting for the hemp interlining.

Figure IV.2b Back view of the fitting for the hemp interlining.

In combination with the tight cut, what rendered the interaction between clothing and my body more tangible during the fittings was the changing sensation of the fabric. At first the doublet did feel a little rigid and stuffy but, as Tiramani put it, the fabric just needed a little time to adjust to the temperature of my body and vice versa. As promised, the garment felt rapidly suppler without losing its ability to hold up my torso. It also managed to regulate my body temperature according to the changing environment, with the help of the underlying linen shirt. Renaissance people believed in clothing’s power to affect their health through body contact.³ Seen as animate entities, garments and accessories were also feared for their potential to overcome their wearers. Feeling the doublet coming alive, I realised to what extent this cultural discourse was shaped by first-hand experiences of the osmotic relationship between dress and the body.

Figure IV.3 Front view of the second fitting in mockado.

Conclusion

What did the experiment teach us about early modern embodied experiences of fashion? Being dressed up in the doublet provided me with a deeper understanding of how early modern sartorial practices were the product of constant negotiation between human and material agents. To achieve a successful fit, wearers such as Ristori and myself had to acquire specific corporeal skills which have left no trace in the records. Re-enacting the dressing process in all its phases revealed that these represented crucial occasions for people to rediscover and interpret their body in light of unique sensorial and cognitive experiences. This experiment represents a first attempt to explore the tacit skills and embodied knowledge gained by men and women of the middling sort through their experience of clothing. By drawing our attention to the role of ordinary wearers in the process of sartorial creation, it opens a new path towards ever more nuanced and inclusive accounts of the non-textual world of artisanal practice.