Martin Williams
Member
Perhaps I ought to wait for Randy to tackle the question of Lucile's celebrity, pre-'Titanic'. But, in an idle moment, I can't resist having a crack myself.
I think that MANY people would in fact have read the wardrobe credits for the theatrical productions dressed by Lucile. During the 1890s, the West End and Broadway played host to some of the greatest celebrities of the day - the likes of Lillie Langtry, Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry and Cecile Sorel. These women were perhaps the nearest equivalents to the movie goddesses of the 1930s and were equally as celebrated for their beauty, chic and tempestuous love-lives as they were for their acting abilities. I've already touched on this subject in my recent posts concerning Leontine Aubart and the 'grande horizontales' of the Belle Epoque. Just as millions of women between the wars copied the clothes of Garbo, Crawford, Dietrich and Shearer, so too did many women take inspiration from the costumes worn by Langtry, Terry and their contemporaries. I'm not saying that the live theatre of the 1890s and 1900s reached as wide an audience as the Hollywood spectaculars of forty years later. But I would argue that the costumes displayed in smash-hits like 'The Degenerates', 'The Liar' and (of course) 'The Merry Widow' had an immense impact on contemporary fashion. Women in the audience would have had their opera glasses firmly trained on the outfits of the leading ladies and no doubt made mental notes of anything particularly stylish or striking, to be relayed to their dressmakers at their next meeting. Or else, they consulted their programmes, saw Lucile credited and made the trip to Hanover Square the very next day.
It is also worth remembering that theatre-going was very much a 'Society' activity during this period, as much as attendance at Ascot or Covent Garden. The ladies in the better seats would have been the same as those who patronised the great fashion houses of the day. In a very real sense, dressing a leading lady was, for the likes of Worth and Lucile, the best publicity imaginable.
I'd further add that, throughout the late Victorian and Edwardian eras, there was no equivalent to Topshop, Zara or Primark. The concept of 'throw-away' fashion did not exist. Unless you were very wealthy, you bought the best-quality clothing you could afford and wore it year in, year out until it fell to bits. Obviously, the advent of cheaper department stores and the home sewing-machine changed things greatly, bringing 'fashion' into the lives of the masses. And vanity has always been vanity - even women from the poorest backgrounds did what they could to be a la mode. Read 'Larkrise to Candleford' by Flora Thompson. She describes in affectionate detail the struggles of English agricultural labourers in the 1880s to introduce a dash of Parisian glamour into their wardrobes, padding their backsides with rags to make bustles and curling their hair in imitation of the 'Alexandra' fringe. Nevertheless, only women of the elite could really afford to up-date their clothes on a regular basis. In fact, with little else for them to do, a visit to their dressmaker was a useful way to fill up a bit of time. In opulent and monied societies (such as those of Edwardian London, Belle Epoque Paris and Gilded Age New York), magnificent gowns were a sign of status and an assertion of social prestige. Futhermore, dresses were changed four or five times a day - Edward VII, like Napoleon before him, was known to frown on any woman at his court who wore the same outfit twice in his presence. So any woman who hoped to become a 'Society' leader required a vast array of finery.
Which is all a very round-about and convoluted way of saying that Lucile would not have NEEDED to launch advertising campaigns in the manner of Calvin Klein or Ralph Lauren. The masses could not have afforded to patronise her anyway. Word of mouth was a very effective means of building a client-base and within the tiny, tightly-knit group known as 'Society' this would have been by far the best way to reach the top of the tree.
Of course, Lucy was a mistress at the art of generating publicity for herself. Her mannequin shows and her 'Gowns of Emotion' couldn't help but gain the notice of the contemporary press and thus a vast audience on both sides of the Atlantic. But it is also vital to bear in mind the very different social conditions prevailing around the turn-of-the-century when considering the concept of fashion and celebrity (or, in this case, the celebrity of the fashion designers themselves).
As for the Devonshire House Ball...I imagine that many people gathered to watch the guests arrive, marvelling at their wonderful costumes. This was in fact a favourite summer recreation of the working-classes in London, right up until the Second World War. Each night throughout the Season, the pavements of Mayfair and Belgravia would have been thronged with little groups of shabby young girls, watching tiara-ed and white-tied party-goers arrive at balls and 'crushes'. Nor was their interest necessarily ill-natured or offensive. As Consuelo Marlborough - still dressed as 'a lady of the court of Louis XV' - walked home through Green Park in the early hours of the morning following the Devonshire House Ball, she was both embarrassed and pleased to receive the compliments and blessings of the down-and-outs gathered on the grass.
I think that MANY people would in fact have read the wardrobe credits for the theatrical productions dressed by Lucile. During the 1890s, the West End and Broadway played host to some of the greatest celebrities of the day - the likes of Lillie Langtry, Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry and Cecile Sorel. These women were perhaps the nearest equivalents to the movie goddesses of the 1930s and were equally as celebrated for their beauty, chic and tempestuous love-lives as they were for their acting abilities. I've already touched on this subject in my recent posts concerning Leontine Aubart and the 'grande horizontales' of the Belle Epoque. Just as millions of women between the wars copied the clothes of Garbo, Crawford, Dietrich and Shearer, so too did many women take inspiration from the costumes worn by Langtry, Terry and their contemporaries. I'm not saying that the live theatre of the 1890s and 1900s reached as wide an audience as the Hollywood spectaculars of forty years later. But I would argue that the costumes displayed in smash-hits like 'The Degenerates', 'The Liar' and (of course) 'The Merry Widow' had an immense impact on contemporary fashion. Women in the audience would have had their opera glasses firmly trained on the outfits of the leading ladies and no doubt made mental notes of anything particularly stylish or striking, to be relayed to their dressmakers at their next meeting. Or else, they consulted their programmes, saw Lucile credited and made the trip to Hanover Square the very next day.
It is also worth remembering that theatre-going was very much a 'Society' activity during this period, as much as attendance at Ascot or Covent Garden. The ladies in the better seats would have been the same as those who patronised the great fashion houses of the day. In a very real sense, dressing a leading lady was, for the likes of Worth and Lucile, the best publicity imaginable.
I'd further add that, throughout the late Victorian and Edwardian eras, there was no equivalent to Topshop, Zara or Primark. The concept of 'throw-away' fashion did not exist. Unless you were very wealthy, you bought the best-quality clothing you could afford and wore it year in, year out until it fell to bits. Obviously, the advent of cheaper department stores and the home sewing-machine changed things greatly, bringing 'fashion' into the lives of the masses. And vanity has always been vanity - even women from the poorest backgrounds did what they could to be a la mode. Read 'Larkrise to Candleford' by Flora Thompson. She describes in affectionate detail the struggles of English agricultural labourers in the 1880s to introduce a dash of Parisian glamour into their wardrobes, padding their backsides with rags to make bustles and curling their hair in imitation of the 'Alexandra' fringe. Nevertheless, only women of the elite could really afford to up-date their clothes on a regular basis. In fact, with little else for them to do, a visit to their dressmaker was a useful way to fill up a bit of time. In opulent and monied societies (such as those of Edwardian London, Belle Epoque Paris and Gilded Age New York), magnificent gowns were a sign of status and an assertion of social prestige. Futhermore, dresses were changed four or five times a day - Edward VII, like Napoleon before him, was known to frown on any woman at his court who wore the same outfit twice in his presence. So any woman who hoped to become a 'Society' leader required a vast array of finery.
Which is all a very round-about and convoluted way of saying that Lucile would not have NEEDED to launch advertising campaigns in the manner of Calvin Klein or Ralph Lauren. The masses could not have afforded to patronise her anyway. Word of mouth was a very effective means of building a client-base and within the tiny, tightly-knit group known as 'Society' this would have been by far the best way to reach the top of the tree.
Of course, Lucy was a mistress at the art of generating publicity for herself. Her mannequin shows and her 'Gowns of Emotion' couldn't help but gain the notice of the contemporary press and thus a vast audience on both sides of the Atlantic. But it is also vital to bear in mind the very different social conditions prevailing around the turn-of-the-century when considering the concept of fashion and celebrity (or, in this case, the celebrity of the fashion designers themselves).
As for the Devonshire House Ball...I imagine that many people gathered to watch the guests arrive, marvelling at their wonderful costumes. This was in fact a favourite summer recreation of the working-classes in London, right up until the Second World War. Each night throughout the Season, the pavements of Mayfair and Belgravia would have been thronged with little groups of shabby young girls, watching tiara-ed and white-tied party-goers arrive at balls and 'crushes'. Nor was their interest necessarily ill-natured or offensive. As Consuelo Marlborough - still dressed as 'a lady of the court of Louis XV' - walked home through Green Park in the early hours of the morning following the Devonshire House Ball, she was both embarrassed and pleased to receive the compliments and blessings of the down-and-outs gathered on the grass.
