Fashion is everywhere, but how often do we consider the actual manufacturing techniques of the fabrics that we wear and with which we furnish our homes? How and by whom are they designed and produced, which technologies make them possible, and what connects them with other aspects of modern life? The complexity of these questions was thrown into sharp relief when an unusual and beautiful item came into our hands – a detailed manuscript record of the methods for producing silk fabric in the French city Lyon during the 1920s.
Lyon became a major centre for silk weaving during the 16th century, when Francis I granted the city a monopoly on the industry. During the next hundred years it became the European leader in silk production, encompassing all aspects of the trade including silkworm agriculture, spinning, dyeing, weaving, and textile design. Prior to the Industrial Revolution the city had the highest concentration of workers in France, with an estimated 15,000 people involved in the silk industry by the end of the 18th century. The introduction of new machines, such as the Jacquard loom, caused great social upheaval, but the industry survived and prospered, so much that in 1884 a school, the École de Tissage, was established solely to teach workers the complex skills vital to the production of silk fabrics.
The École first offered a basic day-time course for teenagers and a night school for factory workers and foremen, and then expanded to include courses in industrial design, machine embroidery, and machine maintenance. By 1914 it had 500 students, and that number had more than doubled in 1926-27, the year it was amalgamated with l’École des Beaux-Arts de Lyon.
This manuscript, compiled around 1920, is a highly detailed study of the theory and practice of weaving that was probably produced by a student at the École de Tissage, possibly as a type of dissertation. We know of similar manuscripts, some held in the municipal collections at Lyon, but are not aware of any as extensive as this – 388 pages in a regular and highly-legible hand, including many detailed technical diagrams and 88 mounted fabric samples. The text begins with basic explanations of the materials, their production, and the techniques of weaving. (Click on any image for the super high-res version.)
The opening leaf. The Art Nouveau title is a splendid touch.
Diagram of silk threads being spun.
Next there is a general survey of fabric types including bayadère, rep, taffeta, velour, cannelé, and gros de Tours. Each is accompanied by a weave diagram, a technical schematic of the information needed to create a particular pattern. Even as late as the 1920s, the production of silk fabric had changed little since the introduction of Jacquard looms at the beginning of the 19th-century. And it was this technology, specifically the punch cards used in Jacquard looms, that would lead to the development of the first mechanical calculators and then to modern computers.
Weave diagrams for chevron patterns.
Weave diagrams, including some for “satíne írréguliere”.
The bulk of the manuscript comprises 100 rigorous analyses (“décompositions”) of textiles, moving from plain fabrics to the exotic and remarkably complex damasks, taffetas, and crèpes for which Lyon was famed. Most the of décompositions include fabric samples and coloured weave patterns. This section also includes painstakingly illustrated explanations of weaving machines, including the different types of Jacquard loom.
Analysis of a taffeta pattern, including a fabric sample.
Losange pattern.
Cannetillé pattern.
Cross-section of a loom.
Further analysis of weaving patterns.
The manuscript itself is very prettily bound in maroon diced skiver on marbled boards (putting to shame all modern dissertation bindings!) The name C. Perret is in gilt to the spine and, while Perret is a common Lyonnais surname, it is interesting to note that the Directeur de la Condition des Soies, who was on the original commission for the school in 1881, was also a Perret.
This is a fascinating and handsomely produced manuscript, and a valuable historical record of the intersection between fashion, technology, and industry. If you know of similar manuscripts we would love to hear about them – please leave a comment!
To learn more about the history of silk production, visit silk history at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
One of the most rewarding aspects of the book trade is acting as a matchmaker between cultural institutions and historically significant items. At Peter Harrington we recently had the pleasure of securing a unique item for the Library of Congress: plans for the first medal produced by the United States, the Libertas Americana.
As the Revolutionary war turned in the favor of the Continental Army, Franklin routinely spoke of events in a mythological vein. In 1781, just after the battle of Yorktown, he wrote to John Adams “Most heartily do I congratulate you on the glorious News! The Infant Hercules in his Cradle has now strangled his second Serpent, and gives Hopes that his future History will be answerable”. The image was apt. Britain, the “mother country”, had sent armies into its colonies just as Hercules’s stepmother Juno had sent the snakes into his cradle.
With these sentiments in mind, Franklin conceived of the Libertas Americana as a way of commemorating the partnership between France and the United States. In March 1782 Franklin wrote to Robert R. Livingston, the Congressional Secretary of Foreign Affairs,
This put me in mind of a Medal I have had a Mind to strike since the late great Event you gave me an account of , representing the United States by the Figure of an Infant Hercules in his Cradle, strangling the two Serpents, and France by that of Minerva, sitting by as his nurse with her Spear and Helmet, and her Robe speck’d with a few Fleur-de-Lis. The extinguishing two entire Armies in one War, is what has rarely ever happen’d, and it gives a presage of the future Force of our growing Empire” (The Papers of Benjamin Franklin, XXV, 651).
The idea was approved and design work proceeded in France, with sketches being produced by Augustin Dupré, a goldsmith and medallist, and Esprit-Antoine Gibelin, a painter, draughtsman, and sculptor. Until now only three of the planning drawings were known: two signed by Dupré – one at the American Philosophical Society, the other at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris – and one by Gibelin in the collection of the Musée Nationale de la Coopération Franco-Américaine at Blérancourt. This newly discovered sketch is the earliest extant design, referred to in a letter of September 1782 to Franklin from Alexandre-Théodore Brorongniart, the King’s Architect, who wrote “I have obtained at last two rather large sketches for the medal from the sculptor whom I had the honour to speak to you about…”.
Comparison of all four designs suggests a clear chronology in the development of the medal and its symbolism:
Above, the initial design for the Libertas Americana, now in the collections of the Library of Congress. Hand-rendered en grisaille over a base of sepia wash with fine inked detail. This piece was most likely executed by the artist Esprit-Antoine Gibelin, as it is consistent in style and execution with his other classical studies.
Second sketch by Gibelin, probably a preparatory design for the engraver or die-maker, which is why the shading has been removed and the lines toughened.*
Sketch by Augustin Dupré, who was assistant engraver at the Royal Mint in Paris and joined the project in that capacity part-way through the planning process. This image incorporates some artistic changes, though not all would be retained in the final design. Note that that cradle has been replaced by a shield, representing the military origin of the new nation. The loose quality of this sketch indicates that it was a working drawing, probably produced during discussions of how to best render the design in metal.
Sketch by Augustin Dupré now held at the Musée des arts décoratifs in Paris. The final extant design drawing, with all elements of the finished medal in place and the image reversed for the production of the medallic die.
A completed medal, in bronze (via PCGS). The dates at the bottom are those of the battles of Saratoga and Yorktown.
This series of images beautifully demonstrates the ways that Franklin and his artists conceived of the medal, and how their design decisions related to its role as a political gesture. For instance, Franklin initially stated that he saw France as sitting beside the child, but quickly decided that this made the nation seem too passive, devaluing its role in the war. So a lion was added, even though it doesn’t appear in the original myth, so that France could be shown in actively protecting the infant nation. Though not too actively. It was important to make it clear that the Colonies had initiated the war and done the heavy lifting in defending themselves – hence the change to a low and defensive position for Minerva’s spear rather than a raised position of attack. Even seemingly trivial details such as the location of the lion’s tail were of concern – the tail between the legs was chosen to indicate cowardice on the part of Britain while making France seem less aggressive. The overall statement is gratitude for France’s vital military and financial support, while demonstrating the emerging power of the United States, which was able to defeat Britain with its own hands.
An unknown number of the medals were stamped in bronze and silver and given to generals, congressmen, ministers and other important figures in France and the United States, and gold examples were presented to the King and Queen of France. Additionally, Franklin sought to distribute the imagery itself via published accounts in newspapers and other sources. Despite sniping at home from some leaders, such as John Adams, Franklin’s gesture is considered to have been masterfully managed. With it he achieved the recognition of America’s fortitude, gratitude, generosity, and prowess at arms that he had sought, and placed her as an independent entity on the stage of international politics. Superbly composed, beautifully engraved, and above all scarce, the medal remains one of the most desirable American commemoratives, with a silver example making $115,000 at auction in 2005.
The Libertas Americana is a delicate symbolic balancing act and an elegant statement of Franklin’s feelings at the conclusion of the war. The original drawing represents a discovery of undeniable importance in numismatic and historical terms, and we’re thrilled to have guided it to its new home at the Library of Congress.
*The images of the three later medal designs are taken from Lester C. Olson’s excellent Benjamin Franklin’s Vision of American Community: A Study in Rhetorical Iconology (University of South Carolina Press, 2004).
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