Where I continue to rattle on about ancient Egyptian dress and its infinite variety. The pleated kilt for men is quite common in hieroglyphs, paintings, and sculpture, although not always so long or heavily decorated as the one shown here (left). What puzzles me about this outfit in particular is the relationship between the sleeves and the rest of the garment. The chest appears to be bare, but the shoulders are quite curved suggesting that a garment is being shown rather than skin. It’s a really interesting style that I didn’t see elsewhere.

Here is another interesting one (above). The kilt is shown as though it is a thicker fabric, and then over that is something that is almost a long poncho made of a super sheer fabric. Small touches, like the reveal of a few ripples of flesh above the waist suggest that in this period, a more realistic view of people was being shown. And yet, the stylistic formula for the representation of the human body continues to be used. This isn’t a pose that anyone could assume. The emphasis is on the most emblematic version of each of the body parts, so the face is in profile except for the eyes, as are the legs and feet, but the upper body is shown head on just like the eye. Depending on when and where the paintings were located, the rendering of the arms and particularly the hands can be fairly mysterious. The feet are universally huge.

This representation of a goddess (left) shows a dress that falls from below the bust to the ankles, and is held in place both by a sash and two straps that go over the shoulders (you can’t see them, but they are there). It is designed to show feminine curves. While this type of dress absolutely was worn, no linen garment could be constructed so tightly and still allow the wearer to walk, or heaven forbid, sit down. Clearly, these representations are not only idealized, but created to show something the artist considered important. Perhaps the emphasis of some of the female curves? Another mystery.

You might wonder why I’m so captivated by linen, and while I’m always interested in the history of textiles, linen isn’t a subject I’ve spent much time on.

We all know about Egyptian cotton, the super long staple cotton that produces exceptionally soft garments and household textiles like sheets. I kept thinking that since cotton is such an easy fiber to prepare for spinning (compared to linen) it should have been more widely used. The only reference I could find on it for ancient Egypt was its supposed use for loin cloths of priests. I’m not sure where this statement comes from, and was actually surprised when most references stated that cotton was introduced into Egypt by a Frenchman named Jumel in the 19th century. Since Jumel actually found cotton plants in a Cairo garden, this doesn’t seem quite accurate, but for certain, Jumel convinced then ruler Mohammed Ali to develop a cotton industry. That was in 1822, and Egyptian cotton took over the market in Europe during the US Civil War. Cotton became the major export for Egypt and became the major source of export income for the country.

While the US was actually responsible for the rise of Egyptian cotton on the world market, China now is working toward ending that domination. That coupled with a lackluster effort on Egypt’s maintenance of a strong genetic profile is swiftly leading to a poorer quality production that is destined to die out.

There is more to say about cotton, but I’ll save that for another post.

Left: Portrait of Muhammed Ali Pasha, ruler of Egypt from 1805 to 1888

This photo is said to show an Egyptian man spinning cotton thread around his foot. The cotton bolls are clear in between the threads wrapped around his hands, but it isn’t clear exactly how the spinning was done.

Here are the two stricks that arrived in the mail while I was away. They have an interesting story behind them that goes back to a blog post about Berta’s Flax written by my friend Josefin Waltin. It is the story of a chest full of linen stricks from a woman in Austria that was given to the hand spinner and fiber artist Christiane Suefferlein who then proceeded to share this amazing gift with the world to unite fiber artists together. Berta’s Flax has, indeed, traveled the world. The shopkeeper for Conserving Threads on Etsy connected to a farmer in Egypt through the Facebook site where the story of Berta’s Flax continues to unfold. She was able to convince him to share his small crop with her, and that is how it came to me. From Egypt, to Texas, to Massachusetts. Flax makes connections — and friends.

Here is the wheel. It needs a drive band and a few bits of tidying up (which no doubt Bruce with happily take on). It’s waiting only for me to pick it up in a few days, and to bring it home and learn to enjoy it. Serendipity! What a gift.

My afore-mentioned friend Josefin Waltin sent me down a rabbit hole when she began writing about women’s pockets (we’re talking 17th-18th century).

To compensate for the lack of pockets in women’s clothing, pockets were generally made in pairs and tied around the waist. Worn between petticoats, they were accessed by lifting up the outer skirts, meaning you had to expose the undergarments (oh no!) to get to them.

Chanju Mwanza, in her article, “The Bewildering and Sexist History of Women’s Pockets” points out that this style of pocket came and went, primarily because (men) felt that women didn’t need to carry around anything and should rely on husbands, etc., to give them things (like money) only when needed.

The pocket was replaced by the “reticule,” a small bag that was carried and could hold little more than a coin and a thimble.

There are absolutely wonderful examples of pockets in many museum collections. This is an example from Scotland that has sent me down yet another rabbit hole; tambour work. That is a technique where a small hook is used to make chain stitches. It probably originated in India, and became very popular in the UK in the 18th century. This is the pocket that inspired me to try out that technique.

My interpretation on the silk bag above is taken from the elements in the lower right corner of the museum pocket. As you can see, turned, backwards, rotated, and not quite as detailed.

I was motivated to produce this for my trip to Egypt, so that I’d always have 2 hands available for taking photos. Rather than ties, I used a snap release buckle and webbing (like you find on backpacks) to make it easy to get it off and on (the return of the fanny pack).

It’s front and center in this pic of me with Bruce at Abu Simbel. This was one of the bucket list places I’ve wanted to see for years, and it was every bit as magnificent as I had thought it would be. This is the temple of Ramesees II carved out of the rock in the 13th century BCE. Nearby is a temple to his wife, Nefertari, of whom he wrote, “the one for whom the sun shines,” and “one lives at just hearing her voice.” Now that’s romantic.

My pocket was “upcycled” from a plain bag or purse that I believe came from China. I can’t remember where I got it, but it had some pretty ugly ribbon across the top and a broken shoulder strap, and yet a lovely purple lining inside. I replaced the ribbon by covering it with two pieces from my stash (the originals couldn’t be removed without disassembling the whole bag). I then traced the tambour designs (with modifications) on to the front flap and set out to do the embroidery. It was quite a fun project.

Unfortunately, my pocket didn’t hold up to the rigors of the trip. About half-way through, small pulls started appearing at two edges of the front flap; one at the upper right edge below the zipper, and the second next to the binding at the edge. Part of the problem was that the green silk was only marginally larger than the place where it was sewn into the binding, making it more fragile than I had realized.

On the positive side, it gives me a chance to do a little mending, and I do like this pocket, so will want to use it again.