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Gothic to Goth Romantic Era Fashion Its Legacy at the Wadsworth Atheneum

Yesterday, two of my good friends and I decided to take the forty-five minute drive to Hartford, Connecticut to see an exhibit at the Wadsworth Atheneum entitled Gothic to Goth: Romantic Era Fashion & Its Legacy. One of my friends had actually heard about it from the curator during the planning stages a few years back, so we were excited to see how it actually panned out.

 To preface this, Im not only a Goth (as evidenced by this whole blog,) but Im graduating in a week with my BA in History and Art History. One of my biggest areas of interest is the Gothic Revival during the nineteenth century, and after a couple of years of working I will be returning to graduate school to pursue a Masters and then PhD. So, I have double-vested interest in this museum exhibit. Just thought I would put all my cards on the table before we begin.


The Wadsworth Atheneum is a museum which houses lots of different kinds of art, from pre-Medieval all the way up through contemporary. Its housed in a neo-Gothic, castle-like building on Main Street in Hartford.

(The "OMG," as I later discovered, is not just tacky signage, but also an instillation by a contemporary artist Jack Pierson. The website calls it a "colorful and engaging addition to the museum’s historic, Gothic-revival façade." I call it tacky, but what do I know.)

It has really nice galleries as far as I can tell, and I enjoyed wandering through. The Gothic to Goth exhibit is on the third floor. We started there and wound our way down through the rest of the exhibits.

No photography was allowed in the exhibit. Fortunately, I have a propensity for breaking the rules (especially stupid ones, but more on that at a later date) and snapped a couple of photos. If I get tracked by the FBI and have to remove these photos, sorry in advance.

The overall space was a little bit confusing to me. It wasnt chronological, but it also wasnt entirely thematic. It seemed to sprawl, taking paintings from the first decades of the nineteenth century and sitting them alongside dresses from the 1860s. There was very little sign posting about where you were supposed to begin or end (and you could entirely work backwards, if you didnt have any idea what you were doing.)

Also, it seems weird to me to title the exhibit "Gothic to Goth" and not talk about, you know, actual Gothic art from the Medieval period, but what do I know.

Side note: the dress that they use in the promotional shots, the blue and black one, is one of the most gorgeous dresses I have ever seen, hands-down. It also has an amazing Chantilly lace shawl with it from 1850 and I am stunned that it is in such good condition. Honestly the exhibit was worth $5 for me just to see that dress.

So, I have quibbles about the lay out and the history, but then again Ive worked in museums before and I like history, so for other people that might not be as big of an issue. If youre just here to see examples of gorgeous clothing and art, youll probably enjoy the exhibit. We all loved looking at the clothing and art regardless of the way it was presented.

Except, for readers of this blog, the "Goth" bit.

The exhibit wraps around in a circle and ends with talking about modern Romantic Revivals, which was a tiny room with very little context whatsoever. There were Steampunk pieces, two Alexander McQueen dresses, a painting from the 18th century (again, what the hell is chronology?), a dress by Helene Hayes, and two "Goth" ensembles."

"Goth."

You know when youre watching one of those videos (probably by Buzzfeed) where someone who is not a Goth tries on Goth clothing and it never looks quite right? Even if they were wearing something that a Goth might conceivably wear, something about the styling makes it seem off? Thats what these were like. They were assembled by Jean Paul Gaultier of all people.

Something about them is weird to me, possibly because theyre so unrepresentative of Goth fashion as a whole? Rather than showing the diversity of Goth looks (or even the earlier 1980s ones that were more punk inspired), we see these. Theres also very little mention of the music or political history of Goth, which I feel misrepresents the subculture. I probably wouldnt be as bemused by them if it werent for this, excerpted from the catalog:

"Intertwined with the New Romantics, Goth reached its height in subculture fashion in the mid-1980s. Although Goth street style has since faded, some followers remain loyal, and the fashion aesthetic has never disappeared."

Hm. Okay. Goth "reached its height" in the 1980s, "faded," and only has "some" loyal followers. Right. Totally makes sense.

Also, now Im nit-picking, but Jean in all his glory decided to add this Hot Topic wallet to the ensemble on the right and it clashes so much and is so desperately mall-Goth that Im laughing.

Do I seem bitter or annoyed in this post? I dont really mean to, but I remain somewhat disappointed by the representation of Goth here. Goth has been represented in a lot of museum exhibits, including Gothic Dark Glamour at the Metropolitan Museum of Art which I own the accompanying book to and which I feel accurately captured so much of the subculture. So, academics and curators outside of Goth can write about Goth, but the curators of this exhibit chose not to. And thats sad.

So, would I recommend it? That entirely depends. If you want to see gorgeous period clothing, learn something (but take it with a grain of salt) and laugh a little about the continual misrepresentation of Goth, yes. I had a good afternoon out at it anyway, and Im told the Wadsworth has free admission hours. So, if youre in the area, it might be worth it to you! (Also, Im a sucker and bought the catalog, so evidently I was not so offended by it as maybe I seem now.)

Gothic to Goth: Romantic Era Fashion & Its Legacy runs until July 10, 2016. If you want to learn more, you can read about it on their website there.

So, would you go to this exhibit? If you were in charge of a museum exhibit about Goth, how would you go about it?

Available link for download

Got Up Had Cup Of Tea Looked At Stuff

North Manchester is freezing, and I am listening to Billie Holiday. These two things somehow match, in spite of the fact that the recordings of Billie are crinkly and infused with dusty heat. My favourite Billie track is God Bless The Child, closely followed by her delirious version of Summertime. In Billie Holidays voice every song sounds like a torch song. I darent listen to Gloomy Sunday too much. Strange Fruit is wonderful, but is so eerie, and fills my thoughts with blood.

This blog has turned a little more diary-like. Everything around me is new, so I feel I need to document it. Writing it down in the same place where I have written about every other stupid detail of my life makes it more manageable. What I mean is: I have become rather more gotuphadacupofteawalkedthedogsawamusingsquirrelhadaspotoflunch recently. Apologies if this is dull. Go and read better blogs.

On Saturday morning I was awoken by the sound of children. I shifted on the sofa, adjusted the small duvet and squinted at the clock. Ten oclock. Thea and her children came down the stairs. Audrey (two-and-a-half) and Baby Ben (eleven months) were in good spirits, and Thea seemed to be feeling no ill effects from the night before, which had lead to us sitting on her kitchen floor at two thirty in the morning, talking earnestly and causing her husband to hear us from upstairs and chuckle, before slipping back to sleep. I had met Thea at eight oclock in central Manchester, under the bus stops. She was grinning, and looked radiant, pleased to be out and dressed up. Her escape from her children coincided with my escape from friendlessness, and we were in high spirits. The prospect of a shared bottle of wine in Manchesters famous jazz club shimmered on the horizon, and we chattered as we made our way there.

An hour and a half later we left the club set off for the train station, to meet her friend Jo from the train, as well as my friend Luke and his boyfriend, yet another Ben (this blog is rapidly becoming riddled with them). I was so happy to see Luke, particularly as he had promised me a present, apropos of nothing (apart from my wonderfulness) (I might have added in that last bit). As it turned out he had forgotten it - "Oh, dont worry! I am just happy to see you!" I lied - but asked whether I wanted to know what it was. Which, of course, I did.

Luke and I met at University, in rehearsals for a production of The Wizard of Oz, in which he was playing the scarecrow and I was playing Dorothy. I look back on that time with very fond memories, not just because I got to wear real ruby slippers and hold Toto (a hand puppet), but because I made some really good friends. Although standing on stage singing Somewhere Over The Rainbow in a plaintive voice whilst making Toto stare questioningly at members of the audience was probably the most fun I have ever had.

Luke had bought me a big print of the Lion, Tin Man, Scarecrow, Dorothy and Toto as they are setting off down the yellow brick road. What an excellent present! I was, and am thrilled.

Thea, Jo and I set out once again to another bar, agreeing to meet Luke, Ben and his friend Grace later. We stayed out late, and Thea said I could sleep on her sofa as Jo was in the guest room.

The next morning, after extricating myself from the clutches of their (really very comfortable) sofa, went to meet Luke, Ben, Grace and her friend Sam at the Famous Manchester Christmas Markets.

Unfortunately the rest of Manchester had woken up with similar ideas. I wandered around looking for them, nose to nose with the entire population of the North West. My phone had run out of battery, so after a wrinkle-nosed phone call from a phone box that smelled of wee and drug deals I launched back in to the fray. I have never seen so many people forcing themselves to be merry in one place. It is difficult to feel any genuine Christmas cheer when you have just been elbowed in the back by five seventeen year old girls attempting to take pictures of a singing moose, then tripped over a push chair the size of a tank and ended up with mulled wine in your hair. Eventually I found them, looking relaxed, sipping cups of afore-mentioned hair tangler. I grimaced, and spent the rest of the time glowering like a slightly hungover and agoraphobic Grinch.

The next morning I was on a coach at six thirty in the morning, heading back down to London to run a kids party in Hammersmith. I stayed the night before at Theas again. Nathan, Thea and I drank red wine (un-mulled) and constructed a gingerbread house, using the sweets provided as well as many, many Haribo sweets. We listened to reggae and then electro music. The endeavour was a roaring success, not least because it caused Thea to utter the following, historic sentence: "Oh! I was so busy robot dancing that I forgot to hold the frogs!". I do love a sentence that makes no more sense in context than it does out of it.

The Sunday kids party was a difficult one. The kids ripped bits of my dress, pulled my hair and demanded sweets at every juncture. The birthday girl, unfortunately, was not particularly interested in the Special Magical Princess! that had been ordered for her birthday, and was in fact far more interested in my iPod than she was in me. I sat on the tube afterwards, exhausted and sullenly eating the leftover sweets, and wondered whether it really is necessary to travel for five hours just to dress up in ridiculous clothes and have children demand to sit on me and attempt to press my nose stud further into my face whilst refusing to pretend to be a naughty goblin (again, context doesnt help). Almost as soon as I got home my phone beeped with a text. From the guys whose band I auditioned for last week, for whom I wrote three songs (two of which were alright, one of which was utterly shit).

"Hi Leonie. Thanks for coming down, we liked your lyrics and melodies, but were going to carry on looking for a singer. Sorry to waste your time. Good luck with everything."

Tears of rejection and humiliation rushed to the backs of my eyes. Then I forced myself to think about it rationally, dismissing my hurt pride. They were nice guys, but I sensed that they were after a salt-of-the-earth Northern band. They kept quizzing me about my jazz background, concerned expressions fluttering underneath their artfully-positioned fringes. I tried to sound confident as I assured them that I could write and sing in a less jazzy style, but I dont think any of us were convinced. Remembering how I had almost sprinted out of the rehearsal room after singing them my songs, how I had called my friend to express my uncertainty, and how my first thoughts had been "well, those lyrics and melodies could be used elsewhere", I knew that the rejection was no surprise. The hurt pride dispelled and I composed a gracious text reply. Then I paused, allowed a little hurt pride back in as I realized how short-sighted they were to be so insistent on being like every other male guitar band in the North, and snuck in a little passive aggression. Then I took a deep breath, deleted the text, and got back on with what I was doing.

The following morning I went to Upper Street and met Ms Robinson for a couple of hours and a couple of coffees. It was brilliant to see her, she was on great form. Sparky and entertaining, and full of wit and straight talk. I came away feeling energized and happy. Happier still when I made it to Euston, collected my train tickets and realized that something excellent had happened and I had accidentally booked myself a first class single back to Manchester.

I reclined in the big seat and was astonished to find that, in First Class, not only do you not have to squish in next to a spotty, deodorant-shy teenager listening to stadium rock as loudly as possible on a poor quality mp3 player*, but that they actually give you free stuff.

*This is invariably who I sit end up next to. It is like magic.

I wasnt hungry, but when the man came around I ordered a glass of Chardonnay. Free, please. He looked at me askance for a moment, before asking "are you old enough, love?".

I looked at him and smiled. "Im 26. Is that old enough?"

He blushed a bit and poured me the wine. "Yes, love."

The next time he came round he topped up my glass. "Sorry about that, love."

I watched him fill a spare glass with wine and put it down next to my already-full first one. "No problem" I said. "Im flattered."

I did have to keep reading my book very intently for the rest of the journey to avoid conversations with him, as he then got a bit chatty. A first class train journey on a Monday afternoon, though, complete with an empty carriage and free wine, was so much better than sharing a seat in a Megabus for five hours in the early grey-black hours of a Sunday morning.

This week I have been busy. Writing, and trying to convert the kids parties thing in London to one in Manchester. Also I have to sort out my website before the 19th December, when I am doing a gig at Pizza in the Park, one of Londons most well-known jazz venues. I am going to a gig in Chorlton tonight with Sarah, the girl I went on a blind friend date with last week. Tomorrow I have a guest ticket to go and see Sam Sparro, with Thea.

Billie has just started singing the blues, but I am not. I am going to go now and write those songs into my style, ignore the rejections that I will inevitably face, have a nice cup of tea and then look at some stuff.

Available link for download

Graduate Conference in Epistemology at Edinburgh

Greetings! I am helping to organize--along with Duncan Pritchard--a graduate conference in epistemology at the University of Edinburgh, scheduled for 13 November, 2007. The title of the conference is "Knowledge and Understanding," and we are excited that Ernest Sosa of Rutgers University will be the keynote speaker, with Duncan as the respondent.

Call for papers: Please send an abstract of approx. 500 words to:

Edinburghgradconference@gmail.com by 20 October.

If you have any questions, please e-mail:

J. Adam Carter: s0787306@sms.ed.ac.uk
Duncan Pritchard: duncan.pritchard@ed.ac.uk

Available link for download