[Embroidered portrait at UCLA's Clark Library. Image taken by Vim Pasupathi and used with permission.]
The Clark's catalog identifies this man as the Thomas Dekker.* Not that cute kid on all those 90s TV shows, but the early modern dramatist.
I'm going to go out on a limb here and say this is definitely not Thomas Dekker. For one, this man seems to be clothed in ermine, possibly some kind of parliamentary robe. Second, he's standing in front of a lavish manor house -- not an uncommon thing for the owner of such an estate to have painted behind his shoulder, but surely an odd choice for a probably low-born playwright. I'm guessing if we identified the house or the plant behind him (any thoughts?), we'd have a shot at identifying the man. Barring that, or a deeper investigation into provenance (maybe there's another Thomas Dekker?), the best we can do is say that this embroidered portrait seems to depict a late-seventeenth-century member of the nobility who wanted to be remembered for his lavish home, long locks and (the laurels indicate) his poetry.
Vim's intriguing find has spurred me to do something I've wanted to do for months: begin posting some of my in-progress research on the relationship between prints and textiles in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England. Although there are many wonderful books on early modern textiles, and many more on that thing we lumpishly call "print culture," the rich connections between prints and needlework are sorely understudied. What work has been done tends to examine them only in triangulation with some third factor (gender, literature), giving a somewhat skewed perspective as to the depth and variety of needlework extant from the period.**
So: what's up with embroidered portraits?
To answer that, I have to tell you a story.
A few summers ago, driving back from the Northeast, I decided to take a detour off I-95 to visit Agecroft Hall. For those who don't know -- which in my experience is, surprisingly, just about every scholar I mention it to -- Agecroft Hall is a Tudor manor house located outside Richmond, Virginia. Not a replica of a Tudor manor house, an actual Tudor manor house. It was bought at auction for $19,000 in 1925 by an Anglophile tobacco heir, Mr. Thomas C. Wiilliams, who then had the decrepit structure disassembled beam by beam, crated across the Atlantic, and reassembled outside Richmond, where it was to be the storied centerpiece of a planned housing development that Mr. Williams wanted to build on his family's farm. Think neo-feudal suburban chic for the upwardly mobile.
Sadly, Mr. Williams died before he could fully enjoy his (new?) home, and the estate stands now as a museum, complete with a Tudor knot garden and a variety of period furniture, including a lovely painted bed and a tapestry from Mortlake. If you're interested, Bob Vila can tell you all about it.
[Agecroft Hall, in Richmond, VA.]
I visited on a hot August day, with the temperatures soaring over 100F. The only people there, besides me, were a wilted family of four, alternately confused and bored, and our tour guide, a lovely elderly woman with a fan's enthusiasm for all things Elizabethan. As she led us up the carved staircase (imported from Warwick Priory), she pointed to a small case along the hallway. In it was this gem -- an embroidered portrait of Charles I:
[Embroidered portrait of Charles I, currently held at Agecroft Hall]
[Embroidered portrait of Charles I, held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.]
You can see how detailed the stitching is in the Met's high-res image (for more close-ups, visit the Met's page):
This image of Charles will be familiar to friends of the seventeenth century. Reproduced from a 1632 royal family portrait by van Dyck, it was widely disseminated in print through Wenceslas Hollar's engraving, which became the frontispiece for the Reliquiae Sacrae Carolinae after the King's execution.
Rebecca Hackett has a great discussion of these two embroidered portraits and their relationship to the cult of the Martyr King. Circulated as miniatures to be hung in cabinets or on walls, these portraits served as displays of loyalty among exiled royalists -- signs of one's allegiance to the unjustly executed monarch. Of course, a print could (and did) just as easily serve that purpose. So why do we find so many embroidered portraits of the King?
To answer that question gets at the uniqueness and interest of embroidery as a medium for portraiture in the early modern period. In an age that lacked (for all intents and purposes) color printing, needlework in silk or wool offered up richly colorful reproductions, cheaper than a van Dyck but more delicately textured than a black-and-white print. As this frontispiece shows (from a copy of the Eikon Basilike at the Beinecke), readers might paste or sew fabric over an image to make it more colorful or special; here, someone has used scraps of purple and white satin to "dress" the king with color:
[Copy of Eikon Basilike at the Beinecke Library.]
-- thereby linking his reproduced face to his actual body: to own a portrait of the King was, in a sense, to own a bit of the King himself. Other embroidered portraits might incorporate actual jewels into the subject's costume, as in this beautiful miniature of Queen Elizabeth I, wrought with gold and silver thread and embellished with pearls:
[I'm grabbing this image from here. It was sold at Sotheby's in April 2004 for $153,600 but I'm not sure where it went.]
Her face and hands are bits of painted vellum -- skin for skin.
The wide range of colors and textures available in silk, as well as the relative durability of sewn thread over blobs of paint, seems to have made embroidered portraits an especially attractive embellishment for books, and many extant examples are found on bookbindings. This copy of Francis Bacon's Essays (1625, now at the Bodleian) is worked with a portrait of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, copied from an engraving by Simon de Passe. As this edition is dedicated to the Duke, the portrait brings the book's inner order to its outer cover, acting as both a visual index of the book's contents and an authoritative stamp of approval: Villiers watches over the book. (I believe this was a presentation copy -- so in fact Villiers is watching over himself watching over the book dedicated to him.)
[Embroidered binding on a copy of Francis Bacon's Essays (1625), at the Bodleian.]
[Embroidered binding on a copy of the Bible. Late 17th-century; now at the Bodleian.]
Of course, once a portrait was worked on a book cover, it might easily be cut out and reused on valances or cushions -- or images from other textiles might be remade into book covers. This charming portrait from a seventeenth-century cushion is framed in a mirror, as if the cushion's owner is staring at a reflection of himself.
[From a 17th-century cushion in the Elizabeth Day McCormick Collection at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Image from Artstor.]
Yet, even though embroidery offered what print lacks, both forms were crucially linked in the early modern period. The thing we call "print culture," especially the availability of high-quality engravings, made these kinds of embroidery possible for a wider audience of amateur needleworkers, just as the demands of needleworkers critically shaped what "print culture" was -- the kinds of images that were printed, how and where they were sold -- in the latter half of the seventeenth-century. In fact, I've come to think that, in a very real sense, we can't understand book use in early modern England without knowing a little something about needlework, too.
After all, books are sewn objects.
* * *
As I was finishing up this post, echoes of earlier selves began to haunt me. I remembered the work of Jenny Hart, an embroidery artist who specializes in whimsical portraits -- portraits that look very much like our lop-eyed "Dekker" above -- and the interview I conducted with her as an assignment during my master's program. (My professor, Henry Jenkins, later posted the interview on his blog.) I loved embroidery before I became an early modernist -- I was convinced we should read needlework as a medium, although I didn't know what that meant yet (still don't; but we forge ahead) -- and, at the time, I was still myself an amateur needleworker. As a teenager, I had embroidered Leibniz onto a skirt (which I still love and wear -- it's held up well over the years!) --
-- and I later reproduced one of my favorite photographs of Louie Armstrong belting out a note on a red polyester skirt. (I recently dragged this out of the back of my closet to wear during my talk on sound with my jazz historian colleague Darren Mueller at the Digital Humanities 2013 conference; it seemed perfect for the occasion!)
Definitely the work of an amateur. But, there you are: needlework portraits, reproduced from prints. How did I get (back) here? Like a Tudor manor house absurdly dropped into the middle of Virginia, my past refuses to quietly fall into disrepair; it insists on being rebuilt one beam at a time, same same but different. I cringe a bit, sharing this with you. Especially that interview. But -- maybe -- this act of sharing will lead to a purge. Maybe after this, personal history will disappear, and my brain cells will be free to study whatever they want! Quantam mechanics! City planning! The ancient Egyptians! The world will be wide open!
..... more likely, I'll just keep trying to make embroidery relevant to everything else I study. Whether pulped for paper or burned for firewood, the panels of Agecroft Hall can never not be the wood of a Tudor manor house.
* I've only seen the short online entry. Its likely some catalog card or curator at the Clark could shed more light on why this was once identified as Dekker, and who it might actually be.
** If you find any the posts in this series useful to your own research, that's awesome. Please get in touch. I simply ask that you cite the post in anything you publish on that topic. Although I'm mostly posting images of cool things I've found, it's still the case that what you're reading is not the result of 5 minutes of wikipedia-ing but is based on many, many hours (days, weeks, months) of reading, studying, emailing and poking around libraries and special collections.