Sewn in America Exhibit

“I shifted a ruffle on my white lawn dress waist- Last year it was a “hip ruffle” this year it is ‘transposed’ into a bertha ruffle.”

— Lilla Wyman’s Diary, Boston, 1893

In the 1700s and 1800s, fast fashion was unheard-of. Even the cheapest fabrics cost more than the labor to sew them into clothes and linens—up to 90% of a garment’s cost in the 1700s. In the 1820s, a Washington, DC milliner and dressmaker’s account book charged $2.50 to make a dress whose fabric had cost $8; she paid her assistants $3 to $4 a month, so the labor cost was significant, but still less than a third of the fabric’s cost. With the decreased cost of machine-made fabrics, this discrepancy diminished, but thrift was an ingrained cultural practice.

At every level of society, consumers were frugal with their textiles: mending tears, patching holes and stains, darning stockings, and altering garments for as long as they could still adapt to new trends. Adults’ clothes could be remade for children when they were past mending. Thrift extended to quilt making too. Worn-out crewel embroidered motifs were cut out of their bed coverings and curtains, or used as quilt backings. Quilted petticoats were sometimes made into quilts and vice versa (see Museum Catalog), and worn-out quilts could serve as batting for a new one. 

Until the ready-to-wear industry made men’s, women’s, and children’s garments widely available, women had to sew many of their family’s clothes. But for most of the eighteenth century this excluded fashionable gowns, which were beyond the dressmaking skills of most women. Less fashionable garments that were easy to make at home, but fashionable gowns demanded specialized skills passed down from one experienced artisan to another. 

(The term “mantua-maker,” meaning “dressmaker,” long outlived the garment for which it was named. The simple draped T-shaped mantua introduced in the 1670s was the precursor of most eighteenth-century gown styles. Mantuas were revolutionary because they were made by women instead of, as more formal dresses were, by tailors—who unsuccessfully resisted this incursion into their trade. Female dressmakers were here to stay, and dressmaking, and not just less skilled seamstress work, became a skilled employment opportunity for women.) 

Gowns had to be snugly fitted to the customer’s corseted body, draped and tucked and stitched down to fit over the stays (corset) perfectly snugly and smoothly to achieve the fashionable fit. Pleating, tucking, and stitching this way also conserved costly fashionable fabrics for later reuse. None of this could be achieved either by flat patterns or mass production, and such sewing was usually done by highly trained dressmakers called “mantua-makers.” 

The new bodice styles introduced in the 1780s, with pieced backs and drawstring-gathered fronts, heralded a major shift, as they could more easily be traced and duplicated at home. Dressmaking manuals throughout the 1800s advised paying a dressmaker for a well-fitted bodice and using it as a pattern for additional dresses. Still, many women up and down the social scale employed dressmakers for more than a bodice template. Today’s dependence on readymade clothing leads us to think of custom-made garments as a luxury reserved for the elite. Yet in the nineteenth century, nearly every community had a dressmaker of some skill (with the occasional exception of sparsely populated rural or early frontier communities). These professionals might make dresses as a part-time supplement to the family income or might support themselves entirely with their work. On a larger scale, there were many dressmaking businesses in larger towns and cities employing many women in various stages of garment construction (cutting, fitting, and sewing). 

Just as the business models of dressmaking varied widely, so too did women’s dependence on professionals. More affluent women could employ a dressmaker for all their dresses (and many who could afford it hired less-skilled seamstresses to do the “plain sewing” for the household as well). Many used the dressmaker’s skill in cutting and fitting but much of the sewing themselves. Women with smaller clothing budgets might go to a dressmaker less often, perhaps for a “best dress” once a year or less often, and copy the bodice patterns for other garments as described above. Unskilled attempts might go badly (see illustration). 

Even after the advent of paper patterns, a custom fit could be difficult to achieve. As societal expectations demanded that women present a “decent,” tidy, respectable appearance—neither scorning mainstream fashion nor following it to extravagant or frivolous excess—achieving a good fit was an important aspect of how a woman presented herself, aside from her desire to look well turned out.

With the advent of paper patterns, mail-order catalogs,  eventually ready-to-wear, women no longer needed dressmakers, whose numbers plummeted in the first two decades of the 1900s. But something was lost in the process: they had offered not only skill, but guidance on the latest styles and what design details might best suit a customer’s body type, complexion, and personal style. Before ready-to-wear, a woman and her dressmaker were co-designers, and each dress was a unique creation based on their choices of fabric and unique combination of construction details. Customers lost some of the individuality of custom-fitted and individually designed garments, and the relationship with a trusted fashion adviser who was also a good dressmaker. Patterns, drafting systems, and instruction books all attempted to help women make their own dresses. Patterns offered the best option for individuality, as each pattern supplied variations on sleeves or other details. The customer was free, and encouraged, to add her own touches. Undoubtedly many home seamstresses did so: after ready-to-wear took over American dressing habits, this aspect of home sewing was its chief attraction to many women who chose (and continue to choose) to sew their own clothes when it was no longer a cost-saving strategy. 

Although we are focused on women’s sewing, it would be remiss not to mention the many men who sewed. Boys were often taught very basic sewing skills; but as adults, few men sewed regularly. When they did, it was usually as part of a skilled trade—trades that often hired women assistants. The garment trades dominated by men included tailoring, glove making, shoemaking, and corset making; only dressmaking and millinery were almost exclusively female. 

But many other businesses involved sewing, including upholstery, which included the manufacture of all soft furnishings from mattresses to curtains as well as the fabric-covered seating furniture that the term connotes to us today. (Women sometimes owned these businesses too: Elizabeth “Betsy” Ross was an upholsterer.) Ships’ sails were made by men. Carriages’ interiors were upholstered and sewn; so were coffins. 

Other trades involving sewing included bookbinding, saddle- and harness-making, as well as other leatherworking—even surgery involves a needle and thread. The London Tradesman of 1747 lists over sixty trades that involve sewing. Many if not most of these trades hired seamstresses to help with the sewing; but they were male-dominated industries run by, and hiring, men who sewed.

Soldiers and sailors also had to pick up a needle and thread on occasion. For sailors, mending sails was a regular chore; and on a long sea voyage, they had to mend their own clothes—as did soldiers far from home. 

Until fairly recently, few occupations were open to women, but the sewing skills a girl learned could earn her a living. With specialized training, she could become a dressmaker or a milliner (hat designer/maker). Without such training, she could be a seamstress hired by families to make basic garments and linens, or working for a dressmaker, tailor, or upholsterer. 

Dressmakers and milliners with their own shops could make a good living. But the work was subject to seasonal dry spells, and customers didn’t always pay their bills. Seamstresses and factory workers, by contrast, were notoriously poorly paid and overworked. 

As the garment industry grew, thousands of women—mostly recent immigrants—found grueling jobs in factories, or in sweatshops (smaller commercial sewing spaces), or piecework (completed at home, often with assistance of young children). Men worked in factories and sweatshops too, but usually in more skilled, better-paid roles.

Prohibited from voting or holding office and excluded by social conventions from political activism, American women of the 1700s and 1800s used the tool assigned to their gender—the needle—to express their opinions, improve their communities, and support causes. 

Women in nineteenth-century villages, towns, and cities nationwide formed “Sewing Societies” to gather regularly to sew for charity. Some groups were affiliated with churches, but vast numbers were secular and formed along social groups. (Women also met along racial lines: most white women in antislavery groups excluded African Americans, who formed their own sewing and antislavery societies.) Many sewing societies focused on local institutions: orphanages, hospitals, or schools for disadvantaged youth. Often the goal was to make garments and bedding to give to local families in need; sometimes this included paying indigent women to sew some of these items. Aside from making items to donate directly, women sewed and embroidered things to sell at bazaars or “fancy fairs” beginning in the 1830s.

Such groups offered women a welcome opportunity to socialize and connect with one another in their community, with a regular morning or afternoon away from their home duties. The notion of a female-centered, female-led space aroused some anxiety and ridicule; some writers mocked sewing circles and assumed they mostly fostered a space for gossip. “I wish to gracious you could attend one of our Sewin’ Society meetin’s,” began one story written phonetically in an attempt at a humorous rural accent. “Miss Birsley had got some shirts cut out . . . [but] ther tongues went a good deal faster’n ther fingers did. . . .”  

Women continue to sew, crochet, and knit to voice concerns about social and global issues (see Craftivism, cat. numbers 81–87). Using needles for benevolent efforts, knitters donate to NICU units, senior centers, homeless shelters, hospices, and many other groups. Women (and some men!) make quilts to thank veterans for their service (cat. 80), or for people who have lost their homes, including refugees or survivors of floods and earthquakes (to list but a few examples of altruistic quilt making). Name a medical issue and there are quilters making quilts to support people struggling with it: memory quilts for those with Alzheimer’s, or quilts to keep cancer patients warm during chemotherapy, to name but two. In the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, women plundered their fabric stashes to sew thousands of colorful fabric masks to help healthcare workers during medical equipment shortages.

Today, women can take active roles in society and politics, whether as professionals with expertise or as concerned citizens. But there will continue to be those who pick up their needles to address or help alleviate these issues, too.

Sewing Societies sprang into action at the outbreak of the Civil War. Women on both sides, including many new recruits, volunteered countless hours to knit and sew clothing and bedding, and to make things to raffle and sell at fairs to support the troops. 

Women have continued to organize to sew and knit in wartime, both to supply troops with useful clothing and bedding, and to raise money and express support. 

“We are going to sew for [soldiers] in our society and get the garments all cut from the older ladies’ society…They say they will provide us with all the garments we will make. We are going to write notes and enclose them in the garments to cheer up the soldier boys.” 

—Caroline Cowles Richards, age 19, New York, May 1861