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Posts Tagged ‘victorian’

Photo: Creative Commons.
A popular Victorian-era Valentine Day’s card by Jonathan King,1860-1880, London Museum.

Do you make Valentines? It’s always been a favorite activity for me. I like cutting up different kinds of paper and I like having some kind of holiday on my horizon when the hyperactivity of the Christmas season is over. I’m the kind of person who, if her fruit cup arrives with a lacy doily underneath, saves it for valentines.

Today we look into research from Christopher Ferguson, associate professor of history at Auburn University in Alabama, to learn how Valentine cards were first manufactured in quantity.

Prof. Ferguson writes at the Conversation, “When we think of Valentine’s Day, chubby Cupids, hearts and roses generally come to mind, not industrial processes like mass production and the division of labor. Yet the latter were essential to the holiday’s history.

As a historian researching material culture and emotions, I’m aware of the important role the exchange of manufactured greeting cards played in the 19th-century version of Valentine’s Day.

“At the beginning of that century, Britons produced most of their valentines by hand. By the 1850s, however, manufactured cards had replaced those previously made by individuals at home. By the 1860s, more than 1 million cards were in circulation in London alone.

“The British journalist and playwright Andrew Halliday was fascinated by these cards, especially one popular card that featured a lady and gentleman walking arm-in-arm up a pathway toward a church.

“Halliday recalled watching in fascination as ‘the windows of small booksellers and stationers’ filled with ‘highly colored’ valentines and contemplating ‘how and where’ they ‘originated.’

” ‘Who draws the pictures?’ he wondered. ‘Who writes the poetry?’ In 1864 he decided to find out.

“Today Halliday is most often remembered for his writing on London beggars in a groundbreaking 1864 social survey, ‘London Labour and the London Poor.’ However, throughout the 1860s he was a regular contributor to Charles Dickens’ popular journal All the Year Round, in which he entertained readers with essays addressing various facets of ordinary British daily existence, including family relations, travel, public services and popular entertainments.

“In one essay for that journal, ‘Cupid’s Manufactory‘ … Halliday led his readers on a guided tour of one of London’s foremost card manufacturers. Inside the premises of ‘Cupid and Co.,’ they followed a ‘valentine step by step’ from a ‘plain sheet of paper’ to ‘that neat white box in which it is packed, with others of its kind, to be sent out to the trade.’

“ ‘Cupid and Co.’ was most likely the firm of Joseph Mansell, a lace-paper and stationery company that manufactured large numbers of valentines between the 1840s and 1860s. …The processes Halliday described, however, were common to many British card manufacturers in the 1860s, and exemplified many industrial practices first introduced during the late 18th century, including the subdivision of tasks and the employment of women and child laborers.

“[Halliday] noted how the card with the lady and gentleman on the path to the church began as a simple stamped card, in black and white … priced at one penny.

“A portion of these cards, however, then went on to a room where a group of young women were arranged along a bench, each with a different color. … Using stencils, one painted the ‘pale brown’ pathway, then handed it to the woman next to her, who painted the ‘gentleman’s blue coat,’ who then handed it to the next, who painted the ‘salmon-colored church.’ …

“These colored cards, Halliday noted, would be sold for ‘sixpence to half-a-crown.’ A portion of these, however, were then sent on to another room, where another group of young women glued on feathers, lace-paper, bits of silk or velvet, or even gold leaf, creating even more ornate cards sometimes sold for 5 shillings and above.

“All told, Halliday witnessed ‘about sixty hands’ – mostly young women, but also ‘men and boys,’ who worked 10 hours a day in every season of the year, making cards for Valentine’s Day.”

Lots more at the Conversation, here. Do you usually recognize Valentine’s Day in some way? How?

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Photo collage: Isabella Segalovich/Hyperallergic, using images from Wikimedia Commons.
Detail of embroidery design by May Morris overlaid with portraits of May and her father William Morris.

Is this the year that the contributions of women get recognized in a big way? There seems to be something in the air.

In any case, today’s story draws attention to art that most of us have known about for years as the work of William Morris. Who knew that much of it was by his daughter May?

Isabella Segalovich wrote recently at Hyperallergic, “On a bright, sunny day in Victorian England, a little curly-haired May Morris gleefully handed a ball of wriggling worms to her father, William. The legendary textile and wallpaper designer smiled: He was both glad to have fresh bait for his favorite pastime of fishing and proud to see his daughter happily playing in the dirt, a freedom afforded to few girls of their social class. 

“There’s plenty to admire about artist William Morris, from his timeless ornamental wallpaper designs to his late-in-life turn to socialist politics, where he imperfectly but tirelessly fought for workers rights and against British imperialism. Less well known is that by all accounts, William was a pretty great dad, who encouraged his two daughters, Jenny and May, to grow into incredibly talented designers themselves. …

“The sisters soaked up their father’s aesthetic brilliance as they carefully observed him experiment with drawing, calligraphy, and textile dying; William even provided them with their own dying kits for messy, colorful play. May enrolled in what is today the Royal College of Art in 1878, where she studied embroidery. This was in no way preparing her for a life of a housewife with an under-appreciated textile skill. Rather, her father had been slowly training her to take over the reins at his historic company’s embroidery department at only 23 years old — a business decision typically reserved for the sons of the era, not its daughters.

“There, she began designing patterns for Morris & Co. that became mainstays of the company, some of which, unfortunately, were later misattributed to her father. She supervised a team of embroiderers as they produced all manner of textiles, from bedspreads to book covers to altar cloths. Soon, she was a leading artist of the progressive Arts and Crafts Movement.

“Before long, the two were close comrades in the small but mighty English socialist movement: May stood close on blustery London sidewalks as William became a kind of socialist street preacher. Together, they broke from the Social Democratic Federation in 1885 and took part in founding the Socialist League, where May took charge of the group’s library and became close friends with Karl Marx’s daughter, Eleanor, another one of the league’s founders. …

“Scholars have noted that William Morris was certainly a flawed crusader for women’s rights, once proclaiming that ‘it would be poor economy setting women to do men’s work’ in the same breath that he called for ‘absolute equality of condition between men and women.’ A powerful feminist, May greatly improved upon his political legacy by co-founding the Women’s Guild of Arts for the crafters who were not allowed into the Arts and Crafts Movement’s foundational Art Worker’s Guild. 

“It’s quite likely that no one knew William Morris better than May did. After his death, while caring for her older sister who struggled with epilepsy, she edited a whopping 24 volumes of her father’s writing, each with introductions so studied and lengthy that they were later published as their own two volume set. Biographer Fiona MacCarthy wrote that their relationship was ‘partly suffocating, in the intensity of its demands, but in another sense a kind of freedom … It released her latent talents and brought her into contact with ideas and activities far beyond the reach of most young women of her period and class.’ 

“Even so, May was undervalued in her time, and she knew it. ‘I’m a remarkable woman – always was,’ she wrote to playwright George Bernard Shaw in 1924. ‘Though none of you seemed to think so.’ “

Gorgeous pictures at Hyperallergic, here. No firewall. Subscriptions encouraged.

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