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Wednesday 3 December 2014

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Corsets For Women Biography

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From the Eric Hoffer panel of judges: "In 1922 Rebecca Latimer Felton became the first female U.S. Senator for the term of only one day. This accomplishment might seem insignificant if it were not for Felton’s long and active involvement in social reform and ultimately women’s suffrage. Born into the destruction of the plantation south, Felton’s life parallels the reformation of Georgia from the ashes. Staman is an engaging biographer and does well to show us the landscape as well as Felton’s intriguing course of events. You’ll finish this book remembering that there is a seat at the table for everyone, if we strive hard enough and demand the very best of ourselves."

Spanning nearly a century (1835-1930)the life of Rebecca Latimer Felton was profoundly changed by the disastrous effects of the Civil War and Reconstruction upon her beloved state of Georgia. Although she had once been a Southern Belle, then loving wife and mother on a large cotton plantation, she began to step out of the traditions expected by southern chivalry and tradition. With her husband's encouragement, she became a woman politician forty-seven years before she got the right to vote. A tireless crusader, her attempts at political and civil reform are set against the backdrop of a state in violent chaos. Sherman's matches, Reconstruction's graft, one-party corruption, the KKK, lynchers, hallelujah evangelicals, chain-gang convicts, the sneering H.L. Mencken "unsexed" suffragists, WCTU crusaders, and something possibly worse than anything else -- a tiny insect called the boll Weevil -- all strut or crawl or sweep across the pages of this work.
If you were sick in 1831, the year that Thomas Mütter graduated from medical school in Philadelphia, you might have been wise to avoid physicians altogether. America was a backwater of medicine. Doctors still clung to the ancient dogmas of Hippocrates and Galen, with grisly results. They drained lakefuls of blood with lancets and leeches, raised mountainous blisters with mustard poultices and gave mercury pills enough to cause a flood of diarrhea, turning their patients' bodies into topographies of pain.At best, these treatments were fearsome placebos for patients with depression and hypochondria. At worst, for those with typhoid, cholera and other serious infections, they increased the risk of death from dehydration and organ failure.

Mütter, the long-neglected subject of this lively and engaging biography by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, was one of a handful of physicians who dragged American medicine into the modern era, helping to transform it into a powerhouse of scholarship and innovation.

When Mütter was born in 1811, he seemed to be a child of fortune. His mother was a bookish and beautiful product of Virginia's planter aristocracy, and his father was a well-to-do wheeler-dealer of Scottish stock. But both parents were tubercular and sickly, and their prosperity would prove illusory. By age 7, Mütter was an orphan. The son inherited his father's delicate lungs, restless ambition and debt-ridden estate.

Young Tom was packed off to boarding school and college, thanks to the erratic charity of a distant cousin, and eventually emerged as a cigar-smoking fop with mutton chop sideburns and a penchant for leghorn hats and silk cravats. After attending the young republic's premier medical school, the University of Pennsylvania, he went abroad to Paris, at that time the world's Mecca of medicine.

French medicine was skeptical, progressive and cruel, combining Enlightenment rationality and medieval brutality. Paris had two hospitals devoted entirely to the care of syphilis, one of which required all patients to be publicly whipped before and after treatment. The city also had a renowned school of anatomy, which solved the problem of cadaver disposal by feeding the remains to a pack of ravenous mongrels.

On the plus side, an American in Paris could watch technical wizards such as Roux, Lisfranc and Dupuytren at work in the operating theater. Philibert Roux was the most beloved of Parisian surgeons. His colleagues said he was "without fear, and beyond reproach." He was the first surgeon to successfully repair a ruptured female perineum, a dreaded complication of childbirth. Mütter greatly admired Roux's pioneering work in plastic surgery and cleft-palate correction.

Jacques Lisfranc was a surgical innovator and original thinker, daring to a fault. He treated a series of women with cervical cancer by amputating the cervix, leading to more deaths from hemorrhage and infection than cures. He is mainly remembered for describing a midfoot crush injury in a Napoleonic cavalryman who got his foot tangled in a stirrup while falling from his mount. Today, the Lisfranc injury is an occupational hazard of running backs and offensive linemen, and a bane of fantasy football owners.

Mütter also saw Paris's greatest surgeon, the brilliant and dastardly Baron Dupuytren, presiding over its greatest hospital, the Hôtel-Dieu. Pierre-François Percy, chief surgeon to the Grande Armée of Napoléon I, called Dupuytren "the best of surgeons, the worst of men." To Lisfranc, Dupuytren was "the brigand of the Hôtel-Dieu." Dupuytren was a self-made man, the workaholic son of a bankrupt country lawyer. As an impoverished medical student during the French Revolution, he had studied by the light of candles made of tallow filched from cadavers. In the operating room, he was a perfectionist, abiding by the motto "nothing is more to be despised than mediocrity." Driven by greed and sporadic fits of empathy, he outmaneuvered his colleagues to rise to the top of his profession and was awarded a barony by Louis XVIII. By the time of Mütter's sojourn in Paris, Dupuytren had become a brutal and domineering monster of conceit, literally leading patients around his clinic by their noses and throttling those who didn't follow his prescriptions.

Mütter admired the creativity, meticulous technique and cleanliness of Parisian physicians, while deploring their callousness. Seeing patients in agony was almost unbearable for Mütter. Colleagues said that he was "painfully sympathetic with the suffering of the patient," perhaps because as a child he had seen his parents waste away, and was himself always in poor health.

The young man made one additional discovery in the course of his travels: the umlaut. On his return to America in 1832, poor Tom Mutter the orphan became the more imposing Thomas Dent Mütter, Philadelphia social climber.

Mütter eventually found an academic home at the city's Jefferson Medical College (now Sidney Kimmel Medical College). Jefferson was brand new but had quickly become an elite institution, thanks to two distinctions that may not seem like much to us, but were remarkable at the time: The students saw patients early on in their training, in an era when live bodies were an afterthought at most medical schools, and the teachers actually put time and effort into their teaching.

Mütter was one of the first plastic surgeons in America. Plastic surgery seems to have been born in India, where the cutting off of noses was an ancient means of public punishment and private revenge. The absence of a nose being a grave social liability, there were many patients desperate for help. An anonymous Hindu brickmaker of genius came up with a solution, probably many centuries ago, and passed the secret down to his descendants. A wide flap of skin was cut from the middle of the forehead, swung downward, shaped into a plausible facsimile of a nose and sewn into place. A London surgeon named Carpue heard of the Indian method and used it in the early 1800s to restore noble British noses that had been lost to syphilis. Mütter used his own modification of this procedure to replace Yankee noses which had been bitten off in barroom brawls.

Mütter was also a pioneer of burn surgery. Victorian women worked around open fires while imprisoned in petticoats and corsets. Minor domestic mishaps could result in horrific burns, as with Miss Havisham in "Great Expectations." According to Ms. Aptowicz, the neck area was particularly vulnerable, being a "virtual powder keg in its combination of air, restrictive dense fabrics, and light airy layers of decorative cloth." Mütter operated on one young woman who had suffered such a burn in childhood. Thick layers of scar tissue on her neck had made her head immobile and distorted her face and jaw. He removed the scars and rotated a flap of skin from the neck and shoulder to fill in the defect. The procedure, now known as the "Mütter flap," was a complete success and is still used today.

Mütter bonded with his patients to a degree that his contemporaries must have found bizarre. He insisted that the medical school take care of patients overnight after surgery, instead of jolting them home over the Philadelphia cobblestones with their still-bloody incisions. Before his plastic surgeries, Mütter spent hours massaging the cleft palates, scars and gaping wounds that he planned to repair. He believed this would desensitize the tissues and make the operation easier. If nothing else, it promoted trust between patient and physician, enabling him to perform complex operations before the development of anesthesia. But Mütter was never satisfied with the status quo. When the first case report of anesthesia was published, Mütter became the first physician in Philadelphia to adopt it and championed its use.

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Tight Lacing Corsets Biography

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A FEW WEEKS ago, reading A. Scott Berg's biography of Golden-Age Hollywood producer Samuel Goldwyn, I came across an intriguing exchange. In a rare moment of ribaldry, Mr. Goldwyn's rigidly proper wife, Frances, orders a pink gin (straight gin and bitters) at a premiere party, adding with a titter, "The drink of London whores."

This passage was on my mind last week when a bottle arrived at my Queens, N.Y., apartment. Langley's No. 8, a small-batch gin, advertised itself upon its initial release in Britain as a return to form for the London Dry style, contrasting its time-honored botanical mix with the "softened, low juniper flavor profile" other brands have recently put forward in an attempt to "target female consumers." Langley's No. 8 was made for "the discerning gentleman."

With the release of the gin stateside this month, the company has dialed back the gender specificity. The brand's website now describes it as a gin for "the discerning, sophisticated consumer." Still, it's worth considering Langley's No. 8's implicit assurance that it stands as a bulwark against the rise of more "floral" gins such as Hendrick's, with its rose and cucumber notes, or Bloom, which was, upon its release a few years ago, marketed specifically to women (though the distiller—a woman—asserts that it's for everyone).

Gin has been my drink of choice since my 20s, when I had my first gimlet in honor of my favorite writer, Raymond Chandler. In his greatest novel, "The Long Goodbye," Mr. Chandler's detective hero, Philip Marlowe, famously drinks them. That was all I needed. I've had countless gimlets since, eventually expanding to other gin cocktails and even, occasionally—with "floral" concoctions like Hendrick's—drinking it straight.

So, I'm not a gin professional, merely a committed amateur. But all this anxious talk of female versus male gins strikes me as vaguely hysterical—the kind of panic typically inspired by women bobbing their hair or flinging off their corsets. At the least, it reflects Langley's strong belief that there are men out there who are made nervous by the idea they may be drinking something women drink, and are willing to pay £35 (it's going for $42 here) to get their pour on like Lord Nelson. After a rose-petal infusion, the deluge?

Is this imagined Langley's drinker one who aspires to an imagined past when discerning, ahem, consumers ruled the Earth? No. 8 boasts eight "traditional" botanicals plundered from across the globe: juniper berries from Macedonia, coriander seeds from Bulgaria, sweet orange and lemon peel from Spain, cassia bark from Indonesia and nutmeg from Sri Lanka. Of course, No. 8 is traditionally distilled in a copper pot, but she is named Connie, I'm told, short for Constance. Apparently No. 8 is feminine in origin after all. But aren't we all?

"I'm going to try this gin for men," I emailed a friend, the writer Jack Pendarvis, who favors rye.

"Don't turn into a man!" he warned.

"From the website," I said, scrolling through the Dickensian images of the brick distillery and vested bartenders, "it looks like they're targeting old white British men, possibly from the 19th century."

"Don't turn into Anthony Trollope !" he replied.

"This gin won't turn me into a man," I asserted, a bit nervously. "I will make this gin my woman."

Staring at the bottle sitting on my kitchen counter, squat with a black leather collar around its short neck, I felt distinctly as though it were looking back at me and assuming I would surely prefer a schooner of Skinnygirl Island Coconut Vodka.

But I don't believe in holding a gin's branding campaign against it—especially one that seems to have looked the American female consumer in the eye and flinched. And so, I put hand to leather.

Deciding to play the traditionalist myself, I followed the recipes on the Langley's website for the "Ultimate G & T" one night, and the "Gentleman's Martini" the next. While unable to locate the preferred Indi & Co. or Fever-Tree tonic (Canada Dry had to do), I otherwise followed the directions precisely, discerningly, and was delighted. This is juniper, I thought, inhaling piney pleasures that didn't recall air freshener even a little, but did perhaps summon my grad school, penny-pinching days of purchasing Gordon's gin instead of Tanqueray or (florals again) Bombay Sapphire. But, certainly, No. 8 was far more nuanced than Gordon's. It was tingling, sharp, delicious. By the bottom of the glass, I was reminiscing about the opium wars and recalling the days it seemed the sun would never set on the British Empire.

The following night came the Martini. Admittedly, I'm not a Martini drinker, but without the buffering effects of tonic and lime, a fundamental astringency in the gin came through.

The third night, I decided on a gimlet, for which there was no recipe on the website. Is a gimlet not the drink of a discerning gentleman?

To answer that question, let's return to Raymond Chandler, Chicago-born, but London-raised. In his "The Long Goodbye," gimlets are the delicate bonding mechanism between detective Philip Marlowe and the charismatic Terry Lennox, the man who will betray him. "They don't know how to make them here," Lennox announces at Victor's, the bar they haunt together. "What they call a gimlet is just some lime or lemon juice and gin with a dash of sugar and bitters. A real gimlet is half gin and half Rose's Lime Juice and nothing else. It beats martinis hollow."

Marlowe replies, less discerningly, "I was never fussy about drinks"—but he will change his tune.

The gin itself (unnamed) is likely a London Dry, though maybe not from a pot as storied as Connie. The point is, Mr. Chandler's world, his 1950s Los Angeles, is one we've long associated with a grittier brand of masculinity, yet the drink is sweet, and infused with melancholy. And Marlowe, no gentleman but definitely a hero, warms to the gimlet, ordering many through the book, and once correcting the bartender: "No bitters." (Perhaps differentiating himself from the London whores?)

I'm not fussy about drinks either, but Lennox's ratio is too sweet for me. I wanted to both give ole No. 8 its due and, well, make it my own. So I went with four ounces of gin, then one each of Rose's and fresh lime juice, and took a sip. The juniper sang, the exotic aromatics from the globe's corners mingled peaceably. I felt softly sentimental and filled with swagger all at once. It was, to paraphrase Mr. Chandler, a gimlet to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.

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Corsets For Cheap Biography

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To have a dream is to look to the future toward something brighter. Whether big or small, dreams require a perseverance and ambition so that they may come true. The idea that one’s life may change dramatically for the better is what keeps the dream alive.
Unwavering determination seemed to be the theme of Anne Fontaine’s Coco Before Chanel, a biographical insight into the early beginnings and tribulations that led legendary fashion designer, Coco Chanel, to be considered one of the greats at her craft.
On Thursday evening, UB club French Connection, a group of graduate students, screened the film in 109 Baldy Hall.
Dany Jacobs, a teaching assistant in French language and literature and president of the French Connection, strives to make learning about French culture fun and interesting through the club’s weekly events.
“[The French Connection] organizes weekly French discussions tables and movie nights,” Jacobs said. “In this way, people can learn by interacting with French speakers and [get to know] about the culture.”
The beginning of the film depicts the early stages of Gabriel Bonhuer Chanel’s (Audrey Tautou, Chinese Puzzle) life before she became known as the founder of the Chanel brand. The film starts with her father dropping a 12-year-old Chanel off at an orphanage in Corrèze, a territorial division in south-central France in the beginning of the 1900s. Her father never returns for her.
The film attempted to inspire viewers to achieve their own dreams despite hardships that occur.
“This is a film people should watch if they have a dream and they’re not really sure [of themselves]. Just go for it,” said Kelley Royes-Sullivan, a junior psychology major and media study and French minor.
Once Chanel turned of age to leave the orphanage, she led a life as a seamstress and cabaret songstress known for her performance of the song Qui Qu’a Vu Coco? (Who Has Seen Coco?), earning her the nickname Coco Chanel.
She attracted the attention of Étienne Balsan (Benoît Poelvoorde, Three Hearts), the wealthy textile heir to his family’s fortune. Balsan takes Chanel away from her unsatisfying lifestyle and into his life of lavishness and entertaining his affluent, elite guests.
This marks Chanel’s first experience with French high society, and the primary stages of her career designing her iconic fashion hats and garments.
Chanel always disliked the popularity of the “corseted” woman’s attire in France during the early 20th century. Her fashions have been lauded for expressing the modern woman at the time, whose fashion stressed comfort and practicality.
She emphasized a fashion that combined masculine silhouettes and patterns that followed the natural shape of a woman.
“Coco Chanel didn’t conform and her styles are still relevant today,” Royes-Sullivan said. “I like the idea of not sticking to the norm.”
In the midst of developing her craft, Chanel falls deeply in love with Arthur Capel (Alessandro Nivola, A Most Violent Year), a wealthy Englishman and friend of Balsan, who believes in her ability to change the fashion world. Capel helps Chanel form a business, and her life becomes full of love, happiness and success.
Shortly after, in the midst of Chanel’s bourgeoning success, Capel dies in a car accident.
Although devastated, Chanel continues her business and her determination stemming from her years in an orphanage, struggling seamstress and cabaret singer. She eventually earns the honor of the only fashion designer in Time magazine’s list of 100 most influential people of the 20th century.
Some students also gained a new perspective on life after seeing the depiction of Chanel’s trials and staying true to herself to be successful.
“I’m always thinking about what I want to do with my life. After seeing this film, I have a different feeling,” said Irene Llopis, a junior undecided major. “After seeing this film, I learned that when you’re absolutely sure you want to [achieve] something, you go for it with all you have. It’s a great feeling.”
On Monday at 3 p.m. the French Connection holds discussion events on the ninth floor of Clemens Hall. After the discussions, the club screens a French film with English subtitles, like it did with Coco Before Chanel, at 8 p.m.

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Corset Outfits Biography

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Sir Humphry Wakefield has a job proposition. He’s looking for a servant prepared to devote ‘life and soul’ to his stately home, Chillingham Castle. And, in return, he’s willing to pay minimum wage. That’s fair, after all.
Dear old Sir Humph is that rare creature, a feudal aristocrat. The 77-year-old has spent so long restoring his beloved pile in Northumberland that he seems to belong in the Middle Ages.
His pride and joy is a collection of broadswords, pikes and halberds that hang on the castle halls, and he needs an enthusiastic serf to keep them polished.
The baronet believes that the working classes should work, and he wasn’t afraid to say so on You Can’t Get The Staff (Channel 4).
Clearly, in his medieval haven, the baronet has forgotten about political correctness, which is likely to put the kibosh on any attempt to reinstate domestic service.
This amusing look at the relationship between Upstairs and Downstairs in the 21st century highlighted how hard it is to get a gardener, never mind a butler or a keeper of the armoury.
Princess Olga Romanoff, great-niece of the last of the Russian Tsars, needed a gardener’s boy to help out on her 35 acres of grounds.
A reasonable requirement, you might think, for an exiled royal whose Sussex cottage is a minor tourist attraction . . . until the PC problems kick in.
For a start, you can’t advertise for a ‘boy’. You mustn’t specify a ‘youth’. You shouldn’t even say ‘man’. What the princess required was a gardener’s person of indeterminate years.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2802503/wanted-enthusiastic-serf-polish-baronet-s-broadsword-christopher-stevens-reviews-night-s-tv.html#ixzz3KrlxHT99
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on FacebookAs it happens, one applicant was young and male. But political correctness scuppered any hope of hiring him — he spotted a ‘keep hunting’ sticker in the window of the princess’s battered car, and decided that his conscience forbade him from working for any employer whose political views differed from his.
Back at Chillingham, Sir Humphry was having similar problems. His first job-seeker was a pony-tailed swashbuckler who was itching to try out the swords, and who argued with every historical assertion — despite the fact that the baronet was an expert on antiquities who used to work at Christie’s auction house.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2802503/wanted-enthusiastic-serf-polish-baronet-s-broadsword-christopher-stevens-reviews-night-s-tv.html#ixzz3Krm18xMS
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on FacebookThis was a neatly constructed documentary, with plenty of pace and amusing moments. We watched as Lady Colin Campbell, the royal biographer, threw a dinner party in her tiny South London flat, with hired help.
And there were tips for aspiring valets and parlour maids — how to iron a newspaper, and polish a chandelier.
In the end, for both Sir Humphry and Princess Olga, the solution was to ignore the male candidates and hire a woman, someone with life experience who wasn’t afraid to roll up her sleeves and get on with it.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2802503/wanted-enthusiastic-serf-polish-baronet-s-broadsword-christopher-stevens-reviews-night-s-tv.html#ixzz3Krm5CSlY
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on FacebookYou might think there’s a lesson there. But I couldn’t comment: it wouldn’t be politically correct.
Another sexist assumption was overturned on the Children In Need Sewing Bee (BBC Two), as Hairy Biker Dave Myers joined three female celebs in the clothes-making contest.
Some might expect that portly Dave, with his Hawaiian shirts and face fungus, would be an unlikely seamstress. And they’d be right: after his first attempt to make a skirt, he lamented: ‘It’s more Coco the Clown than Coco Chanel.’
But he was a quick learner and, by the end of the contest, his Sixties mini-dress — run up from a roll of polka-dot fabric on a sewing machine — looked like classic haute couture.
Sewing Bee is blatantly modelled on Bake Off: it features three challenges spread over two days, judged by a pair of experts. Apart from this celebrity fundraiser, there have already been two series.
But it lacks the excitement of the cookery tent, because sewing is so much less hectic than baking. Instead of clouds of flour, bubbling saucepans of jam and towers of iced sponge, there is only the quiet clatter of the machines as they stitch the hems, and the mutter of contestants with their mouths full of pins.
Regular viewers will have spotted that the impossibly stylish Patrick Grant, the show’s Savile Row judge, has acquired a moustache. It looked positively caddish . . . but to say so, of course, would be politically incorrect.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2802503/wanted-enthusiastic-serf-polish-baronet-s-broadsword-christopher-stevens-reviews-night-s-tv.html#ixzz3Krm82AGn
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