On Saturday the 18th of April last year, a grey-and-black dress with black zig-zag appliqué, worn by Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O’Hara in the movie Gone with the Wind, was sold at auction in Beverley Hills for $137,000. Scarlett is first seen in the dress when she meets Rhett Butler (Clark Gable) outside her store, before she drives her horse and carriage on an eventful ride through Shantytown. According to Vanity Fair she wears the dress in four scenes in the film. It was the highlight of the auction. The magazine Vanity Fair explains the context:
The items up for sale were part of the private collection of James Tumblin, who was formerly in charge of the hair and makeup department at Universal Studios. His collection started in the 1960s, when he was doing research at a costume company. ‘I saw this dress on the floor and a docent told me not to bother to pick it up because they were throwing it away,’ he said, according to The Telegraph. ‘I asked if he would sell it to me. I had noticed that there was a printed label saying Selznick International Pictures and “Scarlett production dress” was written in ink.’ The cost? $20.
Tumblin went on to collect costumes, props, tools, posters, letters and souvenirs from the making of the movie. At the auction in April he sold 150 pieces, from his collection of more than 300,000.
Also on sale was the top half of another of Scarlett’s outfits, described as a calico dress; this sold for $32,500. According to a Vivien Leigh website, Tumblin claims that it was originally auctioned off by Leigh’s daughter, Suzanne Farrington, and later purchased at Christie’s. In the film this is the dress Scarlett wears for the longest period, from when she is working in the hospital in Atlanta during the war, and (with only one brief scene in another dress) right up to her return to Tara several scenes – and weeks – later. Unsurprisingly, given the events during those weeks and months, we see the dress becoming more and more tattered. (The website states that there were about fourteen copies of the dress made, in various stages of disrepair.) It is described in this way: ‘cotton, mauve, purple, and white floral pattern, high collar trimmed in white lace, 16 black button front closure, puffy, gathered long sleeves, same black button adornment and white lace on cuffs, numerous hidden snaps and hook-and-eye closures’.
I have been wondering why Scarlett would be in calico, which on the whole (and throughout the novel itself) is the material of dress for the lower classes and the servants and slaves. But sure enough, the text backs it up. She steps outside the hospital for a moment’s respite, and Rhett happens to be driving by.
‘You look like the ragpicker’s child,’ he observed, his eyes taking in the mended lavender calico, streaked with perspiration and splotched here and there with water which had slopped from the basin. Scarlett was furious with embarrassment and indignation. Why did he always notice women’s clothing and why was he so rude as to remark upon her present condition?
And in another scene soon after that, when she is tending to wounded men on the lawn of Aunt Pitty Hamilton’s house, we are told: ‘Her lavender calico dress, so freshly clean and starched that morning, was streaked with blood, dirt and sweat’. So the film-makers are being true to the text. Indeed, the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas, in a web exhibition about the making of the film, confirms this:
The film’s producer, David O. Selznick, was rigorous about production aesthetics. He required extensive research from his employees on Civil War fashion, including clothing, hair, and makeup. Selznick expected sensational costumes and vibrant appearances.
This web exhibition explores the purchase of the rights to Margaret Mitchell’s novel Gone With The Wind; the casting of star actress, Vivien Leigh, as Scarlett O’Hara; and the research-intensive aesthetic work in the film related to costumes, hair, and makeup.
Still, my suspicion that calico is not rightly Scarlett’s material is corroborated by a trawl through the 1,011 pages of the novel. Apart from the two references to this particular lavender dress, calico is mentioned six more times: the calico skirts and calico dress of the slave, Dilcey (possibly the same garment); the calico dress of the slave girl, Dilcey’s daughter Prissy; the heavy quilted calico of Mammy’s sunbonnet; the wallet of calico belonging to the hired hand, Will; and the ‘freshly ironed calicoes’ of the swamp men’s wives, ‘their lower lips full of snuff’ and their faces ‘sallow and malarial-looking’, at the funeral of Scarlett’s father, Gerald O’Hara. In contrast, Scarlett’s other dresses – more than fifteen references – are identified by an array of rich materials: muslin, silk, taffeta, watered silk with ecru lace, organdie, bombazine, satin, velvet (including the famous green curtains), brocade. So just her war-time and hardship dress is calico. But that was something else I was not sure about. The dress looked too pretty to be calico. My notion of calico matches this definition, from Wikipedia:
Calico is a plain-woven textile made from unbleached and often not fully processed cotton. It may contain unseparated husk parts, for example. The fabric is less coarse and thick than canvas or denim, but it is still very cheap owing to its unfinished and undyed appearance.
The website also points out that the terminology differs across countries – in the UK, Australia and New Zealand calico is ‘simple, cheap equal weft and warp plain weave fabric in white, cream or unbleached cotton’. In the U.S., on the other hand, it is ‘cotton fabric with a small, all-over floral print’. (The word ‘calico’ is taken from the name of the town of Calicut, or Kozhikode, in southwestern India.)
Printed calico was imported into the United States from Lancashire in the 1780s, and here a linguistic separation occurred, while Europe maintained the word calico for the fabric, in the States it was used to refer to the printed design.
Earlier that century it was the printed cottons that were the focus of intense debate in England, culminating in the Calico Acts of 1701 and 1721.
The early-modern sumptuary laws, regulating appropriate dress, had been repealed in 1604. But throughout the seventeenth century new anxieties about dress and fabrics arose, primarily because of threats to the domestic wool industry. The ‘calico crisis’ was preceded by concerns in the sixteenth century about the so-called ‘New Draperies’ – mixed fabrics, usually wool-worsted mix, originating in Italy and arriving in England from Flanders. By the early seventeenth century English manufacturers had confronted the threat by expanding their own skills, and switching to producing the new draperies, notably in Devonshire, Norfolk and Colchester. Far more damaging to local industry was the importation of cotton textiles from India, and particularly printed calicoes. These were shipped by the East India Company, founded in 1600; by mid-century the demand for the fabrics was huge, and the ‘calico craze’ was in full swing. Stephen Yada reports that by 1664 over 250,000 pieces of calico and chintz (a glazed and printed cotton) were being imported by the EIC. The reaction against this was not only motivated by a defence of the woollen industry, damaged by the competition. In addition, the relative cheapness of Indian cottons meant that not only the upper classes could afford it – a new fear was that mistress and servant would no longer be clearly differentiated. Daniel Defoe, a vehement opponent of calico imports, wrote:
We saw all our Women, Rich and Poor, cloath’d in Callico, printed and painted; the Gayer and the more Tawdry, the better.
Elsewhere he says of the calico trade:
‘Tis a Disease in Trade; ‘tis a Contagion, that if not stopp’d in the Beginning, will, like the Plague in Capital City, spread itself o’er the whole Nation.
In 1701 the first Calico Act banned the import of printed Indian textiles. The main consequence of this was that plain cottons continued to be imported, and English manufacturers took over the printing, mainly with block prints. A later Act, in 1721, forbade the wearing or use of any printed calico. This was a response to the calico riots of 1719 and 1720, which saw physical violence enacted against women wearing printed calico. Beverly Lemire cites one case among many:
In July , a young woman looking for lodgings in east London was targeted when ‘some People sitting at their Doors’ noticed a printed gown under her red wool riding hood. The simple sighting of a printed pattern was enough to spark an eruption. Despite the prominence of the red cloak, a traditional emblem of English womanhood, the local people took up the cry: ‘Callicoe, Callicoe, Weavers, Weavers!’ And within moments she was surrounded, pummelled, her clothes torn: ‘Her Gown off all but the Sleeves, her Pocket, the head of her Riding Hood, and [she was] abus’ed… very much’.
In the end, neither Act was terribly effective. And, as with the New Draperies, eventually the cotton industry began to develop in England itself – not just printing but also manufacture. Another act of Parliament in 1736 – known as the Manchester Act – permitted fustians of cotton-linen blend to be made and worn. Block printing was gradually replaced by printing by copper rollers (patented in 1783). And of course by the end of the eighteenth century, enabled by a series of other mechanical inventions, the production of cotton, centred on Manchester and Lancashire, had become a great and ever-growing industry. By then it wasn’t imported cotton goods that were needed, but raw cotton for processing and production. Initially this was obtained from the Ottoman Empire, the Caribbean, India and the Gold Coast in Africa. By 1857, 68% of all raw cotton arriving in Britain came from the U.S.A.
In a small square between Deansgate and Albert Square in Manchester there is a bronze statue of Abraham Lincoln, made by the sculptor George Grey Barnard and erected in 1919. It was presented to the city by Mr. and Mrs. Charles Phelps Taft of Cincinnati, Ohio. Transcribed on the plinth is the text of a letter Lincoln wrote ‘to the working-men of Manchester’ on the 19th of January 1863, thanking them for their support during the American Civil War. A meeting of cotton workers held in Manchester on the 31st of December 1862 had resolved to support the Union in its fight against slavery. It was a decision that created real hardships for the Lancashire cotton workers. The blockade of the southern ports by the Union meant that shipments of cotton were in any case not getting through; nevertheless, the political decision was an important statement of moral support, which Lincoln was quick to appreciate:
I know and deeply deplore the sufferings which the working-men of Manchester and in all Europe are called to endure in this crisis. It has been often and studiously represented that the attempt to overthrow this Government which was built on the foundation of human rights, and to substitute for it one which should rest exclusively on the basis of slavery, was likely to obtain the favor of Europe. Through the action of our disloyal citizens the working-men of Europe have been subjected to severe trials for the purpose of forcing their sanction to that attempt. Under the circumstances, I cannot but regard your decisive utterances upon the question as an instance of sublime Christian heroism which has not been surpassed in any age or in any country.
The assumption that Europe, including England, would favour the Confederacy was based both on recognition of commercial and industrial interests and on the prejudices of some of the British aristocracy. As Stephen Yafa says, in his history of cotton: ‘These dukes and earls understood and respected obedient servants in the fields and a master race in manses, serfs below and lords above. Many among Britain’s powerful upper crust campaigned energetically for the Southern cause, and for a time the Brits remained perilously close to siding with the Confederates.’ In the fictional world of Margaret Mitchell’s Atlanta, in GWTW, this confidence is represented in the optimism of the wives of those going off to fight:
And England was coming in to help the Confederacy win the war, because the English mills were standing idle for want of Southern cotton. And naturally the British aristocracy sympathized with the Confederacy, as one aristocrat with another, against a race of dollar-lovers like the Yankees.
A few pages later, Rhett Butler is there to put Scarlett right on the question:
Why Scarlett! You must have been reading a newspaper! I’m surprised at you. Don’t do it again. It addles women’s brains. For your information, I was in England, not a month ago, and I’ll tell you this. England will never help the Confederacy. England never bets on the underdog. That’s why she’s England. Besides, the fat Dutch woman who is sitting on the throne is a God-fearing soul and she doesn’t approve of slavery. Let the English mill workers starve because they can’t get our cotton but never, never strike a blow for slavery.
Rhett himself has been getting richer and richer by blockade-running, though having sold cotton in Lancashire he is unable to purchase guns and machinery with the income, and his money is for the moment left in Liverpool banks.
So the question of Lancashire’s attitude to cotton-buying during the Civil War is a little complicated: in the end, England remaining neutral, though never violating the embargo set up by the North; cotton workers making a statement of support for the Union (though not without dissenters); and blockade runners continuing to deliver cotton as and when they could. In any case, the cotton (and calico) links between Manchester and the southern States were crucial and complex. It’s worth noting that the great liberal politician and free-trader, Richard Cobden – a Manchester calico printer – was a passionate and articulate supporter of Lincoln’s cause in the war.
Another garment on offer at the Beverley Hills auction in April 2015 was the Confederate uniform worn by Ashley Wilkes on his return to Tara after the war. It sold for $16,250. The description on the auction website:
The jacket made of wool (now gray due to fading but originally blue), yellow wool collar and cuffs, decorative yellow detail on sleeves, seven button front closure (four buttons missing), blue wool patch on right elbow, purposely distressed with stitching, staining, and holes. ‘Selznick Int. Pictures Inc.’ label reads ’20-108-M-33’, inside right sleeve has a ‘Western Costume Co.’ stamp; together with a pair of purposely distressed uniform pants with numerous holes, patches, and stitching evident as well as a tattered hem, ‘Western Costume Co.’ label and stamp in waistband.
Ashley Wilkes is Scarlett’s unattainable love object, throughout his marriage to Melanie Hamilton and Scarlett’s own three marriages. Only very late, at the moment he is widowed and finally becomes available (page 996 of the book), does she realise she doesn’t love him after all. Leslie Howard, who played Ashley in the film, though very complimentary about Vivien Leigh’s acting, and especially her ‘terrific Southern accent’, hated his role in the film, as his son records:
He found Ashley ‘a dreadful milk-sop, totally spineless and negative’. Leslie was churlish about Ashley because he found the character unsure and vacillating, uncertain as a moth fluttering between lamps – the done-to instead of the doing man, torn between the opposing polarities of two equally determined women, Scarlett and Melanie…. He only saw Ashley as the man he neither respected nor wanted to be…. ‘I don’t really think I can do much with him,’ he admitted, in some alarm, to Selznick.
In addition, he had to break a ‘tradition of a life-time’: he had to wear make-up for the first time on screen, and was also obliged to bleach his hair to match Ashley’s ‘tow-coloured’ hair, because his own photographed reddish-brown in Technicolor.
The film was made in Hollywood in 1939, when Howard had already decided to return to England as war seemed increasingly likely. He left that summer, as soon as filming ended. It is ironic that these days it’s probably his best known film, though he acted in twenty-five other films, in Hollywood and England (as well as five silent movies). He also acted in many London and Broadway plays throughout his career, and narrated, directed and produced other films. But his least favourite performance pursued him to England, when Gone with the Wind opened there in April 1940 –perhaps especially galling given the reviews: his biographer Estel Eforgan records the Times comment:
Leslie received faint praise, the paper excusing him by saying his part is ‘too self-effacing to give his talent an opportunity’.
The film was a great success, breaking all records, and played continuously until 1943, ‘so Leslie was never to escape his most disliked role’.
On the 1st of June 1943, Leslie Howard was killed when the plane he was travelling in from Lisbon to Whitchurch airport near Bristol was shot down by German fighter planes. He had been on a British Council sponsored visit to Lisbon and Madrid since the 28th April, acting as a kind of cultural ambassador in the war effort. Since his return to England from the U.S. he had been actively involved in propaganda projects, including broadcasting on the BBC to America and Canada and producing, directing and acting in politically focused films (notably Pimpernel Smith and The First of the Few). Since his death, there have been competing conspiracy theories as to why the Germans would have shot down this civilian aircraft, on a route that had been running almost without incident for three years. One view promoted has been that it was believed that Churchill was on the plane; he had been at a conference in Algiers, and was on flights from there to Tunis and then later to Gibraltar at about the same time. In addition, this theory claims, Leslie Howard’s travelling companion, his accountant and financial adviser Alfred Chenhalls, bore a strong resemblance to Churchill. Although Eforgan and others have shown that this explanation was extremely unlikely for many reasons, Churchill himself contributed to this story in his history of the war:
Eden and I flew home by Gilbraltar. As my presence in North Africa had been fully reported, the Germans were exceptionally vigilant, and this led to a tragedy which much distressed me. The regular commercial aircraft was about to start from the Lisbon airfield when a thickset man smoking a cigar walked up and was thought to be a passenger on it. The German agents therefore signalled that I was on board…It is difficult to understand how anyone could imagine that with all the resources of Great Britain at my disposal I should have booked a passage in an unarmed and unescorted plane from Lisbon and flown home in broad daylight….It was a painful shock to me to learn what had happened to others in the inscrutable workings of Fate.
Some have identified others among the thirteen passengers (there were also four crew) who might have been specific targets, including Wilfred Israel who had been active in the attempt to rescue Jews from Germany, and to relocate Jewish refugees from Lisbon. Ronald Howard gives a number of reasons to support the possibility that his father was himself the target. In the end, as Estel Eforgan concludes after reviewing all the theories and all the evidence, it cannot be established whether anyone was the intended target; or whether, indeed, there were entirely other reasons for the attack, to do with the current stage of the war, or the motivations of the plane crews and their commander. She considers it highly unlikely that Howard’s war work – as far as is known, totally open and centred on film-making and related broadcasts and lectures – would render him an important enemy of the German regime.
Making it appear less likely that Leslie Howard had been the intended target was the fact that he and Chenhalls had switched flights only the night before, travelling a day earlier than intended. So their names were not on the original manifest. Still, it was not too late for this last-minute detail to have been noted and passed on, as Eforgan says:
The airport was simply arranged – passengers walked out openly on to the tarmac and climbed into the plane. Press photographers, German mechanics at the airport and any observers or spies would have been able to take note of the fuss and crowds as Leslie and twelve other passengers got into the plane. It seems that information proceeded from there to German sources, but whether it was directly acted up on will never be known.
John Barbirolli travelled to England in 1943, to take up his post as conductor of the Hallé orchestra in Manchester. Born in 1899 in London to an Italian father and a French mother, he had been in New York since 1937, conducting the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. He sailed from New York to Lisbon, and from there took the flight to Manchester on the 2nd of June. I first came across the suggestion that he and his wife, the oboist Evelyn Rothwell, had been due to travel on the doomed flight the day before, the 1st of June, in an obituary of Rothwell in January 2008:
In July 1939 Evelyn married John, and her orchestral playing career came to an end. She went with her husband to the United States, where he was conductor of the New York Philharmonic, and they stayed there until 1943. Crossing the Atlantic, particularly in wartime, was difficult and dangerous, and when the Barbirollis wanted to return many strings had to be pulled (including special permission from Winston Churchill) to get them a passage on a neutral ship to Lisbon. There they were told that they had to wait a week for a flight to England. The actor Leslie Howard was also in Lisbon, and when he decided to delay his return home, the couple exchanged tickets with him. They went on to Manchester, where John was to take charge of the Hallé Orchestra. A week later, they heard that the plane bringing Howard home had been shot down.
Barbirolli himself told this story, in an interview in Gramophone in 1969, though he says ‘As a matter of fact, I gave up my place to Howard’.
Of course, it was an act of God that I was not on that plane. The Germans thought Churchill was on it as someone who looked like him was seen getting on board.
His biographer, Michael Kennedy, gives a third version of this swap story:
The Barbirollis left sooner than they expected when two seats became available because the actor Leslie Howard wanted to stay in Lisbon for a few more days. So they flew home on a Saturday and Howard left the following Wednesday in the aircraft on which the Barbirollis would have travelled.
In fact Howard’s flight (1st June) was the day before Barbirolli’s, so the dates here are clearly wrong. And although Howard had in fact decided to delay his flight (awaiting the arrival of a film), re-booking for the 2nd June (and then, of course, suddenly bringing that forward a day), Evelyn Rothwell’s account doesn’t make sense, as they travelled on the 2nd June, not Howard’s original departure date. Nor could Barbirolli have given up his place to Howard. Although two people were bumped from the flight to accommodate Howard and his companion, there is no mention of the Barbirollis in the records of this transaction, and their names were not on the original manifest. Eforgan simply says ‘some other passengers were “bumped” for them, as they had priority. This proceeding was very common’. Ronald Howard, who spent years researching his father’s life and death, identifies the bumped passengers as a young boy, Derek Partridge, son of Major F. Partridge of the Foreign Office, and his nanny, Dora Rowe. In a letter to Ronald Howard in 1975 Derek Partridge recalled being taken off the plane. (And although Eforgan does not mention him in the book, she does include a photograph of him as an adult in the preface to the second edition.)
Still, the same flight, only a day later. It isn’t surprising that Barbirolli and Rothwell recalled this as a very close shave.
By the time John Barbirolli arrived in Manchester, the cotton industry was still active, though its decline had begun in the inter-war years. Since its inception by Charles Hallé in 1858, the Hallé Orchestra had performed in the Free Trade Hall on Peter Street. This grand and elegant brick building, designed by the architect Edward Walters, had been opened in 1856. It replaced two earlier versions of the Free Trade Hall, the first a primarily wooden structure built in 1840, the second a brick building of 1843. The new building was the principal venue for political meetings, notably – as its name indicates – the free trade movement which began with the Anti-Corn Law League, spearheaded by cotton merchants and calico printers. The meeting of cotton operatives in 1862, which pledged support to Abraham Lincoln in the anti-slavery campaign, was held at the Free Trade Hall. Later there were party political meetings, meetings of suffragettes, and literary events, including readings by Dickens and Thackeray.
But by the time Barbirolli arrived in 1943 the building was a shell. It had been bombed on the 22nd of December 1940. The re-designed building, which retained the original façades, was not built and opened until 1951. For his first few years as Hallé conductor, Barbirolli gave concerts in the Albert Hall and in Kings Hall Belle Vue, as well as other venues in Manchester. Concerts resumed in the renovated Hall on the 16th of November 1951. Terry Wyke, Manchester historian, celebrates the years of what he calls ‘Barbirolli’s hall’:
A suitably dazzling programme of music marked the opening of the hall…Music-making in the new hall was to be dominated by Sir John Barbirolli, who had been knighted in 1949. Under his baton the Hallé produced memorable interpretations of Sibelius and Elgar, and performed new works, including Vaughan Williams’ ‘Sinfonia Antartica’. In 1958 the Hallé Orchestra celebrated its centenary…. The orchestra was confirmed as one of the defining cultural institutions of Manchester.
Though even a century earlier, as Wyke says of its original conductor, ‘Hallé was the living proof that Manchester could offer the world more than cotton, and that Mancunians were capable of appreciating notes other than those issued by the local banks’.
It was not until the 1980s that discussions began to replace the Free Trade Hall as a concert hall, eventually achieved when the Bridgewater Hall opened in 1996. The old Free Trade Hall is now a Radisson Hotel – once again with a totally gutted and transformed interior, but retaining the colonnades of Edward Walters’ façades.
There is another website devoted to dresses from GWTW – though it isn’t actually allowed to mention the film:
Due to interference by ‘the powers that be’, we have been forced to remove any and all film references in any form: art work, images or photography.
Amongst other offers, you can buy this ‘Calico War Dress’ if you send off your measurements to email@example.com.
Constructed of approximately 18 yards of paisley calico, the bodice is flat lined, boned, and lined and closes with flat ‘M&M’ type buttons. The sleeves are trimmed with 16 buttons. It attaches to skirt, which is over 350 inches wide at hem, with 8 hooks & eyes. Bodice collar and sleeves are trimmed with cotton eyelet lace. The strapped apron is made of coordinating broadcloth. It closes with a bow in back with wide ties and has one patch pocket on the skirt front. Dress shown is optional heavier home decorating weight fabric. Dress requires a 7 wire hoop slip with minimum bottom circumference of 175 inches.
(There’s also the ‘Green Dress of Drapes’ – ‘saw it in the window and had to have it’ – still with no explicit reference to the film.) If you don’t want to wear the dress, you can buy the doll version, which comes complete with ‘distressing directions to achieve the aged, worn appearance’.
Thanks to Frances Pritchard, Curator of Textiles at the Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester, for helping me to clarify the different meanings of ‘calico’, and to Margaret Beetham, Viv Gardner, Ursula Hurley and Judy Kendall for comments on this essay.
Works and websites cited
Sven Beckert, Empire of Cotton: A New History of Global Capitalism (Allen Lane 2014).
Alan Blyth, Interview with Sir John Barbirolli, Gramophone, December 1969.
D. C. Coleman, ‘An innovation and its diffusion: the “New Draperies”, The Economic History Review, Vol. 22, No. 3, December 1969.
Ian Colvin, Flight 777: The Mystery of Leslie Howard (London: Streamline Publications Ltd., 1960).
Estel Eforgan, Leslie Howard: The Lost Actor (London: Vallentine Mitchell, 2010).
Ronald Howard, In Search of My Father: A Portrait of Leslie Howard (London: William Kimber, 1981).
Michael Kennedy, Barbirolli: Conductor Laureate (The Barbirolli Society, 2003 ).
Beverly Lemire, Cotton (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2011).
Beverly Lemire, Fashion’s Favourite: The Cotton Trade and the Consumer in Britain, 1660-1800 (Oxford University Press, 1991).
Margaret Mitchell, Gone with the Wind (London: Pac Macmillan, 1974 ).
Mary B. Rose (ed.), The Lancashire Cotton Industry: A History since 1700 (Preston: Lancashire County Books, 1996).
Chloe Wigston Smith, ‘”Callico madams”: servants, consumption, and the calico crisis’, Eighteenth-Century Life, Vol. 31 No. 2, Spring 2007.
Parakunnel J. Thomas, ‘The beginnings of calico-printing in England’, The English Historical Review, Vol. 39 No. 154, April 1924.
Terry Wyke, The Hall of Fame: A History of the Free Trade Hall (Radisson Edwardian Manchester Hotel, 2004).
Stephen Yafa, Cotton: The Biography of a Revolutionary Fiber (London: Penguin Books, 2005).
The images of the two GWTW dresses and the replica dress are taken from these two websites:
Please contact the author or the editors if there are any copyright problems.