A Closer Look: The Mexican Rebozo

Still thinking about hoods. Then, yesterday, came across this beautiful cover photograph by Clifford Coffin for Vogue's April 1951 issue. According to the caption, model Jean Patchett'a headwrap is a Mexican rebozo, a term I'd never encountered before.

What fascinating garments these are. Essentially, they are the living fabric of Mexico, rectangular shawls that were traditionally handloomed, initially from maguey cactus fibers, later from cotton, wool, or silk. They were worn to lend warmth, modesty, and/or the ability to carry babies and other cargo hands-free, and then, with the Spanish conquest and sweep of Catholicism, they became mandatory head-coverings upon entering church. Today, according to this in-depth article by Vicky Cowal in The Herald Mexico, rebozos are still universally worn in Mexico across class and regional culture. Frida Kahlo, below, was rarely without one.



What sets rebozos apart from other varieties of shawl--from pashminas to paisleys to Cantonese--is the distinctive patterns that may be knotted into the fringe, macrame-style. Also, tells Cowal, traditionally-dyed black rebozos--often used as shrouds--are known as "rebozos de aroma," as the black dye has an unpleasant smell which is subsequently masked by soaking in rose petals, orange leaves, and fragrant herbs, whose scent may linger for years.



Authentic rebozos are still found across Mexico, and are ubiquitous in markets around the country. ¡Viva rebozos! Long may their tradition continue.

(photo of Frida Kahlo by Nickolas Muray, 1939, via thealameda.org, © Nickolas Muray Photo Archives. Red rebozo on loom from Glenda Alexandra Suarez's Flickr photostream, many thanks!)

How to Wear a Vintage Shawl, courtesy of Hermes

Feel very fortunate to be, temporarily, in a part of the world where I could consider wearing a shawl to dinner rather than a parka. Too bad I forgot to pack one. If I had, I would take advantage of this page from an old Hermes giveaway catalogue on how to tie one of their meter-square scarves. Last time I asked, the catalogue was out of print, which is too bad, because the instructions obviously apply to any great vintage shawl--of silk, wool challis, chiffon, or some other fine fabric.


The instructions here couldn't be simpler: fold the scarf/shawl in half, knot the two upper corners together, put arms through and wear as a capelet. Perfect for keeping shoulders and back out of the chill, while leaving arms and decolletage glamourously uncovered. Thank you Hermes, and please reprint that catalogue; I'd pay for it.

How to Wear It: Vintage Shawl

Frida Kahlo knew a thing or two about aesthetics. Just look at the swagger with which she wears this shawl, folded into a triangle, then the tips crossed and thrown over the opposite shoulders. This elegant little bit of origami directs the eye square onto her amazing face. Experiment in front of a mirror with a shawl or large scarf of your own, and see if it works for you too.

Burn This

Recently I won the eBay bidding for a vintage shawl by French couturier Balmain. Not the revived, sexed-up version of the brand now under the helm of Christopher Decarnin--this shawl is of indeterminate vintage but surely dates from the period when Balmain was the label du choix of aging European royalty and old-school Hollywood icons, women who liked their interfacings sturdy and hem length well south of the kneecap. No matter. It's workmanship I'm after, and this onetime rival to Dior and Balenciaga had that in abundance.
The eBay bidding never got over $10, largely, I think, because the seller described the fabric as "terry-like". Nobody's going to break the bank on a beach towel. But I went ahead because the scans looked great: the label dead-authentic and the weave design unusual and interesting.
I thought the moment of truth would be unwrapping the shipping packaging, but even pulling the shawl out, I couldn't pinpoint exactly what sort of fabric it was. There was no contents label attached. It looked good and felt good, like wool, but its more lowly synthetic cousin, acrylic, does a very good imitation. As much as I've trained my hand to find great fabric blind, it can't always tell the difference.

There was only one thing to do. Something I've wanted an excuse to do for a very long while. Set the thing on fire. Actually just a strand, in a burn test. If the fiber were wool, it would singe. If it were acrylic, it would melt.

Who says there's no mad science in the fashion biz? Burn it I did. And the resulting wisp of smoke smelled . . . like a bad home perm. It was natural hair for sure. Score!

And now I'll treat that shawl with nothing but kindness, for it will surely keep me quite warm during this weekend's snowstorm.