Cape Crusader: Emile Pingat, Couture Superhero
The Parisian couturier Emile Pingat (c. 1820–1901) is often overshadowed in the history of fashion by his more famous rival, Charles Frederick Worth, the so-called “father of haute couture.” But there’s one area where Pingat was a superhero: capes. A time when women wore capes of many styles and shapes — designed for various activities and different times of the day — Pingat was the acknowledged master of the form.
Why were capes the must-have accessory of the late nineteenth century? The bulky crinolines and bustles fashionable during the period made it difficult for women to wear more fitted outerwear. Long capes, cloaks, and shawls emphasized the pyramidal silhouette of the crinoline. However, the bustle — a rearward protrusion that evolved from a sloping profile in early 1870s to the slim “princess line” of the late 1870s to a shelf-like right angle in the mid-1880s — demanded a short cape, or one cut short in back and long in front, like this one Pingat designed around 1891, appliquéd with velvet and trimmed in ostrich feathers:
Not only would the carefully engineered silhouette of a bustled gown be ruined by a longer covering, but the decoration of these gowns was often concentrated at the back, where swags of fabric, fringe, ribbons, and other trimmings called attention to the plumped-up posterior.
Pingat opened his business in 1860 with a partner, Hudson; by 1864, however, he was the sole proprietor of the couture house at 30, rue Louis le Grand, conveniently located near the Palais Garnier opera house and the Printemps department store.
Pingat sold both custom-made couture and ready-to-wear items, which probably included one-size-fits-all capes and cloaks. Her was known for being a perfectionist; an 1882 tailoring manual by James McCall claimed that Pingat’s work “can readily be distinguished” by his strict “rules” of dressmaking, and “the slightest variation by any workman would render him liable to instant discharge.” Like Worth, Pingat was popular among visiting Americans. He also dressed celebrities like actress Sarah Bernhardt and sopranos Mademoiselle Humberta and Emma Abbott, who wore his clothes on and off stage. Empress Maria Feodorovna owned an ostrich-trimmed Pingat cloak, which survives in the Hermitage Museum.
At a time when more was more in fashion, Pingat managed to satisfy the over-the-top aesthetic without ever overstepping the bounds of good taste. He often worked in a monochromatic palette, enlivened by a single accent color or an unexpected combination of plain materials (like wool) and luxurious ones, including silk, cashmere, and velvet embellished with three-dimensional trimmings of fur, feathers, lace, embroidery, beadwork, braid, tassels, and fringe.
While Pingat sold gowns of all kinds, he was untouchable when it came to outerwear, something his clients and contemporaries recognized. In 1880, the English magazine The Queen crowned him “a great authority on mantles.” A dispatch from Paris reported in 1885: “There are many mantles and Pingat’s mantles are chef d’oevures…. There was a cream Sicilienne mantle, bordered with emu feathers, and another of bright steel gauze, very effective and novel. With the latter there was a muff to match.” Many of his capes, cloaks, and jackets have survived in museum collections, undoubtedly thanks to their elaborate ornamentation, portable size, and relatively speedy obsolescence.
Outerwear provided the ideal canvas for Pingat’s talent for ingenious ornamentation and cultural fusion. Far from simply protecting the wearer from the elements, Pingat’s capes and cloaks were meant to be seen and admired, if only fleetingly. The many names given to women’s outerwear in the late 1800s reflect its myriad forms and functions, though they were sometimes used interchangeably or inconsistently. The name of the short cape or wrap called a sortie-de-bal — “exit from the ball” — neatly summarizes the purpose of the evening garment, which would be seen on the short walk between the ballroom and one’s carriage. A visite was worn for visiting, and was equally at home on the street or in a drawing room. A dolman — from the Turkish dolaman, a sleeved robe— had wide sleeves cut in one piece with the body of the garment; the term is still used to describe such sleeves today. A pelerine was a short shoulder cape; its triangular silhouette balanced out the hourglass silhouette that replaced the bustle in the 1890s, drawing the eye to the narrow waist.
A capuchin, named for the monastic order, was short and hooded, like a monk’s cowl; a capote (meaning “hood”) was typically long and hooded. By the late 1880s, Pingat had added short, ornamental jackets to his repertoire. While many of his earlier evening capes do not even have arm openings, the long, fitted sleeves of these jackets reflect women’s increasingly active lifestyles.
Pingat often hid surprises in his linings, which might only be revealed when the wearer removed her outerwear. A blue velvet cape trimmed with black guipure lace and ostrich feathers has a vibrant blue and red plaid silk lining.
Although long, it is split down the back to accommodate the bustle, as many of Pingat’s long capes and cloaks were. In May 1888, The Ladies’ Home Journal reported that “a high novelty in wraps from Pingat is a mantle of Lyons velvet in Gobelin blue, richly embroidered in unique designs in gray and blue silk, and finished with fall of fringe in the same colors.” A somber black velvet cape trimmed in brown feathers and heavy Renaissance-style silver lace reveals a dotted pink silk lining:
Exoticism was another Pingat hallmark. He drew upon Indian, Native American, and Near Eastern iconography for inspiration. A silk velvet dolman trimmed with feathers and extravagant chenille fringe is further embellished with stylized Indian boteh motifs, better known in Europe as the paisley pattern:
Similarly, a mauve silk cape has Indian peacock plume motifs rendered in beading and cord:
And a fringed, mink-trimmed cape of ivory wool embroidered with cording and turquoise beads merges Art Nouveau with North American Plains tribal motifs:
In 1889, the Oscar Wilde-edited magazine The Woman’s World declared that “Pingat comes next to Worth only as the inspirer and guide of fashion” and praised a robe-like at-home gown he’d made for a royal client, featuring “Byzantine sleeves, open and pointed” which “descended to the ground like great wings. They were finished off with a sort of tassel of white passementerie.” Similarly pointed, winglike open sleeves characterize this jacket:
And this fox-trimmed opera mantle combines two more of Pingat’s signatures, metallic embroidery and the poppy motif, here rendered in silver on ivory satin:
All this eye candy did not come cheap. Indeed, Pingat’s prices were so high that his name became a byword for luxury in the fashion press. In 1881, Maggie Sloan wrote to her mother in New York that she and her sister had been shopping in Paris and purchased “an opera cape for Lillie very simple at the Magasin du Louvre — twenty five dollars … an opera cloak for me at another place, stamped plush at seventy dollars and your cloak at Pingat’s for two hundred dollars.” Though costly, a Pingat wrap could elevate one’s wardrobe without the greater expense of buying a new gown. Mrs. Henry Adams of Boston purchased an evening cloak “made by Pingat and quite the ‘utter’” in 1882; she wore it with a Worth gown she’d had since 1879. Similarly, Jane Stanford paired a silk brocade Worth gown with a blue velvet and lambswool Pingat evening coat for her portrait of 1881 by Bonnat; the garment survives in the collection of the Cantor Arts Center, along with a Pingat gown and dolman of circa 1890 from Stanford’s wardrobe.
In the 1890–91 English-language Guide to Paris, Pingat was still counted among the city’s top three couturieres, alongside the Maisons Worth and Laferrière. But unlike Charles Frederick Worth, who passed his business on to his sons after his death in 1895, Pingat had no heirs to carry on his work. Madeleine Laferrière had opened her doors later and would live until 1912. In 1896, Pingat retired and sold his name and premises to M. A. Wallès, a younger couturier who, he hoped, would infuse the brand with new blood. Though Wallès stayed in business into the early twentieth century, he never equaled his predecessor’s success.