The story of the tutu: ballet's signature costume has a fabled past and a
glamorous present
Victoria Looseleaf
Fashion may be fickle, but tutu chic is bigger than ever these days. While singing star
Bjork caused a sensation draped in a white tulle dress with a swan's head wrapped
around her neck at the Academy Awards in 2001, French designer Christian Lacroix
continues to churn out haute couture balletic frocks of organza and tulle (matching
ballet flats are also de rigueur). And some may recall the astonishing sum of $94,800
that a collector paid for the Leslie Hurry-designed tutu Margot Fonteyn wore in Swan
Lake.
Indeed, the tutu has a storied past. With a name probably derived from the French
children's word "tu-tu"--meaning "bottom"--the costume is a product of evolution that
made its debut in 1832, an instant classic, so to speak, that's been swathed in magic
ever since. Marie Taglioni, performing on pointe (also a novel development then) and
wearing a costume sometimes credited to Eugene Lami, danced the title role in the
Paris Opera Ballet's production of her father Filippo's La Sylphide.
Mesmerizing audiences in what was later dubbed a Romantic tutu, Taglioni's costume
consisted of a tight-fitting bodice that left the neck and shoulders bare, and a
diaphanous, bell-shaped skirt. Falling halfway between the knees and ankles, it was
made of layers of stiffened tarlatan, or highly starched, sheer cotton muslin that gave
the illusion of fullness without being weighty. Voila! A new tradition-and fashion
statement--was born.
While the dreamy appeal of a Romantic tutu is a joy to behold, romance can take a
wrong turn. The first known tutu tragedy occurred in 1862, when 21-year-old Emma
Livry, rehearsing for the Paris Opera Ballet, brushed her Romantic tutu skirt against an
exposed gaslight, setting it on fire and causing her death eight months later from the
burns she'd suffered.
Undeterred, the evolution of the tutu marched on. By 1870 other Italian ballerinas,
bent on perfecting pointe work, had begun wearing tutus cut above the knee, allowing
them to showcase a bit more of their gams and increasingly complicated footwork, with
ruffled underpants attached to the skirt. Known later as classical tutus and made
famous by ballets like Swan Lake, these freer garments climbed farther north,
becoming even shorter when ballet entered the 20th century, the added tarlatan layers
creating a flared-from-the-body effect.
Diaghilev's Ballets Russes experimented with different lines and looks. In 1927 the
Russian constructivists Nauru Gabo and Antoine Pevsner designed an ultra-modern
tutu for Balanchine's La Chatte, which had a transparent overskirt made of a plasticlike material.
In the 1940s, wire hoops were inserted to enable the skirt to stand out from the hips.
Tulle, a stiffened silk, nylon, or rayon fabric, soon replaced tarlatan, making the hoop
an option, rather than a necessity. Still, there's a lot more to the tutu than, well, tulle.
Its exterior splendor is made possible by an interior that supports the dancer (the
bodice allows give, enabling the ballerina to move freely) and at the same time
absorbs perspiration, while the voluptuousness of the skirt ingeniously conceals the
trunks.
With up to nine supportive layers, each cut progressively wider, and a 10th decorative
top layer, the finished classical tutu is often ornamented with sequins, beads, or faux
jewels. All done by hand, the costume can easily cost $5,000, with less fancy ones
available from $1,500.
A Romantic tutu, on the other hand, comprises five layers of tulle, each layer cut to
about a 36-inch width. According to Jeanne Nolden, a tutu-maker who designs and
builds costumes for Southern California's Inland Pacific Ballet studio, between 25 and
30 yards of fabric are required per garment. Nolden says that it takes about 60 hours
to make a basic tutu. "It can be tedious, time-consuming, frustrating, and difficult. You
vow, 'Never again!'--until the next time," says Nolden. "It is truly a labor of love, but if
tutus are properly cared for, they can last up to 20 years."
A tutu frames a dancer's movements, its construction supporting the physicality of
ballet. Wearing a tutu generally marks a mature stage in a classical dancer's career,
since nothing exposes the precision of classical technique as does the brief, jutting
skirt with the snug-fitting bodice. Each tutu has its own history, with clues about its
stage life and its relationship to the body buried deep within its seams.
New York City Ballet's Maria Kowroski recently wore a tutu that had been worn by
Suzanne Farrell. She never saw Farrell dance, but the sense of abandon that Farrell
projected is the stuff of legend. "It's a weird feeling to think that she sweat in that
costume," says Kowroski. "I thought maybe it would give me more freedom just to
know that I'm wearing her costume." Then, only partly joking, she adds, "You never
know what's gonna come out. You don't know if it has magic powers."
American Ballet Theatre's Gillian Murphy, who performed the role of Aurora in the
company's new Sleeping Beauty, says, "I love dancing in a tutu. It's light and beautiful
and creates part of the magic." Murphy, whose mother began making tutus for her
when she was 11, says that they are sometimes a problem for men. "A partner has to
get used to the distance a stiff tutu creates between two people. He has to know where
the ballerina needs to be by the feel of it, because the tutu limits his vision of her
supporting leg."
Occasionally the tutu does not fully cooperate. Vladimir Malakhov, ABT luminary and
artistic director of the Staatsballett Berlin, describes an incident when he was
partnering Amanda McKerrow in ABT's Coppelia. "At the end of the adagio, a hook from
my sleeve stuck in her dress," recalls Malakhov. "I twisted my arm while lifting her
behind my back, and when I put her down, I couldn't lift my arm because I was stuck
to her costume. It didn't matter what position I took, we were stuck to each other. So I
ripped open my sleeve and we did the variation."
Ballerinas often have strong opinions about the style of tutu they prefer. When
Baryshnikov was director of ABT, he created a Swan Lake that harked back to the 19th
century when all the swans wore long tutus. However, Martine van Hamel wanted to
wear short tutus as Odette and Odile for her 20th-anniversary performance. She
preferred the way they "show the whole line" and she liked the more familiar tradition
of short tutus for the Swan Queen. "I was going to hide them in my dressing room and
wear them," she admits. Instead, she called up Baryshnikov, who by then was no
longer artistic director, and asked his permission. "He said absolutely, that'll be fine."
The gold standard of tutu design, Barbara Karinska, was a Russian-born emigre who
built spectacular costumes for dance, film, theater, and opera.
Although her Broadway and Hollywood career flourished, her heart belonged to dance,
especially to the New York City Ballet and Balanchine. She dressed more than 75
Balanchine productions, and originated the "powder puff" tutu in 1950 for his
Symphony in C. Its soft skirt distinguished it from the flat, horizontal "pancake" tutu
(which is still favored by Russian dancers). Now housed in the basement of Lincoln
Center in the wardrobe department of NYCB, Karinska's surviving handiwork totals
about 9,000 costumes.
"To help them stay stiff when they're not being worn," explains Holly Hynes, the
designer who serves as consultant to NYCB's costume shop, "short tutus are hung
upside down." Millinery spray starch can also help a tutu retain its shape, and layers of
tulle are often replaced when a skirt loses stiffness. To keep the garments fresh, many
are dry-cleaned after every three or four wearings (more ornate ones are dry-cleaned
only before being returned to storage), while some are hand-washed after each
performance.
Willa Kim has designed costumes for opera, television, theater, and more than 125
ballets, including ABT's new production of Sleeping Beauty. Although Kim's dance
costumes are not usually traditional tutu-wear, she appreciates the garment. "The tutu
is an invention that belongs to ballet," says Kim, "and although it has been copied and
has influenced designers and ready-to-wear, it is still an invention for the ballet and a
remnant of the Romantic age. There are a lot of us who yearn for that kind of
romanticism."
Variations on a tutu theme have been rampant, with William Forsythe using a new
design for his The Vertiginous Thrill of Exactitude, created in 1996 for Ballett Frankfurt.
They are flat circles made of stretch material, not tulle, but still recognizable as a tutu.
Oscar Wilde has said that fashion was "a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have
to alter it every six months." But it seems unlikely that the tutu, with its fabled history
and beautiful complexities, will go that route any time soon. "It has persisted as a
beloved silhouette for more than a hundred years," Willa Kim says. "In the torso of the
costume, you can include modern or stretch fabrics, but the silhouette has been set, is
appreciated, and serves dance wonderfully."
Victoria Looseleaf contributes to the Los Angeles Times and hosts a cable-access TV
show on the arts.
COPYRIGHT 2007 Dance Magazine, Inc.
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