'Big Wigs' & 'Ruffians'

‘Big Wigs’ and ‘Ruffians’

Decoding Dress in Male Portraits

Jacqui Ansell Senior Lecturer Christie’s Education

We are greatful to Jacqui Ansell for this blog and for her commentary on men’s fashion which has been incorporated into the online catalogue for our current display 'A Brush With Fashion: 500 Years of Male Portraiture'.

You won’t find many ‘Ruffians’ portrayed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; you will, however, find plenty of ‘Big Wigs’. These two terms pay homage to how much dress could signify social status in the past, and how outmoded forms of clothing can still be referenced in our language today.

To trace the meaning of these phrases we have to travel back to Tudor times, when ruffs were all the rage. These elaborately-starched and pleated linen garments developed in the middle of the sixteenth century from the ruffled shirt collar – necessary to gather the width of a wide T-shaped linen garment into the narrow neck. By the 1580s moralists like Philip Stubbs termed these enormous circles of voluminous linen and lace ‘cartwheels of the devil’s chariot of pride, leading the direct way to the dungeon of hell’ – stern stuff!

Ruffs could be made from long lengths of up to fifty yards of linen, stiffened with starch and shaped by the actions of skilled workers into varied shapes and sizes. The combination of costly materials and intensive labour created a status symbol that screamed conspicuous consumption – and conspicuous leisure – as such sumptuous and impractical garments were almost impossible to keep clean. Once washed and starched they would be shaped into ‘sets’ – the distinctive figure of 8 folds – that would be created by a heated rod called a ‘poking stick’ and secured by a pin or blob of wax. Every time they needed cleaning the elaborate process would be repeated, hence these became prized possessions, which their proud wearers would seek to have recorded in their portraits.

By 1600 a more practical alternative to the ruff was the ‘band’ – rather like our modern shirt collars – as worn by the four Ffolliot brothers in 1603. In John Marston’s play ‘The Malcontent’ of 1604 we encounter the following advice: ‘you must wear falling bands, you must come into the falling fashion; there is such a deal a pinning these ruffs, when the fine clean fall is worth all’. The practicality of the garment is clear when the character continues… ‘if you should chance to take a nap in the afternoon, your falling band requires no poking stick to recover his form’.

It was no wonder that the collar would replace the ruff in due course, but the two fashions co-existed until the end of the 1630s – albeit in a falling form that required less manipulation. Wills written by ordinary people in the 1630s reveal that ruffs continued to be worn in the countryside long after they became unfashionable at court. Some say that a ‘bandless’ person (one out of fashion and at the margins of society) became known as a ‘ruffian’ – a seductive notion.

If we turn to Cornelius Johnson’s magnificent full-length portrait of Charles I, we see that he wears a falling band of the finest linen and lace – the likes of which could cost the equivalent of a Ferrari in today’s money. Note too his long and luscious locks – a fashion that continued into the reign of his son Charles II (as can be seen in the miniature by Richard Gibson). For those not lucky enough to coax their natural hair into such wondrous waves there was the option of wig wearing – as made fashionable by the brother of Louis XIV who found himself thinning on top. Noted diarist Samuel Pepys was a dedicated follower of fashion, so it is no surprise to read that he bought his first wig in 1663 so that he could achieve the desirable length and thickness of hair – albeit not his own.

By 1700, any man with pretention to taste would wear a full-bottomed wig to signify their social status. Wigs came in a wealth of colours from brown to blond, as sported by John Closterman’s young sportsman. Once they had reached their maximum length around 1710 they began to rise at the crown into twin peaks. Such a splendid display of purchasing power was the crowning glory of fine dress and deportment, and really signified the wearer’s importance as a ‘Big Wig’.

Big wigs, full at bottom and top, were extremely impractical (which was part of their point). In civilian life a conspicuous signifier of leisure was desirable, but the man of action on the battlefield -rather than discard his wig – tied knots in the ends at back and sides. This so-called ‘campaign wig’ entered mainstream fashion in the 1720s, but was soon supplanted by the bag wig, as seen as Figs. 3 and 9 in Diderot’s Encyclopedia.

Such a source helps us to decode Johann Anton de Peters’ depiction of the two finely-dressed fellows building their house of cards. Their powdered wigs are gathered into a ‘queue’ or pony tail at the back, and then inserted into a black silk bag to prevent the powder from soiling the clothing.

Thomas Freyre’s sitter wears his own hair, but it is also powdered and gathered into the black silk bag, which is secured with a drawstring, and decorated by a stiffened bow. The view from behind would be as important as from the front – but sadly is rarely seen in portraits.

The most important ‘Big Wig’ in our parade of portraits must be King George IV, who was renowned for his love of fine clothing. Whilst his hair is not ‘big’ it is most certainly a wig – albeit a naturalistic one. Lawrence makes the most of the tousled hair that falls over brow and temples, adding a certain heroic dynamism to his appearance. The ‘Prince of Pleasure’ cultivates an appearance redolent of the values and appearance of a Roman emperor, underlining the fact that fashion and appearance (whilst lampooned for seeming frivolous) is a serious business for those in the public eye. Big Wigs of today take note!