Stepping away from the raw, often monumental landscapes I’ve been immersed in lately, a new book has landed on my desk, drawing me into a different kind of visual exploration. I’m deep into “The Color of Clothes, Fashion and Dress in Autochromes 1907-1930” by Cally Blackman, published by Thames & Hudson, and even at these early pages, it feels like a profoundly captivating journey into a bygone era. I’ve been truly enjoying the shift in perspective this book offers.

Now, anyone who follows my musings on photography will know my deep seated passion for photobooks, for devouring visual narratives that speak to the human condition, the passage of time, or the intricate ways we shape and are shaped by the land. Yet, it’s a curious, little known fact about me that alongside this devotion to the photographic image, I’ve always held a quiet, almost visceral fascination with fashion. It’s not about fleeting trends or chasing labels, but rather about the unspoken language of dress, how it embodies identity, aspirations, and the very spirit of an age. I recall, with a wry smile, the sheer, youthful exuberance of spending £95 on a Kafka t-shirt back in the mid-nineties, a piece of clothing that felt like a bold statement in itself, and then, in the very same day, finding pure joy in a perfectly cut £6 pinstripe suit. Those moments, those unexpected sartorial decisions, truly stick with you. And I can still vividly recall the buzz and excitement of attending the Clothes Show in Glasgow with Ruella in 1995, soaking up the vibrant energy of it all. For me, fashion has always been another compelling lens through which to understand culture, society, and individual expression.

This book, with Cally Blackman’s extensive and original research into autochromes – those exquisite, early colour photographs, many of which have been tucked away, largely unseen for over a century – promises to be a remarkable journey. Blackman, a renowned fashion historian, has brought to light a wealth of images that have rarely, if ever, been published since they were taken over one hundred years ago. It’s a testament to her dedication to unearthing these “cultural Cinderellas” of both medium and discipline, giving them the scholarly attention they deserve. The Lumière brothers’ invention, the autochrome, truly transformed photography, making reliable colour accessible for the first time. It was a groundbreaking process involving a mosaic screen of dyed potato starch granules, filtering light to create a fixed colour positive. This internal technology meant the autochromes provided an “uncannily immediate, relatable and sensory visual experience that collapses time and distance to connect us with people and their clothes from over a century ago.” Blackman delves into the concept of flou, a term that in fashion relates to delicate fabrics and in photography to the soft, hazy quality of autochromes. This intrinsic blurriness, often considered a flaw in photographic criticism, becomes, through Blackman’s lens, a part of the medium’s evocative charm, allowing for a dreamlike quality in the images.

What makes this book so intellectually stimulating is how it uses these early colour photographs as a springboard to explore deeper societal currents. Autochromes, with their rich, velvety colours, captured fashion as it transitioned from Edwardian elegance to the liberating modernity of the 1920s. This isn’t merely about hemlines, it’s about how clothing, as “the most powerful form of non-verbal communication,” tells us so much about people, from their occupation to their heritage. Blackman’s work challenges our conditioned feeling of history as a monochrome past, presenting a vibrant, true-colour record of an era that, despite the idyllic light of autochromes, was characterised by rupture, industrialisation, and profound change. The book beautifully illustrates how colour itself revolutionised everything, from art movements to consumer products, making autochromes an integral part of the “chromatic modernity” of the early twentieth century. Beyond the exclusive world of couturiers like Poiret and Chanel, the book reveals the broad sweep of autochrome usage, including numerous amateur photographs of family groups enjoying holidays in the countryside, mountains, or by the sea. These images of everyday leisure pursuits highlight how photography and film were seen as the most “modern and immediate forms of experiencing the world” at the time.

Flipping through the pages, certain images grab hold and refuse to let go, revealing so much about that era’s unique aesthetic and way of being. One that at once caught my eye is Leonid Andreyev outside his house at Vammelsuu, a self-portrait from about 1910, found on page 64 in section one. Andreyev stands beside a large rock, with flowerbeds by what appears to be a country house, wearing a double-breasted indigo linen summer jacket with white striped trousers and sandals. He also photographed himself in a similar white linen jacket. His overgrown hair and beard give him an air that transcends time, he could walk down any high street today and blend in completely, utterly unremarked upon. There’s a timelessness in that portrait, an unflinching ease with himself that truly resonates, making you feel as if you are gazing at someone from your own time, despite the passage of over a century. It’s a powerful reminder of how human nature, in its core expression, endures.

Then there is Miss Betty Ryan, photographed by John Cimon Warburg around 1909, on page 138 in section two. She is seated at a table, a vase brimming with daffodils beside her, and she has laid one flower out, lost in contemplation as she looks out a window. This image has such a beautiful, soul settling way of seeing. It has that immediate, nostalgic feel, like discovering a treasured photograph in your grandparents’ old collection, imbued with quiet intimacy and a serene beauty. The soft, luminous quality of the autochrome process here makes the scene feel almost dreamlike, lending a gentle, painterly effect to the light filtering in, highlighting the delicate textures of her dress and the petals of the daffodils.

The double page spread on pages 208 and 209 in section three, featuring three unknown European women in kimonos from around 1907-1909, at once sparked my curiosity and contemplation. These women are adorned in embroidered silk kimonos, with fans and approximations of Japanese hairstyles, decorated with flowers. It leads me to wonder about the context of the image, were they visiting somewhere, intrigued by the aesthetic, or was this a staged tableau? It raises questions about cultural appropriation, a topic Blackman addresses directly in the book, noting how Western fashion historically adopted elements from non-Western cultures. My own view on this is perhaps a little more relaxed, as a Scotsman, if anyone wishes to visit Scotland and embrace our culture by wearing a kilt, I believe it should be welcomed. For me, this image speaks to a broader human fascination with other cultures, a playful curiosity that, while historically complex, shows a desire to engage with difference. The sheer visual vibrancy of the kimonos, so richly captured by the autochrome, makes it utterly entrancing.

Finally, Bibi in Paris, photographed by Jacques Henri Lartigue in 1921, on page 267 in section four, is a striking portrait of evolving modernity. Bibi’s gently waved bob, her subtly applied eye makeup, rouge, and red lipstick, are all indicative of the new trends in beauty and cosmetics that appeared after the First World War. The autochrome renders this image in such a faint, soft, almost pastel palette, which adds to its ethereal quality. It captures a moment of liberation, a woman embracing a newfound freedom in her appearance, moving away from the more formal strictures of the Edwardian era. The soft focus and delicate colours make it feel like a cherished memory, a tangible connection to the spirit of the Roaring Twenties, revealing how personal style was truly at the forefront of societal change.

Cally Blackman’s work is truly impressive for its extensive research and for being the first of its kind to use autochromes as primary visual evidence for fashion history. She tells a compelling story of how these fragile, beautiful plates, once languishing in archives, now offer an invaluable, reliable register of the colour and materiality of clothes from this period of rapid social and technological change. The book is not merely a collection of photographs, it is a meticulously researched history that brings to life the intersection of fashion, photography, and society in brilliant, unprecedented colour. I can wholeheartedly say I’ve thoroughly enjoyed delving into this book, and I recommend it to anyone curious about fashion, early photography, or the vibrant tapestry of human life from over a century ago.

Regards

Alex