A History of the Button

Listen. Listen hard.

Something is trying to tell you something. Those little round discs, there on your shirt. Yes, yes, your buttons.

They're saying, "Let us tell you stories, of our former glories. Plain though now we be, once magnificent were we."

You can't hear them? Well, maybe not. Life is awfully loud these days. And fast. And huge. Hard to focus on a humble little button.

Guess it's up to us to tell you stories of their former glories.

Which is as it should be. We owe a lot to buttons, all of us. (Especially those of us at Lands' End, where we affix millions of them to our products each year.)

After all, they protect us from immodesty. They keep the weather at bay. They give us something to do with our ofttimes nervous hands.

So settle down in a nice, quiet place. Give your tea a couple stirs. And join us as we tell tales of kings and queens, guilds and gilds, celluloid and corozo nuts, in "A History of the Button."

Prehistoric buttons? Well, maybe.
SHERMAN, SET THE WAYBACK MACHINE for Phoenicia, 3000 B.C. Here we see dusky people strolling hither and yon, working and talking, wearing the loose-fitting tunics of ancient times.

"Your mother wears military sandals!" shouts one man to another, as everyone laughs. (Ancient times were often merry, unless you were a slave, or lived next to an active volcano.)

As we observe these people more closely, we see objects that look suspiciously like buttons, at the gather of a garment, or hanging pendant-like around the neck of an official.

They are round, they seem to have shanks. Some are gold, some bone, some clay. Some are plain, others engraved with designs.

But are they really buttons? Probably not, in the modern sense of a functional fastener. But they were certainly a precursor of the modern button, and archeologists have gone to a lot of bother digging them up, so we herewith give them a nod of recognition, and depart for more modern times, and the first recorded mentions of the button.

(After all, mere speculation has no place in such a learned history as this!)

Commoners and kings.
ABOUT 1250 A.D. ETIENNE BOILEAU, Provost of Paris (sort of like the Mayor) established laws governing French craft guilds (sort of like unions). One of these was the buttonmaker's guild.

Guild candidates had to be at least 17 years of age, of legitimate birth, and willing to fork over a fifth of their wages to the guild, a tenth to their king.

This is about the earliest recorded indication that buttons were becoming increasingly popular. And, they were also becoming buttons in the true modern sense, thanks to the invention of the buttonhole by some unknown genius, perhaps as early as the 13th century.

People found buttons aesthetically pleasing. Inevitably, they came to be symbols of rank, affluence and, unfortunately, oppression.

Most commoners couldn't afford the fancy, finely-crafted tapestry or metal buttons the aristocrats had taken to wearing. But even had they scraped together the necessary francs, they couldn't have worn them: royal decree restricted them to plain cloth- or thread-covered buttons.

This must have rankled, especially given the extravagant tastes of the aristocracy, who aped the even more lavish styles of the French court.

In their lust for fancier and fancier buttons, the French kings drove the increasingly skillful guild buttonmakers to new heights of artistry, soon establishing France as the center of the world's burgeoning button industry.

King Francis I of France, for instance, had a formal costume adorned with 13,600 buttons, and resembled a Las Vegas casino when the bright light hit him.

A century later, Louis XIV embarked upon a 72-year reign of button buying that ultimately cost France over five million dollars, thereby draining the national treasury. (Four wars and a new palace at Versailles also contributed.) The Sun King favored gold buttons embellished with precious stones, and doled them out to whichever of his mistresses pleased him most.

The English kings got in the act too. Charles I of England, a contemporary of the Sun King, popularized the use of handkerchiefs decorated with jewelled buttons. (He was later beheaded, but not for that particular offense.)

Royal tastes were gaudy. Precious metals were abundant. Closer-fitting, more button-laden garments had come into style. (And most coats now had buttons on the sleeves, to discourage men from using them as napkins.) All these things helped usher in the century in which the button shines forth in its greatest magnificence.

The Golden Age of buttondom.
IN THE 18TH CENTURY, buttons truly became tiny works of art. And this isn't mere speculation, because many 18th century buttons survive to the present day, in museums and with the many individual collectors who cherish them.

Button making became a profitable sideline for many of the artists of the day. Between portraits, painters painted buttons. (Sometimes, even signed the buttons they painted, but few of these have survived). Famous potters made ceramic buttons. Silversmiths engraved silver buttons. Fine cabinetmakers carved rich wooden buttons. Weavers wove fine "passementerie" buttons of multicolored silks.

Typically, the most exquisite of these buttons are about the size of a 50-cent piece, made by mounting a painting or carving under glass within a metal shell which is fitted with a loop shank.

The fashions and buttons of France were copied eagerly by the rest of Europe. And as always, it was the French kings who set the trends.

Louis XV favored somewhat sedate engraved gold buttons, perhaps sensing revolution in the air, and not wanting to provoke the people. ("After me, the deluge!" he muttered darkly, near the end of his life.)

But Louis XVI reverted to the flamboyance of his royal ancestor, the Sun King, with outlandishly large and ornate buttons (perhaps in competition with the outlandish hairstyles of wife Marie Antoinette), and drew scathing fire from the philosophers of the day.

Frenchmen vied for button supremacy. A foppish gent might strut into a soiree wearing a waistcoat whose every button presented the portrait of a different lady, only to slink away in humiliation at the sight of a dandy each of whose own coat buttons depicted a different bawdy scene. (Satyrs bounding over picnic baskets, that sort of thing.)

Fascinating French buttons from the 18th century abound. The habitat button presented arrangements of dried flowers, shells, even (yuck) insects under glass. And the rebus button played to the vogue for riddles by displaying words and phrases that sounded like other words and phrases. When deciphered, they usually bore romantic messages such as "Love you without end" or "I'm a hog for you, baby."

(Just kidding on that last one.)

England steps forward.
FRANCE WAS UNRIVALLED for the artistry, the opulence of its buttons. But England soon began demonstrating its native mechanical aptitude with a flourishing button industry of its own, which extended into almost every nook and cranny of the Kingdom, and utilized many of the new materials then becoming available.

Birmingham gained fame for its metal and shell buttons. In the Midlands artisans produced horn buttons from the antlers of the stag. Dorset fashioned thread buttons. And in Burslem, Staffordshire, Josiah Wedgwood began creating his delicate "jasper medallions."

Inventive in stamping, molding, casting and suchlike, English buttonmakers pioneered techniques that allowed mass production of buttons, and made them accessible to almost everyone, not just a pampered few.

For working people who wanted to emulate the rich, Matthew Boulton created dazzling cut steel buttons, actually reproductions of earlier marcasite imitations of diamonds. The rhinestones of the 18th century!

While French buttons most often displayed scenes of romance or the arts, English buttons tended toward scenes of country life. Sporting buttons became popular, many featuring the wily fox.

Some well-heeled gents even commissioned sets in which each button bore the name and noble visage of a different beloved hunting dog.

Meanwhile, back in the USA...
AMERICANS BELIEVED IN plain speech, plain buttons. And imported most of those from England.

But a few small American button manufacturers did spring up in the 18th century, some of them quite inventive. In Philadelphia around 1720, German immigrant Casper Wister began making brass buttons. Later, his son Richard took over the business, and promoted the Wister buttons with a uniquely Yankee twist: he guaranteed them for a full seven years!

(A nice feature in those days, when buttons were used over and over, from one garment to another.)

Early American buttons were made of wood, pewter, brass. Phineas Pratt of Connecticut turned out ivory buttons as a sideline to his main occupation of making piano keys. And patriot silversmith Paul Revere fashioned fine silver buttons.

As the Revolutionary War approached, English imports became decidedly less popular. Just before the war, the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts recommended using domestic papier-mâché buttons rather than English metal ones. And, in 1787, an article in "Federal Manufacturers" urged against importing Birmingham buttons, recommending instead silver buttons engraved with the Federal eagle, made by red-blooded American silversmiths, and wearable "for years and for lives."

But out of necessity, English buttons continued to be imported for some time.

Perhaps the most prized of the early American buttons are those made for George Washington's first and second inaugurations. Hand-stamped in copper, brass or Shefheld silver plate, they are known to exist in 22 different patterns.

Ga ga over gilt.
THE 19TH CENTURY brought a more practical sensibility to the world, and with it, new kinds of buttons.

The French Revolution had swept away much of the extravagance of the aristocracy, and the dandies who had once so cravenly imitated the gaudy French kings now adopted the characteristic dark blue coat of Beau Brummel, with its large brass buttons. Women's neoclassical fashions required no buttons.

Buttons became smaller, usually about half the size of 18th century buttons. And, while they might still be handcrafted works of art, more often now they were mass-produced works of craft. France was slow to mechanize, so ingenious England gradually became the world's premier buttonmaker. And, created the first real button sensation of the new century.

The first wonderfully sparkly gilt buttons were made in Birmingham between 1797 and 1800. They were elegant, yet affordable. People took to them immediately, and they became the height of fashion. Even the Americans began making gilt buttons by 1810, after stealing the gilding secret from the British!

Actually, the process was a fairly simple one. Five grains of gold per gross (144) of buttons was added to a mixture of mercury, then brushed on the brass buttons, which were then cooked in a furnace. Buttons could be double gilt, triple gilt, and so on, depending on the number of grains or number of brushings used.

The new gilt buttons were the vanguard of a "golden age" of metal buttonmaking that flourished in the first half of the 19th century, and produced buttons that haven't been equaled to this day. Sporting buttons for the gent, military buttons for the soldier, even livery buttons for the household servant were all beautifully crafted.

Queen Victoria's contribution.
DESPITE THE BEAUTY of the metal button, its popularity was soon eclipsed by that of the cloth-covered button, especially after new machines were invented for its mass production. (The metal button did have an annoying habit of rusting, especially in the damp English climate.)

Other types of buttons appeared for the first time. Glass buttons, clear or deeply colored, decorated with paintings, inlays, molded scenes. Vulcanized rubber buttons, created by Charles Goodyear in 1851 after he accidentally dropped a mixture of rubber and sulphur on a hot stove. (But don't try that trick at home, kids!) And vegetable ivory buttons, from the corozo nut, a small sort of cocoa nut from South America.

In 1861, England's Prince Albert died, and Queen Victoria went into a mourning that would last the rest of her life. She took to wearing black jet buttons on her sombre black costumes, a habit her subjects and others around the world took to imitating with black glass buttons, until they became perhaps the most widespread buttons of the 19th century.

The last gasp of the elegant button.
AS THE CENTURY waned, buttons were being produced in more varieties than ever before. And, being worn by more people.

Men no longer led the way in the wearing of fancy buttons. Women had rebelled against their staid fashions, turning to jackets, vests and boots, in more adventurous colors, with larger and more ornate buttons.

Missionaries carried buttons to the far corners of the earth, to help clothe "the heathen." And wealthy travelers on freespending "grand tours" brought grand new varieties of buttons back home.

Homebodies were buying more buttons too, thanks to the increasing use of home sewing machines, and the invention of paper patterns by Ebenezer Butterick.

The first button collectors even appeared in the United States, young girls who gathered them for "charm strings." Legend had it that once a girl collected a thousand buttons on her string, Prince Charming would come and claim her for his bride.

Buttons were big business. But sadly, most buttons were becoming the mundane, mass-produced variety made from cheap materials. Primitive plastics had even reared their heads: an American billiard ball manufacturer offered $1,000 to anyone who could create a synthetic substitute for ivory, and enterprising John Wesley Hyatt invented celluloid.

Perhaps in reaction to this trend toward cheap buttons — and to the general clumsiness of manufactured goods — an attempt was made to revive some of the elegant buttonmaking techniques of the 18th century.

France again produced "under glass" buttons. Italy contributed glass "paperweight" buttons with tiny bursts of kaleidoscopic color. From China came fancy enameled buttons. Many countries made fine porcelain buttons, with painted or transfer-printed designs. And England created hauntingly beautiful silver Art Nouveau buttons, often picturing women with flowing hair and willowy forms.

Even the United Stated joined the revival, with charming "calico" buttons, made of china and featuring designs reminiscent of homespun checked calico fabric patterns.

But the most popular buttons at the turn of the century weren't the least bit elegant. They were "picture buttons," often worn in long rows down the front of coats or dresses, and picturing everything imaginable.

In this vein, in the early years of George V, some English sports took to wearing "theatrical buttons" on their waistcoats, with prints or photos of actresses under clear celluloid, but they were considered "common" by the upper classes, who disapproved of anyone appearing to have too much fun.

Marching toward the mundane with Modern Buttons.
AROUND THE TURN OF THE CENTURY men adopted the 4-hole button as their standard. And women soon followed suit especially after more "man tailored" clothing became popular after World War I, due to the influence of the military uniform.

Now, the 4-hole button is a wonderful invention, but it simply doesn't offer the decorative possibilities that a shank button does. So it hastened the decline of its more colorful cousin.

Other enemies to the fancy button loomed. Modern synthetics. The zipper. And later, the spin drier.

But the 20th century button still had a few surprises left, to make us smile, and shake our heads in admiration.

In the Roaring Twenties, flappers Charlestoned wearing garter buttons (often featuring the face of Betty Boop). And as longer, more feminine clothing styles became popular, large glass and pottery buttons appeared. Celluloid was also used but fell out of favor due to its flammability.

Unfortunately, costume jewelry also became popular, lessening the need for fancy buttons as wardrobe accents.

Come the 30s, the novelty button appeared to help take our minds off the Depression. It might look like a cigarette pack. A basket of fruit. A ukelele. A pork chop. Even Mickey Mouse.

It made us laugh. And it didn't cost a lot, because it was made of plastic, and you could buy it at the dimestore.

When families gathered around the radio for entertainment, they might hear the voice of Mrs. Gertrude Patterson, who spoke about her beloved button collection, and inspired people to begin searching attics and old pinboxes for tiny treasures. It was a diversion people could afford.

Occasionally, a fashion designer came along who recognized the potential of the button. Elsa Sciaparelli, famous for her collaborations with artists like Dali and Cocteau, designed in 1938 a silk brocade jacket decorated with carousel horses highlighted with buttons in the shape of acrobats tumbling down the front.

But Sciaparelli also promoted the button's noisy new nemesis, the zipper, which was picking up steam after a lackluster start on money belts, tobacco pouches and galoshes.

(The name "zipper" had been coined by B. F. Goodrich president Bertram G. Work who was looking for a new name for his "Mystic Boot," which featured the newfangled fastener, a name with some "zip," and so began calling it "The Zipper Boot.")

In World War II, patriotic buttons appeared: eagles, flags, stars. And in England, "blackout buttons" which radiated light became tiny heroes, attached to the lapel and back of those on the dim homefront.

After the war, materials shortages resulted in a surge of buttons made of everything from paper pulp to rabbit fur. But then came the recovery, and a return to the mostly synthetic, largely unassuming buttons we wear today. Buttons that go about their business without attracting undue attention to themselves. Eeentsy little bores.

A few final musings.
WE CONFESS after many trips to libraries and button shops, and a few late nights at the typewriter, we've become pretty attached to buttons.

(No pun intended. Well, maybe just a little one.)

And, we feel sad that their glory days seem to be behind them.

But the nice thing about the future is, it's unpredictable. One of these days, fancy buttons — fancier buttons than we've ever seen — may come back with a vengeance, and write the most glorious chapter yet in "A History of the Button."

In the meantime, whatever we do we'll never take buttons for granted again. We'll finger them with new reverence. If one of them pops off our shirt, or breaks under the iron, we'll try to hold our tongue. And maybe we'll even start a little button collection, with some of those bygone beauts.

Anybody out there got a Washington Inaugural they'd be willing to part with?

A SINCERE "THANK YOU" to Diana Epstein and Millicent Safro, proprietors of the "Tender Buttons" shop at 143 East 62nd Street in New York City, for welcoming us into their button-bountiful world, and letting us photograph one-of-a-kind treasures from their collection. Anyone passing through the Big Apple shouldn't miss visiting this Mecca of American Buttondown. (Tell 'em Roy sent you.)

Note: Though it's some years since this essay appeared, Tender Buttons continues its tenure at the same address.