The story of the tutu: ballet's signature costume has a fabled past and a glamorous present

Dance Magazine, Oct, 2007 by Victoria Looseleaf

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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.

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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 plastic-like 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.

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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.

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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."