Tatterdemalion (pronounced tat-er-di-meyl-yuhn or tat-er-di-mal-yuhn)
(1) A person in tattered clothing; a shabby person.
(2) Ragged; unkempt or dilapidated.
(3) In fashion, (typically as “a tatterdemalion dress”
etc), garments styled deliberately frayed or with constructed tears etc (also
described as “distressed” or “destroyed”).
(4) A beggar (archaic).
1600–1610: The original spelling was tatter-de-mallian (the “demalion” rhymed with “Italian” in English pronunciation), the construct thus tatter + -demalion, of uncertain origin although the nineteenth century English lexicographer Ebenezer Cobham Brewer (1810-1897) (remembered still for his marvelous Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (1894) suggested it might be from de maillot (shirt) which does seem compelling. Rather than the source, tatter is thought to have been a back-formation from tattered, from the Middle English tatered & tatird, from the Old Norse tǫturr. Originally, it was derived from the noun, but it was later re-analysed as a past participle (the construct being tatter + -ed) and from this came the verb. As a noun a tatter was "a shred of torn cloth or an individual item of torn and ragged clothing" while the verb implied both (as a transitive) "to destroy an article of clothing by shredding" & (as an intransitive) "to fall into tatters".
In parallel, there was also the parallel "tat", borrowed under the Raj from the Hindi टाट (ṭāṭ) (thick canvas) and in English it assumed a variety of meanings including as a clipping of tattoo, as an onomatopoeia referencing the sound made by dice when rolled on a table (and came to be used especially of a loaded die) and as an expression of disapprobation meaning “cheap and vulgar”, either in the context of low-quality goods or sleazy conduct. The link with "tatty" in the sense of “shabby or ragged clothing” however apparently comes from tat as a clipping of the tatty, a woven mat or screen of gunny cloth made from the fibre of the Corchorus olitorius (jute plant) and noted for it loose, scruffy-looking weave. Tatterdemalion is a noun & adjective; the noun plural is tatterdemalions. The historic synonyms were shoddy, battered, broken, dilapidated, frayed, frazzled, moth-eaten, ragged, raggedy, ripped, ramshackle, rugged, scraggy, seedy, shabby, shaggy, threadbare, torn & unkempt and in the context of the modern fashion industry, distressed & destroyed. An individual could also be described as a tramp, a ragamuffin, a vagabond, a vagrant, a gypsy or even a slum, some of those term reflecting class and ethnic prejudice or stereotypes. Historically, tatterdemalion was also a name for a beggar.
A similar word in Yiddish was שמאַטע (shmate or shmatte and spelled variously as schmatte, schmata, schmatta, schmate, schmutter & shmatta), from the Polish szmata, of uncertain origin but possibly from szmat (a fair amount). In the Yiddish (and as adopted in Yinglish) it meant (1) a rag, (2) a piece of old clothing & (3) in the slang of the clothing trade, any item of clothing. That was much more specific than the Polish szmata which meant literally "rag or old, ripped piece of cloth" but was used also figuratively to mean "publication of low journalistic standard" (ie analogous the English slang use of "rag") and in slang to refer to a woman of loose virtue (used as skank, slut et al might be used in English), a sense which transferred to colloquial use in sport to mean "simple shot", "easy goal" etc.
Designer distress: Lindsay Lohan illustrates the look.
Tatterdemalion is certainly a spectrum condition (the comparative
“more tatterdemalion”; the superlative “most tatterdemalion”) and this is well
illustrated by the adoption of the concept by fashionistas, modern capitalism
soon there to supply the demand. In the
fashion business, tatterdemalion needs to walk a fine line because tattiness was
historically associated with poverty while designers need to provide garments
which convey a message wealth. The general
terms for such garments is “distressed” although “destroyed” is also used.
It seemed to start with denim and before distressed
was a thing, manufacturers had dabbled with producing jeans which even when new
gave the appearance of having been “broken in” by the wearer, the quasi-vintage
look of “fade & age” achieved with processes such as stone washing, enzyme
washing, acid washing, sandblasting, emerizing, and micro-sanding. Still, this was just to create an effect, the
fabrics not ripped or torn. Distressed
jeans represented the next step in the normal process of wear, fraying hems and
seams, irregular fading and rips & tears now part of the aesthetic. As an industrial process that’s not all that
difficult to do but if done in the wrong way it won’t resemble exactly a pair
of jeans in which the tatterdemalion is a product of gradual degradation, because
different legs would have worn the denim at different places. In the 2010s, the look spread to T-shirts and
(predictably) hoodies, some manufactures going beyond vermillistude to actual
authenticity, achieving the desire decorative by shooting shirts with bullets, managing
a look which presumably the usual tricks of “nibbling & slashing” couldn’t
quite emulate. Warming to the idea, the
Japanese label Zoo released jeans made from material torn by lions and tigers,
the company anxious to mention the big cats in Tokyo Zoo seemed to "enjoy the fun". Others emulated the working-class look, the “caked-on
muddy coating: and “oil and grease smears” another (apparently short-lived)
look. All these looks had of course been
seen for centuries, worn mostly by the poor with little choice but to eke a little
more wear from their shabby clothes but in the 1960s, as wealth overtook Western
society, the look was adopted by many with disposable income; firstly the
bohemians as a display of contempt for consumerist culture and later the punk
movement which needed motifs with some capacity to shock, something harder to
achieve than had once been the case.
For poets and punks, improvising the look from the stocks of thrift shops, that was fine but for designer labels selling scruffy-looking jeans for four-figure sums, it was more of a challenge, especially as the social media generation had discovered that above all they liked authenticity and faux authenticity would not do, nobody wanting to look it to look they were trying too hard. The might have seemed a problem, given the look was inherently fake but the aesthetic didn’t matter for its own sake, all that had to be denoted was “conspicuous consumption” (the excessive spending on wasteful goods as proof of wealth) and the juxtaposition of thousand dollar distressed jeans with the odd expensive accessory, achieved that and more, the discontinuities offering irony as a look. The labels, the prominence of which remained a focus was enough for the message to work although one does wonder if any of the majors have been tempted to print a QR code on the back pocket, linked to the RRP (recommended retail price) because, what people are really trying to say is “My jeans cost US$1200”.
The value of selective scruffiness is well known in other fields. When selling a car a tatty interior will usually greatly depress the price (sometimes by more even than the cost of rectification). However, if the tattiness is of some historic significance, it can add to car’s value, the best example being if the deterioration is part of the vehicles provenance and proof of originality, a prized attribute to the segment of the collector market known as the “originally police”. In 2016, the very first AC Shelby Cobra (CSX 2000) sold for US$13.75 million, becoming the most expensive American car sold at auction. Built in 1962, it was shipped to the US as an AC Ace (without an engine although it apparently wasn't AC's original "proof-of-concept" test bed which was fitted with one of the short-lived 221 cubic inch (3.6 litre) versions of Ford's new "thin-wall" Windsor V8) where the Shelby operation installed a 260 cubic inch (4.2 litre) Windsor and the rest is history. The tatterdemalion state of the interior was advertised as one of the features of the car, confirming its status as “an untouched survivor”. Among Cobra collectors, wear caused by Carroll Shelby's (1923–2012) butt is the most valuable tatterdemalion.
Also recommended to be
repaired before sale are dents, anything battered unlikely to attract a
premium. However, if a dent was put there
by a Formula One world champion, it becomes a historic artefact. In 1954, Mercedes-Benz astounded all when their
new grand prix car (the W196R) appeared with all-enveloping bodywork, allowed
because of a since closed loophole in the rule-book. The sensuous shape made the rest of the field
look antiquated although underneath it was a curious mix of old and new, the
fuel-injection and desmodromic valve train representing cutting edge technology
while the swing axles and drum brakes spoke to the past and present, the
engineers’ beloved straight-eight configuration definitely the end of an
era. On fast tracks like Monza, the aerodynamic
bodywork delivered great speed and stability but the limitations were exposed
when the team fielded “the streamliner” at tighter circuits and in the 1954 British Grand
Prix at Silverstone, Juan Manuel Fangio (1911–1995; winner of five
world-championships) managed to clout a couple of oil-drums (that how track safety
was then done in F1) because it was so much harder to determine the extremities
without being able to see the front wheels.
Quickly, the factory concocted a functional (though visually unremarkable)
open-wheel version and the sleek original was thereafter used only on the circuits where the highest speeds were achieved. In
1954, the factory wasn’t concerned with maintaining originality and repaired
the tatterdemalion W196 so an artefact was lost.
1966 Ferrari 330 GTC (1966-1968) restored by Bell Sport & Classic. Many restored Ferraris of the pre-1973 era are finished to a much higher standard than when they left the showroom. Despite this, genuine, original "survivors" (warts and all) are sought after in some circles.
In the collector car industry, tatterdemalion is definitely a spectrum condition and for decades the matter of patina versus perfection has been debated. There was once the idea that in Europe the preference was for a vehicle to appear naturally aged ( well-maintained but showing the wear of decades) while the US market leaned towards cars restored to the point of being as good (or better) than they were on the showroom floor. Social anthropologists might have some fun exploring that perception of difference and it was certainly never a universal rule but the debate continues, as does the argument about “improving” on the original. Some of the most fancied machinery of the 1950s and 1960s (notably Jaguars, Ferraris and Maseratis) is now a staple of the restoration business but, although when new the machines looked gorgeous, it wasn’t necessary to dig too deep to find often shoddy standards of finish, the practice at the time something like sweeping the dirt “under the rug”. When "restored" many of these cars are re=built to a higher standard, what was often left rough now smoothed to perfection. That’s what some customers want and the finest restoration shops can do either and there are questions about whether what might be described as “fake patina” is quite the done thing. Mechanics and engineers who were part of building Ferraris in the 1960s, upon looking at some immaculately “restored” cars have been known wryly to remark: “that wasn't how we built them then.”
The fake patina business however goes back quite a way. Among antique dealers, it’s now a definite niche but from the point at which the industrial revolution began to create a new moneyed class of mine and factory owners, there was a subset of the new money (and there are cynics who suggest it was mostly at the prodding of their wives) who wished to seem more like old money and a trend began to seek out “aged” furniture with which a man might deck out his (newly acquired) house to look as if things had been in the family for generations. The notoriously snobbish (and amusing diarist) Alan Clark (1928–1999) once referred to someone as looking like “they had to buy their own chairs”, prompting one aristocrat to respond: “That’s a bit much from someone whose father (the art historian and life peer Kenneth Clark (1903–1983)) had to buy his own castle.” The old money were of course snooty about the folk David Lloyd George (1863–1945; UK prime-minister 1916-1922) would call “jumped-up grocers”.
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