Here's a satirical poem by the Italian poet Luigi Pulci from 1472 about beauty supplies required by the 15th-century young and glamorous Nannina de' Medici and the ladies who orbited her court. It is an exaggerated (and yes, misogynistic--but before you write me about this, the poem dates from 1472) historical perspective to those of us who have tried, are willing to try, or are at least somewhat curious about a lot of products and techniques that might raise another's filled in and/or threaded eyebrow.
Nannina as Madonna in Botticelli's Madonna del Magnificat, 1481
A while ago, I posted an instagram detailing a few delights from the poem, but here it is in its entirety from Early Modernist Allison Levy's: "The Plastered Female Face in Fifteenth-Century Florence: A Translation of Luigi Pulci's 'Le galee per Quaracchi,'" in Kristische Berichte, 2017. In its early stages, I had the pleasure and honor of contributing to her translation.
Enjoy and do your double takes, but really: some of the things we take as normal now are equally odd...are they not?
Bee on Lips, Irving Penn, 1995
The Galleys Bound for Quaracchi
The galleys bound for Quaracchi
set sail to the winds
and reached safe harbor—
despite the cargo within—
thanks to some Jack,
from Contraband City,
and two local bosses,
who gave the order
to ferry the booty
straight to the border.
The clerk from Capalle
made a very long list
of all of the lading,
which went something like this:
For the head and the hair
first a vat full of bleach,
so filled to the brim
I sunk an arm in;
enough aquavit to flood a canal
and for facials, a mortar slosh;
but I can’t understand the rationale
behind the banana squash!
Nor that unsavory solution
of brown water and broom—
it could only have come
from a sewage room.
Who knows how many lupins,
seemed an entire collection,
said to soften wrinkles
and cure bad complexions;
plus two casks of astringents,
both filled to the top,
for tightening pores
and for lightening one’s mop;
huge barrels of sulfur,
both yellow and black,
to mix up solutions
for unsightly attacks;
for still other ablutions,
so much purified soap
that counting it all
was a forlorn hope.
With horsehair by the handful
and gum to make things grow,
thicker manes
they said would show.
Oh, come on now!
Must I write this stuff down?
For itchy scalps and dandruff,
they had whole jars of snake oil—
and lizard lard, too.
Plus heaps of ground goose fat,
powder puffs, and poufs.
So blanched in a talc
of lily and squid,
these dainties must have emptied the kegs
then—heaven forbid!—
scavenged the dregs.
To rinse the paste,
which slims the face,
were a good six casks
of lemon, melon,
and cantaloupe water;
plus pumpkin and white figs,
wild bush and vines;
add to that fava,
flowers, and pine;
twigs thick as branches,
and sprigs and shoots;
extract of pimpernel
and other juice:
tonics of mallow and burning bush,
of elder flower and elm;
one could do a field report on each cask—
I was thoroughly overwhelmed!
They brought dishrags and greases
to fill in the creases
caused by Old Man Winter,
who’d left their little faces
all dried up and splintered.
They packed boiled must and fresh cheese,
iris, peach pit, and broad beans;
gypsum by the jug
to whiten the mug;
twelve gallons of lotions
and various potions
to cure the pox
and other eruptions;
to skip the infirmary,
they brought their own gurney
and loaded it down
with sea salts and mercury.
Six boxes overflowing
with camphor and borax
kept skin calm and brightly glowing.
Rosacea they quelled
with a balm of lily and
powdered eggshells.
You wouldn’t believe it—
the concoctions they shipped;
it’s truly a wonder
the boats didn’t flip!
To redden the cheeks
of those of green or yellow cast,
there was a huge ball of rouge
and two or more of witch grass.
These ladies weren’t kidding!
There were stone flowers galore
and ten barrels of red dye, horseradish and borage,
and pumpkin leaves, more
than any herd could ever gobble.
To depilate their brows,
they brought a wondrous assortment:
razors and shards,
pumice and orpiment.
Mixing pots
held preparations
for poultices
and other applications;
I saw a serum of egg whites
and dried snail shells,
to polish and buff
all that was rough;
but did they really need
a hundred vials of the stuff?
And there for the taking
was a forbidden fat—
suet concealed in ampoules,
said to impart a pearly luster
and to banish ugly pustules.
Acacia gum by the keg gave me pause—
there was enough to feed an army—
used, I was told, for applying gauze
to turkey necks and
similar wrecks.
For smallpox scars
and other defects,
donkey milk by the drum;
and to clean one’s teeth—
as a rule of thumb—
if ground coral and brick
didn’t do the trick,
they brought piles of pesto
made from a mash
of carnations and sage,
sour grapes and antler ash.
There were baskets full
of secret agents:
rosemary, honey, and garden patience.
Sponges by the dozen
and cotton pads—
but surgical dressings?
These women were mad!
Little pieces of felt
and stacks of cork
went under the heel,
to rise like a stork.
Still other strange tools
were shipped by these fools:
pharmaceutical wrappers
and medicine jars,
flasks, vials, and mirrors—
truly bizarre!—
plus boxes and bowls,
and glasses and basins.
There were broaches and combs
and I hasten
to add: hairpins and earrings,
some shaped like half-moons,
plus wigs of every color
to be worn by these loons.
To decorate the head
there were plenty of inventions,
like paper ribbons
and goat hair extensions;
garlands and hats
and other toppers,
so large and so many
they were held in huge hoppers;
hair ties and rubber bands
to control loose strands;
plus add-ons like braids
and other pieces they’d made.
Not to mention the pile
of hemp and textiles,
which rose—God help me—
as high as the sky!
I thought we would drown
from the weight of the crowns,
the tails and the bonnets,
the trinkets and bling,
and the thousand other
frivolous things.
O poor husbands,
you blind buffoons!
Give these girls a kick—
send ’em straight to the moon!
For I know well from where I speak;
it’s three days in and all they’ve done
is dress up and giggle and gossip and squeak.
One day they sailed along the shore,
a scene that was hardly serene;
for with all of their humming,
the whole world heard them coming.
But then,
at the end—
it felt like a dream—
all of a sudden
they ran out of steam.
They no longer cared
about the flies in the air,
nor bee stings nor bites,
nor disheveled hair.
Why the dismay?
Their cosmetics used up,
they could no longer play
Miss Priss or PinUp.
So take my advice:
steer clear of a wife.
But if you’ve already fallen
into her trap,
curse her often
and give her a slap.
The galleys bound for Quaracchi.