This is not a veil | Coline Houssais | TEDxSciencesPoCampusMenton

"This is not a veil" is a photographic exhibition bringing together archive images and selected portraits of French women, of all ages and from all social backgrounds, wearing headwear. Coline Houssais gives testimony to the continuity of French headwear through the centuries.

Born in 1987 in Brittany, Coline Houssais is a researcher, curator, and writer, specializing in the Arabic world and Arabic culture. Among her recent projects, there is: "Karaokitsch", a thematic evening devoted to Western and Eastern influences on French and Arabic pop music at the Institute of Islamic Cultures in Paris, and "Inseparable from Baghdad", a musical and artistic experience exploring the golden age of Iraqi music presented at the Institute of the Arabic World. As a writer, Coline regularly works with several French media companies, including Wahed, a Franco-Arabic magazine about culture and current affairs from both sides of the Mediterranean. A graduate of Sciences Po, LSE, INALCO and IFPO, Coline currently teaches political history and Arabic cultures in Europe, as well as music and contemporary politics in the Middle East and North Africa, at Sciences Po.

This talk was given at a local TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized from Ted conferences. Learn more at http://ted.com/tedx

I should start by telling you something:

I have been a fan of fashion
since the age of seven.

I design, I sew, I patch clothes up.

So, my idea of heaven is the aptly named
"Marché Saint-Pierre" in Montmartre.

A place filled with all the fabrics
you can dream of:

poplins, muslins, twills, cretonnes;

a place also filled with
a very distinctive atmosphere

of friendliness and shared interest
among the clients,

as if we recognize each other
and respect each other,

us weekend fashion designers
and fashion professionals;

a place which brings people
together from very different backgrounds,

who don't necessarily mix anywhere else,

but who, here, are alike,

because they are only defined
by this same thing,

the love of scissors
sliding across fabric,

the pattern you trace,
the needle going in and out,

and the material that falls
just right on the mannequin.

That's why, for me,

clothes serve, above all,
to weave together -

if you'll excuse the pun -

the threads that form
bonds between people.

For instance, have you ever
expressed empathy towards someone

by complimenting them on their outfit?

What we decide to wear

has that certain ability
to distinguish us from one another,

while reinforcing and marking
our belonging to a group,

or to several groups,

social, religious, regional,
professional, generational.

In France, we are proud to be home to
such strong cultural diversity

in a relatively reduced space.

In France,

a country recognized throughout the world
for its elegance and its way of life,

we attach a lot of importance
to what we wear on our backs,

and on our heads.

Let's talk about headwear.

You don't notice anything?

These photos were taken
during different periods

and represent women
from various backgrounds and regions.

However, they have two things in common.

Firstly, all these photos
were taken in France.

Secondly, they show that,
at all times in history,

French women covered their heads

at some point in the day,
in the year, even in their lives.

The function and form of headwear
evolves according to customs and fashions,

but it continues to be
an integral part of our clothing.

And here you go!

Headband, fascinator, sunhat, woolly hat,

cap, balaclava, hood, hat,

headscarf, veil, toque, turban, visor ...

Put up your hand those of you that haven't
worn anything on your head this year -

those who have never done so
in their lives.

(Laughing) It's unlikely!

These family photos are mine.

They're those of my friends'
or of friends' of friends,

but they could also be yours, right?

So when I hear that covering
your head isn't French,

it makes me laugh.

Not French?

But that's to ignore our history!

That's not looking beyond
the end of your nose!

Covering your head, for women,
has always been a subject of debate.

As for the ancient Greeks,

the veil distinguished
married women of high virtue

from prostitutes that could and must
go out with nothing on their heads.

In "Corinthians",

Saint Paul urges believers
to cover their women.

In the Muslim tradition,

only prophet Muhammad's wives,
initially, wore a veil,

thus marking their belonging to an elite
that was both social and religious.

For centuries, even millenniums,
a covered head has by turns meant:

modesty and archaism,

conservatism and decorum.

Even in my own family,

each generation of women has given
a different meaning to headwear.

Take for example,

that for my paternal great-grandmother,

at the start of the 20th century,

wearing a hat meant conforming
to a group she was part of,

and asserting her belonging to an area,

the Redon area in Brittany.

For her daughter,

my paternal grandmother,

in the 1940s,

to go out without a hat
had a certain nuance at the time.

It meant escaping the peasant headscarf,

which marked both your rural origins

and the fact you worked in a field,

where it was used
to protect against sun and dirt.

Going out with no headwear was
to proclaim oneself a lady of the town,

even one of those blow-dried
cinema stars who always looked perfect.

In the countryside, still in Brittany,
we used to go out bare headed,

keeping headscarves
that were tied under the chin

for Sunday mass,

hats for attending weddings,

and veils for marriage ceremonies
and for communions.

As for my maternal great-grandmother,

more urban and middle-class,

headscarves and hats,
like gloves and pearls,

were mandatory attire
for all women in high society,

an accessory that both marked her status

and stopped her styled hair
from getting tousled

when she found herself

going from a promenade by the sea
to a game of bridge.

As for my mum, who grew up
with the May '68 events,

the majority of headwear,

middle-class or working-class,
aesthetic or religious,

represented an infringement
of women's bodily freedom.

She didn't think
she really had a head for hats,

but nonetheless sported
a boater in summer,

and a hood or a headscarf in winter.

Finally, for me,

wearing something on your head

is to multiply the fashion
potential of an outfit,

to tell a story, to invent a persona.

My weaknesses are:

wedding hats, which I create myself;

tweed caps, which fill my cupboards;

fur toques, to the great disgust of some;

and silk headscarves,

which, tied in a headband around my neck,

allow me to dream of myself
as a reincarnation

of Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn,

but most often end up

looking like one of my great aunts
when they were twice my age.

So, this relationship that we maintain
with what we wear on our heads

is indicative of each period.

It also reflects the concerns
and evolutions of our society,

here in France, but also abroad,
in other countries.

So, the next time
you pass by a haberdashery,

think about this bond woven by fabric.

And when you pass a woman
wearing something on her head,

remember that that headwear,

as full of memories,
symbols, and history, as it is,

remains a piece of fabric or straw

that only has the meaning
that we want to give it,

and that a head, covered or uncovered,

so long as the decision is free,

need not obscure
much more troubling concerns.

To finish, let's go back
to these walls and these shadows.

What we wear on our backs,
and on our heads,

protects us from fair and bad weather,

from the gaze of others or of the divine.

It can also make the wearer stronger,

and drive them to assert themselves,
show themselves at their best.

It's the shy people's flag.

Outfits and headwear have nothing,
of wall or of shadow,

than there ability to protect.

If they establish, in effect,
physical barrier between individuals,

they scream: "Look at me!
Interact with me!

Identify with me!"

So, let's look beyond these barriers,

and not make a wall of this material

but a door.

Thank you very much.

(Applause)