IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY, edginess was experienced as a literal problem. The OED gives the first definition, occurring in 1822, as “the condition of having the outlines too clearly marked; angularity, hardness of outline.” This problem of unsightly outlines was solved, I suggest, by an extensive use of fringe throughout the Victorian period. These many miles of trimming performed symbolic work for a culture whose anxieties seemed to gather at edges — of clothing, of furniture, of nations, of empires, and eventually, of selves. A few inches of fringe, after all, can make an edge wide and irregular enough to allow for error. A row of pompoms strategically placed can usefully blur the beginnings and endings of literal and figurative fabric. A border of lace can protect edges from unraveling or wearing down. The fringed, and thus indefinite border, suggests the value of being able to imagine and construct limits as variable, permeable, and attenuated structures, rather than as hard edges at which one must stop short. The befringed edge offers a margin for error, for exploration, for coming to an end slowly and gradually.

Can fringe really mean anything, much less create symbolic space for working out conflicts that gather at boundaries, limits, and edges? I contend that fringe, like other debased aspects of material culture, can perform cultural work precisely because it doesn’t get taken seriously. Indeed, the debasement of fringe is part of what makes it interesting and significant.