The excesses of any fashion, no matter how flattering in their initial concept, bring it to ridicule and eventual disgrace. - Marylin Bender.
This gem lay buried in the nickel bargain bin of my local used
bookstore. Unlike the subtitle above, the paperback edition I read sported a
different, slightly misleading subtitle: Who
they are and what they really do behind the golden doors of their
scandal-ridden world. Based on this less accurate description, I expected an
exposé of that era’s famous
celebrities, a catalogue of classic movie stars, the Jet Set and their dirty
laundry, in paparazzi-like fashion. Some of that appears, but only in passing. Yes,
we visit, albeit briefly, Andy Warhol, Barbra Streisand, Pierre Cardin, Truman
Capote, Twiggy, Jacqueline Kennedy, et al. We’re introduced to John Weitz, Baby
Jane Holzer, Eleanor Lambert, and a Vanderbilt or two, but their mention relates
mostly to movements, trends, and indulgences. More attention is devoted to the history
of fashion in both Europe and America during the mid-twentieth century,
particularly as this history influenced American society and its identity.
I normally don’t care about fashion
and its associative accessories. True, when I was 20, I was subjected to a
brief interrogation by my friend's father for sporting an earring. He was a righteous
man and most likely viewed my fashion statement as a subtle nod to a homosexual
lifestyle. But my friend, probably wanting to deflate his father’s questions
and their portent, possibly because I was a guest in his parent’s house at the
time, came to my rescue before I could form a coherent response.
Friend’s father: “Mark, do you know who
first wore earrings?”
Friend: “Yeah; pirates.”
Friend’s father: “Do you know what
that earring says?”
Friend: “Yes! Made in Taiwan.”
Thirty years later, the hole in my earlobe
(my left; your right) has since closed, and apart from the cane I occasionally brandish,
I no longer dress in a way that might draw undue attention to myself. Instead, I
wear what I find comfortable. At home this means either pajama bottoms and
t-shirts or warmups and house slippers. In my line of work, I have little need
for formal wear. When it comes to casual wear, the only reason I tend to choose
name brands over off brands is because I find those name brands last longer,
which allows me to shop less frequently for replacements. So while I sport Nike
and Wrangler for my job or when running errands or lunching with a friend, it’s
not because I want to be associated with an athlete any more than I identify
with a cowboy. In short, apart from not wanting to look like a bum, the
extent of my fashion identity could be summed up in a Mark Twain quote: “Clothes
make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.”
As a result, before breaking open
this book, I knew next to nothing about Dior or Yves or Vidal Sassoon. But the
writer Marylin Bender, who wrote for several years for The New York Times, is a gifted wordsmith, and I found myself impressed
by her finesse in shaping what I’d considered trivial subject matter into
something well stated and engaging. Plus, as a writer, I always regard reading
as a sort of lecture on writing. I’ve said it before: reading even bad writing can
teach you what not to do.
I’m reminded of something Sol Stein
said about how good prose can draw us into a topic we’d ordinarily care nothing
about by the way in which it conveys that topic. That truth hit home for me
throughout this book.
Bender’s exploration of the fashion
industries of the Sixties is fascinating if only because the trends and fads of
that era that turned some of these behind-the-scenes artisans into household
names is conveyed with authority and flair. The celebrities and politicians’
wives who put many of these designers of the haute couture world on the map by either
frequenting their establishments or naming them in interviews was engrossing
primarily because Bender knows how to keep an otherwise indifferent reader engaged.
The magazine editors and fashion leaders who colluded to advance one another’s
careers, the fundraisers, soirees, benefits, press announcements – all of it is
revealed with both sass and wit.
In the Pop decade, the man who came to dinner was the hairdresser. When dinner was over, he stayed for the dancing … A comparative unknown in the coiffing hierarchy who was identified only as Mario, he had been invited to the stateliest of American summer resorts to minister to the tresses of one of Mrs. Drexel’s friends.
Fashion, a principle perpetrator of pop culture, exploits the young through an unholy alliance of merchandisers and misguided parents. But the victim is also a tyrant to the same degree that the manipulator is a puppet. The fashionable child is a prop and a consumer, a means of distraction for adults as well as of social and economic gain, an authority and a wanderer on a road without signposts.
In the Sixties, fashion designers have reached new heights of esteem. They are lionized by hostesses, ennobled by the press, admitted to the ranks of pop celebrities. Yet this fashion-drenched decade has produced only a handful of creators. Those few – on both sides of the Atlantic and at opposite ends of the American continent – have initiated the new dialogue of fashion, which no longer takes place between the haughty dressmaker and his elegant client but between the mass designer and the adventurous hordes.
Five out of five stars.
