The Stylesmyths: Vintage Fashion Reportage On Broadway
From vintage Playbills to politics; resistance in brocade and bourbon.
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The Miss Anne Shop, Saddle River, New Jersey
July 29, 2015
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As a girl, growing up on Eastern Long Island, deep in the heart of its nautically themed suburbs –2 hours outside of the City (the way its denizens measured space, distance and time), my awareness of fashion extended to back-to-school or prom pilgrimages to Modell’s, Swezey’s or Alexander’s—experiences I loathed—and later, taking the local bus to Smith Haven Mall to troll for trendy, cheap outfits at any number of chain boutiques catering to the teenage set.
Levi’s 501 jeans, white Keds tennis sneakers and pastel Izod Lacoste double-knit shirts was the uniform of Our Kind. As I turned 17 and neared my anticipated college rite de passage, I fantasized about a glamorous career in fashion advertising, as suggested by my stylish Grandmother (a vague concept at best to my uninformed, impressionable self)—and a minted bachelor’s degree from F.I.T. –as did so many young women in the Tri-State area.
Located “in the City”, F.I.T. or Fashion Institute of Technology, sat six blocks south of seedy, 1980s era Penn Station, and was a stone’s throw from the rough and tumble Garment District to the east; which had yet to benefit from the whiff of gentrification that later enhanced it at the turn of the Millennia. Famous F.I.T. alumnus included Calvin Klein (who was then a major Star and fashion Brand) James de Givenchy and many other notables who went on to have—as my Grandma would emphatically declare, “Very Big Careers”. A side note: my Grandmother owned her own clothing boutique in the late 1950s called the Miss Anne Shop that catered to the finest ladies in Saddle River, NJ.
On a freezing cold afternoon, my Grandmother, Mother and I journeyed into the City to meet an admissions counselor from the school. It was the kind of dry February cold that made your nose hairs freeze, nostrils narrow and eyes water unmercifully. To expand, the kind of awful, dead-of-winter cold that had no redeemable qualities or saving grace, other than a howling, clench jawed escape to Miami. But, I digress.
Coming up the escalator from the loamy, subterranean bowels of Penn Station, we three (arms linked, with me in the middle) maneuvered our way down 7th Avenue toward the school campus. I remember few things from that day, in this order…the brisk, clarifying icy wind hitting me in the face, the dancing sparkle of the sun playing off the mica-mixed concrete sidewalks, and the bits of trash (condom packages, plastic spoons, sandwich wrappers, blue and white paper coffee cups—(“We Are Happy To Serve You”, Grecian-style) blown in gusts, rattling down the street. And, yes, to add mirth and menace to the scene were a considerable number of homeless men loitering on either side; wearing stiff, worn flannel wool coats and many assorted layers.
We 3 Outsiders presented a stoic monolith of book-ended ranch minks and one central red fox fun fur, swaying in step toward the school. I must confess to you that I am blank on the rest of the day.
The upshot after this field trip was that it was decided that I not pursue entrance to this fine fashion institute, but instead pursue a broad degree elsewhere. Upon early admissions acceptance, I was slated to be packed and shipped off to a collegiate and seemingly safe Syracuse University (located squarely in the tundra snow belt of Central New York State) to study Communications, another fashionable degree of the era. My classmates mostly hailed from suburban Long Island, Westchester Connecticut and New Jersey—commonly known as The Tri-State trifecta. I enrolled with others, just. like. me. Admittedly, S.U. did offer me a fine education, many life-bonded friends, endless opportunities to bend my right elbow and scream “GO ORANGE”, and develop keen social skills.
Wistfully, I can look back and realize S.U. did not offer the diversity, allure or glamour of gritty, post-70’s Warholian F.I.T. I can’t help but wonder these many decades later, what path my life would have taken had those sliding subway doors closed differently? Fashion, as it turned out still played her hand in my future. A decade later, I joined the editorial fashion staff of fledgling Mirabella Magazine as their Sittings Editor and later Wardrobe Manager. Working at the magazine immersed me, full tilt into the crazy world of New York and international fashion— and introduced me to its many brightly, plumed characters. Fashion was, paradoxically, everything I always thought and hoped it would be, but also an unexpected surprise and journey… 
The End
40 Carats
February 26, 2011
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Forty Carats
Zsa Zsa Gabor Forty Carats 1970 Playbill
Cougars, (the sexy mature female, and not the purring feline) you might think, are an invention of the new millennium. Not true dear reader. In fact, sizzling, subversive romances between vital young men and women-of- a- certain-age (40 plus– for many “the age of reason”) have long been a source of literature, both farce and tragedy. Rarely, if ever, do these liaisons result in a happily-ever-after coupling on page, stage or screen. Even Sex and the City’s voraciously determined Samantha ends her relationship with Smith, her thirty-something lover, to once again redefine herself and pursue her own path, at age 50.
This week while thumbing through my vintage playbill collection, I came across one from 1970 for Broadway play Forty Carats, which ran for 780 performances at the Morosco Theatre. Adapted from a French comedy and written by Jay Allen, it opened in 1968 with a cast starring Julie Harris. Two seasons later, stunning Hungarian actress Zsa Zsa Gabor followed Harris in her debut Broadway role playing lead Anna Sandy. She won the 1970 Tony for her performance. The comedy revolves around a 40-year old American divorcee who is assisted by a 22-year-old when her car breaks down during a vacation in Greece. Their romantic encounter turns potentially serious, when he turns up on her New York City doorstep– to take her 17-year-old daughter on a date! Sandy’s Mother, ex-husband and a lecherous real estate client adds to the ensemble making for a comedy that became a popular vehicle with the cougar-set.
The 1970s was an age of shifting American mores and a loosening of social restrictions. It was the “ME” generation (EST –now rebranded The Forum, self-enlightenment philosophy, sexual revolution and women’s lib took hold), that was framed by a counter-culture psychedelia that opened the door to pop art, punk and disco. While this sense of personal freedom and expression created transformation on all levels, it also harkened in darker elements of social unrest and a decay in common civility. I find it interesting that this week’s guest fashion editor Bernice Peck observes the same in her column On a personal bias entitled “Bergdorf Goodman loves me.”
Reflecting the casual social order in mode and dress were her fashion picks of ribbed turtleneck sweaters in a dozen colors of cashmere-and courtelle, worn with a perfectly cut skinny midi skirt in fake snake (the big thing for the fall). For the young man in your life: a great shaped midi raincoat, martingale back and inverted pleat right to the shoulderblades, black or navy gaberdine. Pure wool Irish knits with clever cable details. To top you off; The Miss Bergdorf Fur Boutique has a rich-hippie vest in blurry natural lamb fur, all trimmed with suede fringe (groovilicious!)…
Bernice Peck On a personal bias, Bergdorf Goodman loves me
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“Bergdorf Goodman Loves Me”
On a personal bias by Bernice Peck
“If you shop without encountering the put-down, congratulations. But half the women I know are rapping about the rise of rudeness in the stores. As for me, my spirit was broken long ago, snubbed by some of the cheesiest sales Ladies in town.
I have waited (evidently invisible) while two of them finished a leisurely chat about pot roast or the skin flick at the Bijou. I have had my fashion sense evaluated by a real frump—“We got no call for that type of thing,” she intones. At tomorrow’s sales meeting the buyer will tell her it’s the next dish on the fashion menu. Another sweet snub is “Not in your size,” which is a twelve, delivered with aplomb by a lardy size 40. Deflating, isn’t it?
All of which finds me going more and more to Bergdorf Goodman, I don’t need to be fawned on, but I do enjoy their graceful, natural courtesy—plus what certainly appears to be an honest interest in my needs. In a store that probably has the most millionaires on its billing list, this is simply standard customer-attitude as laid down by Andrew Goodman, the boss. Anyway, it makes me feel good, makes whatever I buy seem a proper bargain—and who’s averse to that? Just what is a bargain anyway? To me: getting more for the same money. I find this true at Bergdorf’s where it constitutes more chic, fashion, elegance, class, exclusiveness in designs and much more personal service. This goes all the way down the line. All in all, especially when my stocks and spirits are down, the best place for me is Bergdorf’s where, whatever I spend, the boss won’t let anyone patronize me.”
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Many would say that lack of consideration still defines our culture. And rudeness and violence continues to exacerbate unchecked. I do however; see the start of something different. This week’s turn of events in Libya reinforce the fact that cult-of-personality leadership is finished in the 21c. It won’t stand the test of social networking and 24/7 news media. The undercurrent rippling throughout our connected globe is saying, “enough is enough.” We can only hope that what results from this techno convergence and street-level reaction, is a democratic outcome for the people. Civil discourse, dignified respect–or lack thereof– is foremost on people’s minds. My friend Susan DiStaulo and I were shopping at New York’s Bergdorf Goodman recently–well, mostly looking at their fine accessories rather than purchasing. We agreed that this was the best department store in the city, the most beautifully merchandised and pleasant with great customer service. I am sure that Ms. Peck would be gratified to know that her observations echo true some forty-years forward, but equally as dismayed to understand that this level of service is still valued as unusual and rare. I leave you with these little known facts about the glamorous and sophisticated Zsa Zsa Gabor, who at her debut in Forty Carats had already starred in more than thirty films and made three hundred television appearances. She spoke six languages, was the chairman of her own cosmetics company and was educated in Vienna, Luzanne and Turkey. An accomplished sportswoman she was the Junior Ping-Pong champion of Hungary, also adept at fencing, swimming and tennis, and at the time was one of the few women in the world to play polo. She won the title of Miss Hungary at the age of 15.
To all the independent ladies, in the spirit of Anna Sandy and Zsa Zsa Gabor, drip on your grandmother’s largest jewels, grab your favorite faux fur and head out with your other single lady friends on a trip downtown or to a Greek island…you never know what new adventure awaits unless you take the initiative and leave the comforts of your cougar den! Until we meet again…
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The Salty Dog Cocktail
This week I share a Vodka cocktail creation of the 1970s “Me” generation celebrating both Zsa Zsa’s Eastern European roots and her 1970 Tony Award-winning performance in Forty Carats. Wishing Ms. Gabor a very happy recent 95th birthday. And to celebrate those qualities that remain untarnished with undeniable staying power…in her prime, she was beautiful, independent and accomplished—often forgotten in those dim memories of her too-frequent appearances on Merv Griffin and The Tonight Show. So go ahead, mix up a tangy, briny Salty Dog and Egészségedre! (Hungarian for Cheers!)
The Salty Dog: The Vodka-based Screwdriver of the fifties became the Greyhound of the seventies when grapefruit juice was substituted for orange juice. Rim the glass with either plain or lime rock salt for a twist to make the Greyhound a Salty Dog. Over ice in a tall glass rimmed with salt, combine grapefruit or pink grapefruit juice and a shot and a half of your favorite vodka.
“Vodka is the only drink.” Diana Vreeland
PS: Calling all fashion independents in Phoenix, Arizona! Please don’t miss just opened, “Fashion Independent: The Original Style of Ann Bonfoey Taylor” at Phoenix Art Museum. Mentioned in Vogue and The New York Times, this is the first major fashion exhibition in over ten years and is a must see. For more info: www.arizonacostumeinstitute or www.phxart.org
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e8z1EzDouNs
cockeyed optimism IS brat— with ‘a little touch of REVOLT’!
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Harmay dress
Arnold Scaasi, The Butterfly Dress
Who in the world is Nellie Forbush? She was the naive nurse in Rodgers & Hammerstein’s smash hit South Pacific, which premiered in 1949 and won a Pulitzer in 1950. Ensign Nellie is hickish, wide-eyed, and in love with a middle-aged French plantation owner whom she meets on active duty while in the South Pacific. The original “Cockeyed Optimist” is sure things will work out and love will endure. So it seems somewhat ironic and prescient that while thumbing through my sizable collection of vintage Broadway Playbills today, she spilled across my desk.
I think Nells is the perfect heroine for three weeks turned on its head. Project 2025 has rung alarm bells with more than half the electorate. The utterly bizarre RNC Convention saw the nomination of Vice President nominee and Appalachian hillbilly JD Vance—who this past week committed political faux pas by denigrating—and infuriating— middle-aged cat ladies with disparaging remarks that could not be digitigrade back. The disastrous Presidential Debate added fuel to the fire while the nation reeled from the shocking assassination attempt on former President Trump. President Biden’s stunning decision to step down as incumbent only stirred the pot further, paving the way for the rocket-like ascension of VP Harris. And let’s not forget pop culture sensation Charli xcx’s election influencer endorsement “kamala IS brat” spurring Harris’ meteoric rise—indeed a spectacle to behold.
I feel (and you may agree) that it is about time to hold up one perfectly shod kidskin gloved hand (when not using both to solidarity scroll IG), step forward with our silk-stockinged, stiletto-ed heels, and shout in a fierce tone, ‘I Understand The Assignment!’
It would seem we all need ‘a little touch of REVOLT’!
My latest favorite fashion accessory to block the ever-beating AZ sun has been my Ray-Ban Meta Skyler sunglasses. They shade my eyes and give me a unique view. So, in this spirit, I will share in this blog a fashion report titled ‘a little touch of REVOLT’! from the South Pacific Playbill dated October 6, 1958, written by Barbara Blake with illustrations by Pauline Trigere, Arnold Scaasi, and dress label, Harmay– during an era when the country reached a zenith of conservatism and post-war prosperity. M-Ad men ruled Madison Avenue. Cocktail and country club culture reigned supreme. The booming middle class enjoyed their new-found leisure in tidy Levitt homes—an aspiration for many. The big-finned Caddy from Detroit was crowned “Motoring Majesty.” Marcella Borghese’s advertisements enticed “For the woman who selects her cosmetics like precious jewels…”
Roll gently back through the decades…before Lululemon, New Balance, and microwavable dinners. Harken to when the end of the day meant dinner together, and perhaps Chet Baker on the turn table or Ed Sullivan on the black and white tube. Drink in those twilight hours announcing the end of a work day, slide effortlessly into the evening wearing your brocade-plumed slippers and loungewear and enjoy a few hand-mixed classic cocktails….perhaps a world that didn’t really exist in such retro-perfection but one in which my mind’s eye is in sharp focus. Agree, yes?
Then, follow me to my well-appointed home bar and let me stir up your favorite beverage over ice; what will it be tonight?
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Fashion Report: ‘a little touch of REVOLT’!
“Call us Nellie Forbush if we don’t see waistlines–yes, and hemlines, too–edging back to what was a happy norm in this country for seasons on end! The waistlines, often nipping big, full skirts, already are present (see in sketches here, where American fashion leaders are heading). And, regarding hems, we’re willing to stick our little necks out with the prophesy that doom is looming for the short-short skirt.
For the latter revolt in the bud, we’re inclined to give less credit to Paris, where the house of Dior is leading a drop-the-hem movement, than to the dismal discovery that, even in America, legs are simply not what they used to be in the days when Dancing Daughters charlestoned their heads off every night, and luscious stems–perhaps for that very reason–were a dime a dozen. Already the smartest women we know (and we’re talking about “mother-wit” as much as fashion-sense) are letting down, just a little, hems that were raised to knee-height only a short while ago. What a year it’s been for little tailor around the corner!
All right, we’ve been accused before this of cockeyed optimism. But remember the chemise? And how we said, “Don’t look, and it will go away?”
–Barbara Blake
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Perhaps we can all take Barbara’s and Nellie’s forward-looking perspective, my dear friends, and lend a little cockeyed optimism amid caterwauling and prophesies of doom and gloom. While the current landscape may seem fraught with challenges, with our collective unity, we can defeat threats to democracy and overcome, once again, as Americans have done throughout our existence. After all, it is We The People, and fate is firmly in our hands. America, as this article illustrates, was always full of pluck and independence—not looking for cues from others…. We reinvented ourselves and our looks, raising and lowering the hems when we decided. This attitude and nature—it’s in our very cut and drape…
Ponder this over your cocktail of the evening (better if served in ‘Nick and Nora’ vintage-inspired glassware), which is the classic Rob Roy…appropriate for the zeitgeist of the moment; the Rob Roy is made with scotch and sweet red vermouth. Named after redheaded Roy MacGregor, Scotland’s Robinhood, the drink imparts a subtle smoky taste due to the scotch base. Also known as a Scotch Manhattan for the substitution of scotch for bourbon. Combine two or three parts scotch with one part sweet vermouth, a dash of Angostura bitters, and garnish with a cherry. Substitute orange bitters for the Angostura for a Highland Fling (sounds like fun, ladies, no?!) and a dash of Drambuie, making a Bobbie Burns.
Slip on your favorite peignoir, and cheers…Chin up, steady your gaze, lipstick on luscious lips and off teeth… a deep breath, hug your cat, and forge ahead.
Until we meet again…
Pauline Trigere’s dragonfly silhouette
Ray-Ban, Meta Skyler
The Stylesmyths: Vintage Fashion Reportage On Broadway 