Tag: Fashion

The Bias Cut

Fashion of the moment and what lasts

Last week as part of a month-long retrospective of the career of filmmaker Ernst Lubitsch (1892-1947) (think The Shop Around the Corner), Film Forum here in New York City showed two screenings of the movie Trouble in Paradise, starring Herbert Marshall, Miriam Hopkins, and Kay Francis. But wait, there’s more.

The Film Forum lobby ad card for the retrospective.

At both the 12:15 PM and the 7:00 PM showings, my old friend and colleague, Howard Gutner, introduced the film and showed slides of photos from his latest book on Hollywood’s Golden Age, Banton of Paramount, a deeply researched study of the work of costume designer Travis Banton (1894-1958), whose protegee, Edith Head (1887-1981), was the eight-time Oscar-winning designer of films such as All About Eve (1951, in the Black and White category, which category ended in 1970) and The Sting (1974, her last). Banton never won because awards for Best Costume Design weren’t introduced until 1949, and by that time his alcoholism got him forced out of studio work; I’d never heard of Banton until Howard told me about his book coming out.

Howard was my work supervisor for many years, and we collaborated on many projects. Several former colleagues showed up across both showings, and our reunion made us look like groupies or the In crowd. A very old In crowd.

Howard’s introduction, which was delivered with real command of the material, a great voice, and wit and warmth, included slides of two gowns from Trouble in Paradise (which is just terrific, by the way): one worn by Miriam Hopkins shows a character who does not come from wealth, and the other, worn by Kay Francis, shows a temptress character with riches to burn. Both gowns, Howard explained, were sewn on Banton’s signature bias cut, where cutting the fabric on a 45-degree angle causes the dress to hug the body, thus showing a body’s true shape. Ah, the world of Pre-Code Hollywood. And this new knowledge, as it turned out, shaped the way I watched the movie—a new lens, if you will, that enhanced my viewing pleasure by heightening my awareness of craft beyond plot.

In addition to pitching Howard’s book, and I am, I want to praise the writers and archivists who keep our artistic histories alive. Howard’s other two books, Gowns by Adrian (long out of print, I see that Simon and Schuster is going to reissue it in November of 2026), about MGM costume designer Gilbert Adrian (you know him, yes you do, because he designed The Wizard of Oz), and MGM Style, about the work of MGM set designer Cedric Gibbons (The Wizard of Oz and so many more), along with the new book on Banton, provide backstories that had not been told; prior to Howard’s book, there were no books at all on Banton, for example. Following Howard’s lead, there are now other books on Adrian, but those writers didn’t get to interview Katharine Hepburn personally (as Howard did) as part of the research (Adrian designed Hepburn’s costumes for The Philadelphia Story). So important was Gowns by Adrian in design circles, I even caught a glimpse of it while watching 2024’s documentary about Bob Mackie, Naked Illusion:

In this still of the famed designer for Cher, Carol Burnett, and Elton John, among so many others, I’m especially proud of my screen capture of Mackie either about to sing opera or take a dump.
Art isn’t easy.

The other night I asked a young waiter in my neighborhood haunt, Belo—a kid I know to love theater, literature, and film—“Do you like classic movies?” to which he eagerly replied, “Yes!” so I told him about Film Forum’s retrospective. He pulled out his phone, Googled Ernst Lubitsch, and winced. “These aren’t classic, they’re old.” And that was it, phone back in pocket, conversation over. In an American age where the president wants to either tear down a congressional cultural monument like The Kennedy Center or rebrand it as vulgar Trump real estate; in a nation in which everyone of note seemingly wants to erase the arts and entertainment they don’t care for—from Timothée Chalamet dismissing opera and ballet, to Meryl Streep doing the same to wrestling on the Golden Globes (I guess that UFC cage match on the White House lawn will show her)—I feel that Americans are being Meta-trained to consume, to criticize, to forget, to throw away, to wipe out everything at greater and greater rates, in larger and larger amounts, across all spectrums of our collective experience—all so we can’t and won’t learn our true and full history. I think it’s that dangerous—for with every bit of historical memory we give up or entertainment pastime we bury with derision, we come that much closer to erasing who we are, where we came from, and the more the oligarchs and freedom fuckers win. (I read that Peter Thiel, a principal architect of America’s apocalypse, has moved to Argentina; that should tell us something, and maybe it’s good.)

I heard a little kid ask his parent the other day, “Why is the Mona Lisa so famous still?” And it struck me that the real beauty of that painting is that the whole world knows of it and that the knowing started in the Renaissance. That said, so too will everyone remember Mar-a-Lago and for just as long, because the grotesque and the evil matter to our story as much as the beautiful and the great; after all, the Borges financed the Renaissance. Obama’s legacy, I hope, will outlast Trump’s for all the right reasons; Trump can build all the monuments to himself and generate all the AI superhero images of himself he wants, but you know the only thing that will really last? This POEM:

I recommend regular rereadings of this poem, aloud, for sanity.

Here in my neighborhood on Friday evening, I stopped by the vintage clothing and gift shop Bliss and learned of owner Violet’s annual plant exchange (where we all can exchange cuttings to share with others) next weekend—and also the 8th anniversary of her store. She advertised for a band via Instagram and an Armenian guitarist said he could bring a tuba player and a violinist for a trio. Violet said, “Only in New York could I get world class musicians to come out to Queens for a plant exchange and face painting.” Now that is what I mean by collective culture.

I’ll leave you this Sunday with a couple of video essays by PissedMagistus on Instagram and Qasim Rashid on Substack, both on the sheer stupidity of racism, fascism, xenophobia, homophobia, and bigotry of all kinds—think of these clips as different kinds of bias cuts. No one should mind either high art, so-called, or low culture, so-called, just as they shouldn’t care what color someone’s skin is or what country they come from. With June starting tomorrow, I think of the Pride call, “We’re here, we’re queer,” and life goes on, right? What should never be stomached, though, are the dangerous people in power right now and the atrocities they are committing. Don’t drain your outrage, I keep telling myself, and while I’m upset over the Kennedy Center and glad a judge ordered Trump to remove his name, I’m saving my tight chest for Delaney Hall and my outrage for two Democratic women governors who are squandering their leadership—already. Spanberger vetoed a bill that would demand warrants for all ICE searches; Sherrill sent in troops to terrorize peaceful protestors yesterday. Shame, shame, shame, snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. So much work to do.

And don’t forget to make space for art.

Sidebar: Seen at the Montclair Art Museum in Monclair, NJ, last weekend—I love this label, upending “Unknown” as the default to illuminate gaps in our historical memory and think about why that is.

Sunday in New York

“Blogs are a conversation no one wanted to have with you.” – Michelle Wolf

Making an Effort

On Sunday morning I went to the Grand Bazaar flea market on Columbus Avenue in Manhattan. It was a lovely, soft day after a rainy Saturday. Three years out from the start of the pandemic, New York City has been slow to come back. Even before the lockdown, I’d noticed a steady and sad decline in “caring” when it came to personal appearance. People looked dirty, soiled, tired. Pajama pants and slippers in public became “fashion.” Was it poverty? Apathy? Depression? I don’t ride into the city (as we say from Queens, an outer borough) much anymore, since I can work from home more easily, but when I have taken the ride, it’s been a disappointing view of humanity, let me tell you.

Sunday was different. Sunday, I couldn’t help noticing, was awash in color and pattern, sartorial surprise, period fashion statements. An avid follower of the late Bill Cunningham, I have come to understand how street fashion tells us things about ourselves and our world that nothing else can; it is a true barometer of the local or (in the case of New York) (inter)national psychic weather.

Two Christmases ago, for example, Justin Vivian Bond and Kenny Mellman returned to open the Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM) for the first time since Covid, and Mx. Viv sent an email announcing “Kiki and Herb Sleigh Christmas” in which they beseeched ticket holders, “Make an effort!” It was a plea to look nice for a first big night out, for an occasion, to cheer us all up. I found my silver jacket and silver jewelry and duly duded up. Sadly, I was one of the only people in the entire place who not only made an effort but was what my mom, Lynne, would call appropriately dressed. My dear companion wore torn jeans, sneakers, and a bubble jacket. This was the general audience trend. Similarly, when the Metropolitan Museum finally reopened the previous August, I made a point of dressing in a smashing casual but coordinated ensemble; my companion that time wore clothes that appeared to be pulled from a dumpster—torn, ill-fitting, sad, unclean. He fit right in.

And all a person can do at that point is take the information as it is given to you: here is poverty (financial, emotional spiritual); here is a sad person; here are sad people; here are disconnected people. I don’t think this is about me being Judgy McJudger—it’s about reading the national room. And dear god what a depressing fucking room.

So this Sunday in May of 2023 was a revelation, and I wish I’d brazenly taken photographs: the adorable young woman in red Chanel hat, vintage red mini skirt and jacket, white ruffle neck blouse, red patent leather shoes, white stockings; the smart looking middle aged woman in 19th century dark blue hat and coat, who when I complimented her said, “This is my normal,” to which I said, “I love your normal.” Color and line and surprise abounded on Columbus Avenue.

$15 Flea find: 10 cent figurine, ca. 1964, completes the bathroom narrative.

Also on display: kindness. People’s nice attitudes mirrored their nice style. I sat on a bench outside the market with a woman named Jenny, her dark hair, very straight, pulled up by a bobby pin; she had a huge sack of apples for her three parakeets, too much weight to carry considering she’d had a hernia operation two weeks ago and uses a cane, what was she thinking; she was waiting for her Access-a-Ride to take her back to the Bronx. When she got the text, I carried her bag for her down to the waiting van, glad to do it, nice to meet you. Back to the bench, I found my friend Ryan just arriving. After a long conversation, a light lunch outside, and a market spin involving Turkish pillow shams, he said, “I need pickles,” and we sauntered over to the pickle vendor. A quart of half sours for him, a pint of kosher dills for me, the filling of the containers looked “like Tetras,” Ryan said, and the weary vendor half smiled.

As I stood there in the afternoon sun, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to see a tender young woman’s face, fair skin and full rosy cheeks, kind eyes, and she said, “I just had to tell you how beautiful you are.” I must have looked confused. “I saw you from over there,” she said, “your hair, your bag, just all of it. I needed to tell you.” Tears welled up in my eyes, and I laughed. “I needed to hear it!” I said. I thanked her. Ryan laughed.

Breaking Patterns

Upper West Side row houses. NYC

Against my better judgment—because I knew what would happen—I found myself relaying this joyful little anecdote to a couple of friends I happened to chat with later, and truly, the moment came up organically out of each conversation, talking of kindness. By sharing it, I meant, “It’s so sweet to hear kindness like that,” or “New York can surprise you sometimes,” but that isn’t what they heard. And what happened instead was just what nearly always happens when I share these rare sweet moments. The first friend quickly changed the subject. The second friend said, “Well, it must have been because of your confidence, or the way you carry yourself.” Because obviously, was their message, the woman lied to you.

I celebrate a time when we can have more expansive ideas of what beauty is. We’ve had impossible standards for so long, haven’t we, all to do with youth and god-given physical features? And yet there I was, Miss O’, gray-hair up in a bun, face wrinkled, belly fat, my silhouette double-chinned and pale, standing simply in black chinos, a pale olive linen shirt, comfortable shoes, carrying an Indian print bag and waiting for pickles, and this dear child was clearly struck by beauty, somehow.

And the first impulse in others—because this is America after all—is almost exclusively to snatch away your bit of joy, the sweet moment, and remind you that you are old, ugly, nothing to look at, how could you be so foolish as to take in a kind word? Why even wear earrings, a necklace, a scarf? Why did you bother to make an effort? Who do you think you are, little missy?

And my whole point today is really this: When we try, when we choose what we wear with a thought to personal (not to say expensive) taste, with care, with attention, and with our hearts, and we put this out into the world with some effort at kindness and connection, we just might make someone else really happy. It’s not always about me, or about you. It’s about them—the people who have to look at us. They might be having a sort of nothing day and your presence, that effort you made, could make it a little nicer.

What’s wrong with that?

I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that: Not a goddamned thing.

Love to all. Somehow.

Two beauties: Miss O’ and actor Ryan Duncan, Manhattan