A Fashion Exhibition

I Luv Stephen Burrows

This past Sunday Richard and I took ourselves uptown to 103rd Street and 5th Avenue to see a fashion exhibition at The Museum of the City of New York. The museum's costume and textile department, under the direction of Phyllis Magidson, mounts wonderful, little gems of shows from time to time. Until July 28, you can see in their gallery, "Stephen Burrows: When Fashion Danced."

 I claim this dress as my favorite. Color blocked and feminine!

Stephen Burrows was a kid in Newark, New Jersey, when he sewed his first dress using a zig-zag stitch on his grandmother's sewing machine. He eventually found his way to The Fashion Institute of Technology in 1964.

A fabulously talented designer, Stephen Burrow's career was meteoric, essentially spanning less than two decades. He opened his first boutique in 1968 and closed his boutique at Henri Bendel in 1983.

 The dance scene of the 70s, especially at Studio 54,

 fueled the desire for Burrows' fluid clothes.
Many celebrities wore his clothes including Liza Minnelli,
Cher and Dianna Ross.

The "Lettuce" edge is seen here on the bodice 

and hem of this draped dress.

The color juxtapositions are so fresh.

 His use of metallic fabrics lent itself to flashy dance modes.

 Mannequin faces are so artfully painted.

Color blocking -- with flag-like colors.

 Drama Queen.

 More color blocking for the reed-thin body.

Leather, the hippie influence, color striping and orange suede

meet button-clad black fingers à la Miro.

 The New York Times called Burrows

 "the brightest star of American Fashion."

 The exhibition installation is brilliant.

Burrows sold his clothes at the O Boutique at Park Avenue South and 19th Street in the late sixties. It was across the street from Max's Kansas City, an art hangout popular with the likes of Any Warhol.

 Slinky and a beautiful color to boot.

 Burrows had his own boutique and atelier at Henri Bendel,

 when Bendel's was great

 under the genius directorship of Geraldine Stutz.

 The store was made up of small boutiques dedicated to one designer. 

I would buy this beautifully shaped coat

with the huge shawl lapels

in a New York minute.

 Interesting details.

The eccentrics.

 Play suits for Sesame Street graduates.

 Funny Face. 

 Delicious color combinations like swirled candy.

 Burrows' drawings are marvelous too.

 He pushed the envelope with exaggerated long legs and tiny heads.

This is my friend and neighbor, Rosemarie Stein.

Rosemarie worked for Stephen Burrows in his

heyday, and has a collection of his pieces.

She wore this fabulous Burrows' jacket to the

opening of the exhibition at the Museum.

What I wore to the Stephen Burrows' show.

Amy Downs hat which I trimmed with a red-silk flower purchased at an artificial-flower store on Walnut Street, Philadelphia way back in the'70s.
One of my gum-ball necklaces.
A flower pin from a thrift shop. 

I should be dancing.

À Bientot!

Keep dancing!

Luv you!

A Short Story

The Chapeautrix
BY CAROL MARKEL

The June night that Maeve LeNotre arrived in coal country, a pink and blue rococo sky hung in poufs over Pottsville, her new town. Warblers were trilling evening songs. The dark-red factory buildings sat matter of factly next to Mahantongo Street. John O'Hara's ghost lingered at number 606 next to a pale-green fire hydrant called "Darling."

A secret ship had sailed two weeks before from the port of Dublin and brought her straightaway to Pottsville, sailing up the old Schuylkill Coal and Iron Canal. She had the urchin breaker boys carry her portmanteau up the hill to the house she had bought sight unseen with the inheritance from her great-aunt Kathleen.

The Irish woman with a French name struggled up the hill pulling a black hat case on wheels. Only the faintest wisp of moisture on her upper lip gave away her effort.

Maeve LeNotre -- hatter -- modiste -- chapeautrix. In Pottsville she would ply her trade. Her hats were lavish. As heavy and sensuous as leaden eyelids and sable lashes.

Her shop would float on a riverboat reached by gondolas. It would be draped in garnet-crepe de chine and pistachio silk and have giant pineapple motifs planted on either side of the door.

She set up workrooms in her house. Velvets, felts, straws, feathers, ribbons, gauze, netting, clouds of tulle and bits of fur were neatly stockpiled for her use. Through the hot summer days, she stitched and pinned, folded, steamed and trimmed. The bounty of her hats began to multiply. Her fingers pressed lavender-silk roses to a brim. A light burned long and late in her dark-red house with the green trim.

A room was full. Evening hats. A black bonnet with black tulle that hung like fog over its crown. A black-velvet cloche chained with braid. A creation called Nuit de Chine. A black-crepe scarf studded with paste jewels hanging on a tiara of stars.

Garden-party hats. Large floppy brims garnished with the Vicar's roses in tea-time shades of mauve, lilac and apricot.

Pricked by her milliner's needles, Maeve's fingers grew blood red. Her hair fell sullenly from its elegant conch-shaped roll. Out in the narrow yard behind her house, ash from a colliery furnace blast fell and settled on her white-cotton slips hung out to dry.

When at last the hats and the shop were ready, Maeve held an opening fête aboard the riverbarge. She served ale and porter from the brewery up the hill. The town's most prominent social class came to gawk. Even those citizens who had been to Paris had never hoped to see such an edifice of illusion floating on their canal.

On their way home from the Primrose Mine, the breaker boys and miners passed the barge every day. Against the early fall twilight, Maeve placed Venetian lanterns in her shop windows to illuminate her chapeaux. The door boys pressed their dirty noses to the glass. The wide-eyed mule-drivers cursed their empty pockets. The miners wept for their wives at home. The mine boss considered a fine hat for his bride.
                                                                                                                     
Maeve put black powder on her face and stood upon her barge at dusk.
A wave of purple finches massed upon her red-toned head.

The Chapeautrix is copyright by Carol Markel, 1994.

Photographs by Richard Cramer taken on the roof

at 159 Rivington Street, New York City.

À Bientôt!

The Art of the Dress

Happy Birthday, Mr. Kelly

Who: Ellsworth Kelly, artist
Age:  90
Lives: Spencertown, NY
What he did in 1952: designed a dress

Ellsworth Kelly, abstract painter who makes geometrically shaped paintings in pure colors, is celebrating his 90th birthday in May. There will be a slew of shows in the great museums and galleries of the world to celebrate son anniversaire. But my interest today centers around a DRESS that Mr. Kelly designed in 1952.

The original dress made and

worn by his friend, Anne Weber.

The Story:

Mr. Kelly was living in France where he had gone on the G.I. Bill. He had sold some textile designs to a silk manufacturer and had some money in his pocket. He took himself to the South of France with friends. There, in the marketplace of Sanary-sur-Mer, he found some dyed cotton fabric in bright hues which he purchased. After using some of the cloth to make art, he gave the rest to his friend, Anne Weber and asked her to sew a dress of his design.

A bateau à voile plying the waters in the port

of Sanary-sur-Mer.

 Red, white and blue -- the colors of the dress!

Mr. Kelly did not like the way Anne made the dress. The bottom panel was too big. She said that she made it that way because Mr. Dior was showing this below-the-knee hem length at the time.

Voila!

The dress has been re-created by Francisco Costa, designer for

Calvin Klein. Here it is shown in the pages of the May issue

of Vogue worn by Dree Hemingway, Ernest Hemingway's

great-granddaughter.

Mr. Costa and Mr. Kelly, in the current issue of Vogue.

Two New Drawings

In the spirit of fashion as art, here are two of my new drawings for hat designs. 

 Drawing by Carol Markel, 2013. Felt-tip markers and paper.

Drawing by Carol Markel, 2013. Felt-tip markers and paper.

À Bientôt mes amis!

Un déjeuner avec mes soeurs

A Real Nice Lunch

Last night I had a pleasant surprise when I received a text message from my sister, Jeanne. My sister, Susan, from Syracuse, was at Jeanne's house in Katonah, NY (that's in Westchester, north of New York City) and they wanted to come to see us for lunch.

How delightful for a Monday! Richard and I busied ourselves putting the apartment in order. Jeanne texted: did I want Fern to come? Fern is Jeanne's black lab. I love Fern, and she loves me. Even though Fern does not like to ride in a car, she made the trip just for me.

Fern Herself.

Fern's Bowl of Water

Jeanne and Susan brought us this beautiful hydrangea plant,

one of my favorites.

My sisters got a take-out lunch from WM. Nicholas & Co. in Katonah. I am sorry that I did not take photos of the lunch spread, but here is the menu:

Everything was very tasty. I especially loved the big blackberries. Richard and I shared the turkey wrap, and Jeanne ate half of the big, messy roast beef on brioche. Susan had half of the vegetable wrap.

Sister Sue. Sue just spent 3 months in Naples, Florida,

where she and her husband, Rick, rented a house with a pool.

Sister Jeanne. Jeanne, her husband, Chris Wedge, and son Jack 

are going to Beijing, China on Friday for the Beijing Film Festival.

Chris will be promoting his new film, Epic, due out in May.

The cover of Misadventures -- in my interpretation, the author

as a cypher, except that she is wearing a

decorated, red dress, emblematic of

her creative self.

Jeanne loaned me two books. Above, is a book called Misadventures by Sylvia Smith. Ms. Smith, who died in February in London, published this memoir in 2001. Until that time she had worked at secretarial jobs. She was able to start writing when she became ill and stopped working. Jeanne and I learned about this book when Ms. Smith's obit was published in The New York Times. The memoir is a series of short vignettes about actual experiences in her life, written in short, declarative sentences in a matter-of-fact way. Paul Vitello, in the Times obit, says:

"The book, a plainly written, deadpan chronicle of an ordinary life, seemed to push the allowable boundaries of ordinary, entering an edge-of-space world where critics quarrel over literary metaphysics."

But Ms. Smith intended only that her books be "hysterically funny." And they are as her observations are given with a dose of the absurd.

Here is an example:

"My father had a habit of smoking in the car. Whilst driving the short distance to work one morning he threw his lighted cigarette butt out the window but unbeknown to him the wind blew it back in again. Some minutes later he saw smoke coming up from underneath him and looked down to see his cushion on fire. He stopped immediately, threw the cushion onto the pavement and jumped up and down on it until he had put the flames out. In full view of a very interested group of people standing at a nearby bus stop." Misadventures, by Sylvia Smith, published by Canongate Books.

The second book
is a collection of stories about

Parisians, both well-known and of modest origin.

Can't wait to read it.

Susan returned my DVD of Season 3 of Mad Men, the

last season for which I purchased a DVD.

I just signed up for Netflix and am now

catching up with Season 4.

Susan brought Richard two giant

Hershey Bars.

Which, of course, he loved.

I did manage a photo of dessert.
Chocolate babka.

Les Trois Soeurs.
Jeanne, me and Susan.

À Bientôt!