Achtung! Another long post
My apologies for adding no information on the illustrators in the previous post. Yesterday evening while forking a falafel ball and mentally whispering a prayer to the gods of proper digestion, I realised it was Wednesday. What I wanted to add was a personal note, a memory invariably linked to contemporary fashion illustrations:
Time: Long ago
Place: Henri Bendel on Fifth Avenue
I was the gal overseeing the newly opened Catherine Malandrino boutique on the 2nd floor of Henri Bendel. I had been working for Malandrino at her downtown boutique in SoHo. When Bendel’s agreed to section off a corner of its trillion-dollar interior for her clothing line, Ms. Malandrino felt I better suited the old-money folk of uptown. I felt vaguely insulted, but off I went.
It was at a time of unremitting self-flagellation. For 9 hours a day I would stand in 4-inch Stephane Kélian heels without looking like I was sniffing my upper lip. The agony was something I’d felt I deserved. It also distracted me from wallowing in the rather critical situation in which I found myself.
Day after day as I watched window-dressers hang large watercolours by the fabulous Izak and Ruben Toledo, I fought the doomed feeling that I had ruined my life. And for what? For being so wet behind the ears I was still dripping on my killer heels.
I’d been charged in criminal court with a Felony D. In short, it translates to a minimum of four years imprisonment. The “gentleman” who was pressing charges claimed that I was a complete stranger who’d burgled his apartment. With emphasis on the Word Stranger.
The suffocating rage of injustice tormented. In less than a month I’d lost 30 pounds, and violent dreams left me ragged. All I could do was work. Neither Bendel’s nor Ms. Malandrino had any idea what was fuelling my massive increase in sales. All my personal clients would spend no less than $10,000 per session. My male CEO clients spent twice as much. Mistresses, dirty old men, JAPS, (Jewish American Princesses), fox-fur ladies⎯⎯I had them all and enjoyed their demands and the challenge of making them look fabulous. All I wanted was to be the mythic stranger who instantly knew what people needed. With emphasis on the word stranger.
But on slow days when distractions were lacking, I had to face what was looming.
The gentleman pressing charges, “Mr. Black” had been my boyfriend. He was a fashion photographer thirty years my elder. We’d been together for a year; the latter half of which I lived with him in his Loft. Reluctantly I’d given up my cosy duplex studio on the Upper West Side. He’d grown increasingly paranoid about my loyalty, so I took the plunge, hoping it would make him feel better and prove that I hadn’t anything to hide. Mistake number one.
Needless to say, the relationship was blustery. Between his jealousy and utter debauchery, I quickly chilled. At the time I was feverishly working on a photo-documentary on a young man growing up in the Lower East Side ghetto. I adored & genuinely respected him. And perhaps because a large portion of my days was spent happily in the young man’s presence, I could not fully grasp how miserable my personal life was.
And so, one fine late spring evening I walked into the loft, deciding to call it quits. I half-expected, as was typical, junkie models crashing in every corner of that loft. But all was dark, except for the glare of a computer screen.
There was Mr. Black retouching some model’s thigh in Photoshop. I told him I wanted to Speak with him. When he turned to face me I noticed his large hands. What’s that ring you’re wearing? I naively asked. He was startled and tried to hide the hand behind his back.
It was the longest monologue I’d ever heard. He admitted that when he’d tell me he was going up north to repair his country house, the truth was he was visiting his wife and two toddlers. He was ‘happily’ married but wanted to have his own life and didn’t care who he was hurting so long as he had his own life. He then pulled from a drawer a bag of mini cassettes. “You see these, these are all your conversations with your stupid friends and that goddamn boy you’re pretending to photograph. I know what’s going on. All those flirtatious codes you two speak in, but I know what’s really taking place. You think I’m stupid or what? You think you can play me and have some young thing on the side? You’re lucky I have a thing for whores like you⎯⎯”
I didn’t let him finish. The injustice blinded me. Knowing perfectly well I never had a thing for minors and that I’d never cheat on him, he nevertheless continued the accusations. I wanted to punch him in the face. Instead I kicked the wall. Needless to say it didn’t relieve a thing. Meanwhile on and on he went about my being a whore.
I started to pack my belongings. He told me I wasn’t going anywhere, and threw my things all about the loft. When he tried to pin me down, I suddenly felt like the incredible hulk. Effortlessly I pushed him away; and thinking of a way to shock him quiet, I pulled the Andy Warhol from the wall and tossed it out the window. I begged Andy to forgive me, whilst praying that the Dominican drug dealers outside would steal it. My efforts silenced him. When he returned to his senses, he phoned the cops to say some crazy junkie woman had broken into his apartment and was now threatening his life.
The cops arrived and asked no questions. I was handcuffed and sent to Central Booking. Because it was one of those consecutive Jewish holidays, I slept in a cell with withdrawing crack addicts for 5 days. (A gem of a post those five days would make.)
My lawyer, Mr. Levanthal, upon getting me released warned that if I could not prove I knew Mr. Black, I would be charged with robbery. And Mr. Black was filing damages of over $100,000.
At this point I was working for Malandrino at Bendel’s. As I’ve said, my thoughts tormented as I waited for my court date.
Out of the blue, the District Attorney phoned my lawyer. Having browsed at my file, the D.A. wanted to meet me. My lawyer was baffled: “What’s the D.A. doing reading files? Why would he want to meet you? I’ve never heard of such a thing.” On the morning of my meeting, I suddenly remembered I had taken a rather intimate photo of Mr. Black, and had possibly left it in my mother’s apartment. I ransacked her flat until I found it.
At first the D.A. refused to let me speak. “There’s no point in trying to get outta this one, Missy. You knew he was a photographer, you wanted to steal his stuff. Admit it and we’ll cut a deal.” Blind rage once again curdled within. Calmly I asked for permission to speak. He didn’t believe a word. “Honey, you can’t prove a thing. You got nothing, so admit the truth.” I slid the photograph of Mr. Black before the D.A. and said nothing.
D.A: This is the guy? This is Mr. Black? Hey kid, what are you doing with a man like this? He looks like a goddamn pervert. He’s old enough to be your grandfather. Hey Charlie, look at this, this guy’s older than me!
The only other time in my life I wanted to kiss a New Yorker was when I accidentally collided with Woody Allen. With the D.A., I could’ve collapsed in gratitude.
Eventually Mr. D.A. dropped the charges.
So if I sweat a little whenever I see these fabulous illustrations, a few people now know why.
*Illustration by Izak
