The Asylum (3 page)

•   •   •

NOT ONLY WAS DANNY
integrated into Henry's vacations and his tussy-flossy fashion milieu, but he also hung with the folks, by which I mean Henry's mother.

Henry's mother, Doris, was a regular visitor to our apartment in New York. She was a plain-speaking broad who hailed from the north of England. Doris had long since ceased to be shocked by her son and was more than familiar with his high-low lifestyle. She was quite accepting. Just don't touch her Rice-A-Roni.

The Rice-A-Roni debacle is indelibly etched in my mind. On this particular occasion Doris had just come from visiting relatives in San Francisco. She was on her way home to England and had stopped off in New York to check in with Henry and meet his new friend.

Doris was unsure of what to make of Danny. She was noncommittal, and understandably so. Since Doris had a thick regional accent and Danny spoke in the patois of the streets, neither was able to understand the other, which was probably just as well.

Henry took Doris to the Hamptons for “a mother-daughter weekend” of high-thread-count sheets and Barefoot Contessa prepared foods. I headed to Fire Island, where I spent the weekend stuck, intermittently, to a black vinyl couch. (Clarification, dear reader, will be yours when you read the upcoming Suzy Menkes chapter.) Rashly, we left Danny alone in the apartment for an entire weekend.

We all returned to Manhattan on Sunday night from our respective destinations with a certain level of apprehension. Would Danny have absconded with the contents of the apartment? Maybe he had trashed the place. Maybe he had gone fishing in the East River and stuffed the fridge with bloated bream.

Danny was nowhere to be seen. He was out having pahty tahme somewhere or other. However, we were relieved to note that the place looked perfectly tidy and normal. Good old Danny. How unfair it was to always assume the worst.

Mother Doris disappeared into Henry's bedroom and began repacking her suitcase for her UK flight the next day. After a few minutes, she let out a shriek of horror.

“He's stolen it! Two packets. I bought it in San Francisco specially!”

Doris ran into the kitchen, rummaged in the trash can and pulled out two empty Rice-A-Roni boxes. She held them aloft. The expression on her face was much more
“J'accuse!”
than
“J'adore!”

“You can only get it in San Francisco. The man in the shop said. And he—
he
—bloody ate it!”

Doris finally calmed down when we took her to the D'Agostino across the street and showed her the shelves and shelves of Rice-A-Roni variants
.

“Why the bloody hell do they call it ‘the San Francisco treat.' It's bloody confusing. Stupid bloody Americans.”

•   •   •

THE FOLLOWING SPRING
we planned our usual trip to Miami. Danny seemed even more volatile than usual. Right before departing, he and Henry had a face-off. A bitchy comment sent Danny into a butch tizzy. He made a fist.

“Go on, hit me! It's what everyone said you would do eventually,” said Henry, sounding very Susan Hayward and film noir–ish. Danny responded by punching a hole in the faux-finished terra-cotta wall behind Henry. (Don't judge our décor too harshly. Yes, it does sound very naff, but faux finishes were big back then, especially marbling and gold leafing.)

Down in Florida, Henry and Danny became night owls. We were on separate schedules. I lost track of them.

On the third day I started to crave a little drama. I wandered down the beach, thinking I might bump into the two lovebirds in our usual spot in front of the Raleigh
.

Donatella was shooting with Bruce Weber on the beach. Lucie and Daniel de la Falaise were frolicking with white tigers while half-naked boys bounced up and down on trampolines in the background.

In the gaggle of spectators, I saw a mutual friend who filled me in.

“Danny's in jail in downtown Miami. He tried to knife a cop.”

I felt a wave of relief. Danny's imprisonment was not exactly desirable, but maybe it would set Henry free from the bondage of this exhausting relationship. He was going to end up in the clink sooner or later. Pahty tahme could not go on forever.

Or could it?

Danny's incarceration did nothing to cool Henry's ardor. Au contraire! I think it actually heated things up. Henry found it HOT.

He spent the next few months commuting to Miami, visiting Danny and doing everything and anything—I am sure he toyed with baking a chocolate gâteau with a metal file inside—to get him out of jail.

After those first few months, Danny was transferred to a facility in upstate New York. Henry spent every weekend dutifully schlepping back and forth, taking a bus to a train to a ferry to a train to a bus, all for a half-hour nonconjugal visit.

Henry seemed to enjoy these seemingly masochistic trips. He told me that he loved to chat with the other broads—note I said “other”—on the bus. They shared feelings of solidarity and beleaguered wifely devotion, plus a few beauty tips.

“No, I haven't had time to get my roots done either. And our men all expect us to look our best. They don't realize what it takes to run a home and keep it together. Aren't you just
so
tired!”

Eventually Danny became eligible for parole. Henry attended the first hearing and voiced his unconditional support for his man.

“And what is
your
relationship to the defendant?” asked the presiding judge, while peering at Henry—he was sporting Maharishi embellished jeans, a charcoal-black Helmut Lang cotton jacket, Hermès espadrilles, a scarf made from Indian sari fabric, massive Cutler and Gross shades and an elephant-scrotum-size Fendi tote—with undisguised curiosity.

“She's my bitch!” interjected Danny. (Much tittering in the courtroom.)

Henry leapt at the chance to facilitate this process by becoming Danny's parole buddy, or whatever the hell it's called. In other words, Henry guaranteed the parole board he'd put a roof over Danny's head, and if Danny murdered anyone or destroyed any rental cars by making them dance to James Brown, then Henry would take full responsibility. All of Henry's friends joined in a Greek chorus imploring him not to be his guarantor. But Henry was adamant.

“Girls! You have to stand by your man.”

The prison bureaucracy was cumbersome. Henry's gay nerves were severely tested. When a letter finally arrived bearing the date for Danny's parole hearing, Henry let out a massive sigh—and then a shriek of horror.

“Fuck! That's the same day as the couture show!”

At this point, Henry was working for a top fashion house. In addition to the twice-yearly prêt-à-porter collections, this particular
maison
also produced, with great verve and much pomp and circumstance, a legendary couture collection. Chichi socialites, movie celebs and wealthy Saudis made the pilgrimage to buy $40,000 frocks as if they were Twizzlers.

The date was set. The models were booked, as were the clients' suites at the Ritz. Even Helen Keller could see that there was no way to reschedule the couture show. There was only one thing for it: the parole date would have to be delayed.

Listening to Henry on the phone negotiating the date change with the prison officials, painstakingly explaining the importance of the couture show to fashion, and to the whole of humanity, was one of the most sublime moments of my life.

Naturally, he was successful. As a result of Henry's finagling, Danny became the only convicted felon in U.S. legal history whose parole date was dictated by the French couture calendar.

When the show was finished, Henry flew home and so did Danny, and the melodrama resumed once more.

When Danny dropped dead, it was not a huge surprise. Though he was a strapping hunk, he had a long history with drugs. One of his favorite tricks was to snort cocaine, yell “It's pahty tahme!” and then hit the bench press. By doing so, he had blasted a few holes in some key heart valves.

What is surprising is how much Henry cared.

I had spent so much time being terrified of Danny that I had not stopped to examine the emotional side of their relationship: The effete fashionista and the street-fighting, fist-pumping hustler . . . were they really in love?

When Henry came back from visiting Danny's family, I made him a cup of Kukicha twig tea and asked him how he was doing. He got teary and changed the subject.

BEFRIEND A HUNGARIAN
gypsy and buy up all her shawls. Have a seamstress make them into tango dresses for you to wear to your parent-teacher meetings. It's time to
make an impression!

Soak your feet in molten molasses. The hotter the temp
erature, the more beautiful the pedicure.

Do not even think of leaving the house this season unless you are wearing a puce-colored leotard and a scalloped zebra cape.

You would be mad not to dye all your underwear cerise.

It's all about the carelessness of a bare leg. Donate all your silk stockings to the Carmelite nuns, now!

Cardigans must be worn back to front . . . always! In fact, everything must be worn front to back, even your husband's Y-fronts. You must insist upon it or suffer the unstylish consequences.

More than anything else in the entire world, you need a canary yellow Mongolian lamb evening muff. The fluffier the better.

Cut up your old ball gowns, sew them into ascots and give them to all your male friends. Save one for that homeless man who lives in a cardboard box near your house. There's no reason why he should be deprived of sartorial flourishes.

When will the women of America understand? A tambourine
is
an accessory! Carry one at all times.

•   •   •

BACK IN THE LAST CENTURY,
back before the notion of empowerment gathered steam, back before we all turned against authority figures and began “doing our own thing,” the fashion world was governed by an elite group of dictatorial maniacs. These tyrants felt duty bound to machine-gun the rest of the population with inspirational commands and bossy edicts. They told women to “think pink!” and to never picnic without a candelabra, to always use a coral ciggie holder, and to “banish the beige!”

Yes, Polly Mellen, I am talking about you.

Editor and visionary, La Mellen displayed no interest in prosaic dos and don'ts or prissy suburban etiquette. Fashion, for Polly, is, and has always been, a majestic, magical, mysterious galleon in full sail, and you would be INSANE not to hurl convention to the wind and jump on board.

While her reputation within the fashion world is the stuff of legend—in her decades-long career as a fashion editor, she collaborated with the greatest photographers of the twentieth century—she is perhaps best known for upstaging Isaac Mizrahi in what might be the most intriguing fashion movie of all time, namely
Unzipped.

“Fussy finished,” intones Mellen, silencing all further debate on the issue of simplicity versus ornamentation for the rest of eternity.

“Be careful of makeup. Be careful,” says Mellen, sending a shiver of regret down the spine of anyone who has ever not been sufficiently wary of mascara or foundation and lived to tell the tale.

As her collaborations with Avedon and Bruce Weber et al can attest, Polly was always explosively hyperbolic and provocative. However, her creative flights of fancy are underpinned with a can-do practicality. Posture-perfect Polly is from the never-complain-never-explain school of life, advising women to “walk like a winner . . . do your crying at home.”

Polly's enthusiasm for style is unbridled and unparalleled. I was present at shows where she excitedly clutched handfuls of skirt fabric as gals trotted down the runway, bringing the proceedings to a screeching halt. Sometimes Polly was so bowled over by a particular garment or model that she would be able to utter only one word, and that word was “chills.”

I first encountered Polly in the mid-eighties. She blasted into the mayhem of a busy sportswear wholesale showroom. I had stopped by to visit a pal whose job was flogging these
schmattas
to the big department stores.

“Polly's here!” hissed the fashion pack, and it hid behind its collective lacquered Ming Dynasty fan. Chills.

Polly and her gaggle of assistants caused an immediate frisson of excitement. It was like a scene from William Klein's genius surrealist fashion fantasy,
Qui Êtes-Vous, Polly Maggoo?
with Lady Mellen in the role of the editor, the lady who declares,
“Vous avez recréer la femme!”
to the stunned designer.

Upon sighting the racks of sporty commercial samples, Ms. Mellen froze in the doorway. Her eyebrows shot up in the air and she gasped audibly. All eyes swiveled toward Polly. We waited for her to speak.

“Something is happening!” she said, sniffing the air like a panther seeking out a gazelle for lunch.

“
Something
is definitely happening . . . right here!”

We all knew Polly was intuitive, but who knew she could suss out genius without even coming within twenty feet of the clothing in question?

She turned and addressed her posse.

“Something
is
happening here. Mark my words. And you, and you, and you must stay here until you find out exactly what it is,” she said, pivoting on her heels and abandoning her bewildered assistants.

“DO NOT LEAVE!”

The assistants looked at one another like a bunch of startled ferrets for about five minutes. When they were sure Madam Polly was in the elevator, they slowly began to work their way through the racks of T-shirts and basic summer shift dresses.

Polly had clocked the simple nature of this particular fashion collection. Gotten the picture. Done it. Been there. She was too well brought up to simply about-face, so she instructed her assistants to go in search of a will-o'-the-wisp, a je ne sais quoi. Insane, yes, but who knows? Maybe one of those anxious acolytes might actually find “something.”

Though she could be serious, imperious and filled with fashion gravitas, Miss Mellen also loved a good chuckle. My favorite memory of Polly is sitting with her and Carolyn Murphy at the Met Ball—back in the last century, of course—critiquing the couture of the attendees while simultaneously counting the number of times Donatella Versace and Kate Moss minced across the room for a potty break à deux
.

Speaking of the Met . . . let's talk about the most fabulous fashion dictator who ever lived, the woman who mentored Polly. Yes—Diana Vreeland.

DV was a real empress's empress. Her mission was to liberate women from humdrum convention and propel them into a world of fantasy by using electrifying edicts filled with shock and awe.

Many of DV's bossy pronouncements were of the you'd-be-mad-not-to variety, though her most memorable style tips took the form of inspirational
suggestions.
Cunningly framed as questions, these life-enhancing promptings were more powerful than if they had been simple direct commandments. I am referring to her famous “Why Don't You?” column in
Harper's Bazaar.

Why don't you . . .

. . . waft a big bouquet about like a fairy wand?

. . . use a gigantic shell instead of a bucket to ice your champagne?

. . . cover a big cork bulletin board in bright pink felt, band it with bamboo, and pin with colored thumbtacks all your various enthusiasms as your life varies from week to week?

. . . turn your old ermine coat into a bathrobe?

. . . paint a map of the world on all four walls of your boys' nursery so they won't grow up with a provincial point of view?

. . . tie black tulle bows on your wrists?

. . . remember that little girls and boys look divine in tiny green felt Tyrolean hats—the smaller the child, the longer the feather?

. . . wear violet velvet mittens with everything?

. . . have an elk-hide trunk for the back of your car? Hermès of Paris will make this.

. . . have a room done up in every shade of green? This will take months, years, to collect, but it will be delightful—a mélange of plants, green glass, green porcelains, and furniture covered in sad greens; gay greens; clear, faded and poison greens.

Vreeland was the primordial muck from which all subsequent bossy emperors and empresses emerged. She begat Polly and André Leon Talley and Carlyne Cerf de Dudzeele and Candy Pratts-Price and, yes, dare I say it—moi.

I consider myself fortunate to have worked for Empress Vreeland. It was during her tenure at the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute. I was hired by DV in 1985 to design the displays for a Met exhibit titled
Costumes of Royal India
and spent four sequin-encrusted months szhooshing bejeweled saris onto mannequins. And, yes, there was no shortage of pink ones. (Vreeland once famously declared, “Pink
is
the navy blue of India.”)

I have many happy memories of this period.

I remember Vreeland, who was allegedly color-blind, forcing the painters to repaint the walls ad nauseam
until they got the “correct” shade. This persnickety obsession even extended to the gift shop: “Wrong! Not THAT gray. I want the gray of QUAKERS!” The painting and repainting went on for weeks. By the end of the show, there was so much paint clogging the walls that they had to cover them with fresh Sheetrock for the next exhibit.

I remember DV engaged in a cold war with the conservation department. Obeying the stringent guidelines issued by the teams of lab-coat-wearing, white-gloved conservation ladies was not in the Vreeland wheelhouse. Though much of the Met fashion archive was antique and disintegrating, Vreeland loved nothing more than to drag an eighteenth-century coat out of its tissue-paper coffin and—
quelle horreur!
—try it on for size!
She would then strike period-appropriate attitudes. As far as the conservation department ladies were concerned, this was the equivalent of throwing acid at the
Mona Lisa
.

I remember Vreeland's office, with its blood-red walls and leopard carpet. The cork board behind her desk was smothered with inspirational photos: Maria Callas screaming, Veruschka vamping, Nijinsky leaping. DV was a cultivated broad whose life spanned most of the twentieth century. She had met everyone from Buffalo Bill to Brigitte Bardot. (She once insightfully observed that Brigitte's lips “made Mick Jagger's lips
possible
.”)

I remember Vreeland's personal style. She wore kabuki-style rouge on her ears and massive black rosettes on her shoes. Her nuanced look was a palimpsest of all her previous incarnations: a thirties hairdo, a fifties manicure, a sixties go-go boot. There's a lesson there for us all: If something suits you, hang on to it and drag it with you into the next decade.

My mother did the same thing. In the 1940s she adopted a Bette Davis pompadour (circa
Now, Voyager
) and the very same hairdo adorned her head when we buried her forty years later. There was a brief moment in the sixties when she experimented with a trendy updo of tunnel curls, accented with dangly earrings. She came home from the hairdresser, took one look in the mirror and declared, “I look like a tart.” She then stuck her head under the kitchen faucet and reconstructed her
Voyager
pompadour.

I remember how much Vreeland loved Bill Cunningham. DV was convinced that every Met costume installation needed to have a contribution from the bicycle-riding photographer-milliner-fashion sage. On the occasion of the Royal India show, I was instructed to leave space for a white peacock in one of my maharajah dioramas. Bill, an amateur taxidermist, had promised DV that he would deliver a specimen, stuffed and preening, in time for the opening.

Days passed. The clock ticked. No peacock. I stared anxiously at the empty space, already spotlighted, which awaited the arrival of Bill's bird.

On the last day of the installation Bill careened into the parking lot on his bicycle. On the handlebars was a large object in a trash bag. Yes, it was Mr. Peacock. Hugely relieved, I indicated the allotted space and left Bill to unwrap, fluff and install his creation. Returning half an hour later, I was greatly amused by what I saw.

Bill's bird was a real
mieskeit
, a total Marty Feldman of a peacock. It was a strangely unmajestic bird, an enigma, a mutant.

I asked Bill where he found this unpeacock.

“Oh, young fella, it's not a peacock. I was cycling through Central Park and I found a dead seagull, and I thought,
Perfect! For Diana's show!
So I took it home and stuffed it and added goose feathers and peacock feathers! Voilà!”

With a little careful lighting and judicious angling, Bill's seagull delivered a remarkably good impersonation of a regal peacock. There is yet another lesson for us all: When in doubt, make sure you are totally backlit.

More memories . . .

After the opening, I remember having dinner with DV at her apartment. This was the exquisite red-lacquered Park Avenue aerie which Billy Baldwin had created for Madame in response to her request for “a garden in hell.” The living room was a decadent, fabulously overdecorated opium den. The walls and upholstery were a hallucinogenic sea of blazing red patterns and foliage. Every horizontal surface was jammed with objects: turtle shells, silver-dipped seashells, lacquered boxes, enamel snuff boxes. Vreeland was no stranger to the concept of the tablescape.

She smoked throughout the entire evening, clutching a ciggie in one hand and, in the other, a handheld buzzer which summoned her housekeeper. On this particular occasion, Vreeland seemed less than pleased with her staff. Apparently they were attempting to dilute her vodka. Like many women of her generation, DV had developed an impressively high tolerance for booze. Any sneaky attempts to minimize her intake were met with lots of frantic buzzing.

When the meal arrived, Vreeland took revenge on her vodka saboteurs.

“Euch!” she said, viewing the deliciously simple chicken-'n'-two-veggies platter with exquisite disdain. “Take it away and make it into sandwiches! And bring me a cup of borscht!”

I remember Vreeland's memorial. This was the mega A-list occasion when Richard Avedon pointedly lauded the old guard, Vreeland, and dissed the new arrival, Anna Wintour. (La Wintour had recently arrived at
Vogue
and had earned Avedon's ire by cancelling his long-standing contract.)