“She abandoned anything that she found to be a compromise or ‘a bore.'”

I’m sitting here drinking in these Bonnie Cashin colors. Do you know her name? I didn’t, but as I browsed the spring 2016 publishing catalogs for something to review, I found myself drawn to a new Rizzoli book about her, Bonnie Cashin: Chic is Where You Find It. It’s making for such rousing reading; her life as an artist and a clothing designer was uniquely self-directed and totally fabulous. And just look at these clothes (from the Met’s Online Collection):

 

Tangerines and limes, orange and raspberry sorbet. The colors are all so delicious. I’m dying to show you the photos of her apartment at the United Nations Plaza—Cashin made her living spaces look as lively as the clothes she designed—but I’d better not, since the book isn’t out until April. Here, why don’t I do what the kids do nowadays and make one of those palettes you see on Pinterest. The colors she keeps coming back to are these:

cashin_colors

Couldn’t you just eat them? It’s all lumps of snow and winter gray skies where I live, and I feel greedy for this kind of visual vitality.

Cashin died in 2000, at the age of 93 (or thereabouts; she was a bit vague on the subject of her true age), and this book is the result of a collaboration between the designer and author Stephanie Lake that took place over the last three years of Cashin’s life. Rizzoli’s books are always sensitively made, but this one is unique because it appears to have grown naturally out of a real closeness between the two. Lake, a jewelry designer, writes that she discovered Cashin while doing research for Sotheby’s, and she was simultaneously impressed by the degree of the older designer’s influence and puzzled to see how little has been written about her. She set out to make a proper record of Cashin’s legacy, and her initial attempts at conducting formal interviews quickly became informal conversations and then a sincere friendship. Lake is now the caretaker of Cashin’s enormous archive; the book contains dozens of photos, sketches, and other ephemera from the designer’s long life.

On top of being sassy and funny, Cashin was a serious artist and a big reader. Lake quotes her making reference to all kinds of influences, and I’m drinking these in too. Like the paintings of Sonia Delaunay—

sonia
Finlandaise, Sonia Delaunay, 1908

and the Vogue covers Cashin painted for her own amusement when she was first becoming interested in fashion design, after the style of Eduardo Garcia Benito—

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(I love reading about artists from back in the day, incidentally. They all got started so young. Cashin oversaw a team of dressmakers while she was still in high school, and she didn’t bother with college but went right to work. The illustrator Eduardo Garcia Benito, I just read on Wikipedia, began working as an artist at the age of 12. Who knows if that’s even true, and who cares? According to Lake’s book Cashin started lying about her age when she was only 25, possibly to make her precocious talent seem even more impressive. It’s a reminder to me to continually create and recreate myself—and to people younger than myself, it should be a reminder that you don’t need school or any other authority to bestow fabulosity on you. Jobs, maybe, yeah, but not fabulosity. That’s all you.)

Cashin may have been an unusual woman, but she had a typical woman-artist’s story in one way, at least: Her tremendous influence has been largely overlooked and not properly documented. Though she was a hugely successful, both commercially and critically, on her own steam and worked with dozens of prominent houses as well—she was Coach’s founding handbag designer!—Bonnie Cashin is not exactly a household name. According to Lake, Cashin virtually invented layering, both as a dressing concept and a fashion term. Same with the word hardware, as it refers to closures on garments and bags. If you’re interested in clothing in the slightest, you can’t tell me you haven’t used those words recently and often. Oh, and lest you think people aren’t still wearing her designs, here’s a colorful screenshot of a “Bonnie Cashin” term search I did on etsy just now:

cashin_etsy

So snazzy! I’m off to the library for a reading tonight, and I was planning to wear my trusty black jeans and a new dipped-hem camel colored sweater that I’ve been favoring lately, but I think I’ve got to take a cue from Bonnie and add a magenta scarf at least.

xx Katie

 

Orgiastic

Reading Tessa Hadley’s new novel, The Past, which I bought THE DAY IT CAME OUT on January 5th but couldn’t start until I’d finished the Barbara Pym novel I was deep into. (Excellent Women; more on that later.)

I think I’m not as enamored of this novel as I expected to be, but I’m only a third of the way through it so, too soon to make a total judgment, and anyway my mild disappointment might have more to do with the way I acquired the book than anything to do with the writing itself. It was a pre-ordered hardcover purchase—la di da— when truthfully, so much of the pleasure I get from reading is in the discovery of the book (or zine or blog), the accident of finding a wonderful writer while browsing the library shelves (or distro catalog or internet), and realizing they’ve got 8 more novels (or whatever) to enjoy before I move on: An orgy of reading. (Which, incidentally, is what I’ve decided 2016 will be for me. An orgy of reading. For whatever reason I’ve recently been devouring reading material even more lustily than usual, and I’ve used the word orgy to describe this feeling several times now to my husband, who finds it disgusting. But you get the point.)

The Past is about an annual family retreat to the beautiful (if mold-mottled) country home of the grandparents, who are no longer living. The house itself doesn’t have much longer to go, either, and this may be the last time all the children and grandchildren come together here. Siblings Alice, Harriet, Fran, and Roland and their various partners and / or children are there for three weeks one summer, and we are given (at least occasional) knowledge of all of their thoughts. I find myself connecting to parts of Alice’s flamboyant personality: She hates the thought of getting older, and dresses in an elegant, quirky style; she applies her aesthetic to every room she spends time in, too. But I also relate to Roland’s need for his work (he’s an academic as well as a [sorta] popular writer) to give him a sense of identity and pride. At times I’ve felt like Harriet, who is solitary and stern, and seems to hide some essential part of herself from herself. And though this is something of a throwaway moment about Kasim, the twenty-something son of Alice’s ex, I found myself agreeing heartily:

“…his room [that] was too tidy and too empty: austere as a cell, with only a thin rug on bare floorboards, the walls painted a horrible ice pale blue. This decor seemed to stand for a certain kind of middle-class Englishness he loathed, chilly and superior and withholding, despising material comfort.”

I’m American and can’t really speak to the Englishness of this, but there is most certainly a type of person in this country who keeps a house like this, and I know a few of them, and they make me weary too, with their spartan lifestyles and unassailable life choices—organic, classic, plastic-free. I like traditional, even rustic decor, I do; I favor hardwood floors and good furniture in a simple style, and those are in fact what I have in my own house. But I also like to bring home piles of secondhand sweaters and dresses from the thrift store, and hang funny 80s album covers on the wall, and eat a cheeseburger in front of the TV. I have a tape dispenser on my desk that looks like a high-heeled lady’s pump, and a growing collection of temporary tattoos. It’s the superior and withholding part of the description that resonates with me. It’s so apt. When I’m in a home like that I feel the reproach of the wan color schemes, the art-directed perfectness of the single good overcoat hanging from a wrought-iron hook. I often feel pulled between this kind of serene simplicity and the abundance and diversity I crave, but in the end I think I’ll keep my jumble of six thrift-shop coats, so I’ll always be able to choose one that matches the mood I’m in.

I’ve Got a Blister From Touching Everything I See

My pal Ed edited a compilation zine called I F#cking Love This Album, and he invited me to contribute to it. The zine came out a few weeks ago, so I thought now would be a good time to share my little essay with you here. The zine has a number of funny, interesting essays by other writers, including the highly entertaining Billy da Bunny. Buy yourself a copy, why donthca?  Meantime, read mine:

Hole, Live Through This

By the time I started college, Kurt Cobain was already dead. My best friend Laura and I hugged each other in the parking lot at school that Monday, the weekend after we found out. Laura and I used music as a way to distinguish ourselves as different from the other girls at school, and to get close to each other. She’d drive us around the suburbs in her little Corolla, tapes blasting, while we laughed like Beavis and Butthead and worked up the nerve to buy cigarettes. Laura loved Hole and Courtney Love as much as we both loved Kurt and Nirvana, and although I thought Courtney was cool and funny, I didn’t care that much about her music. Where Nirvana’s sound was rare and perfect, Hole sounded messy and unformed, always on the verge of flying apart.

After high school Laura and I stayed best friends but went to different colleges, and at first it was really hard. I was lonely and isolated at a hyper-competitive school, and I had a new boyfriend who I had no idea how to deal with because growing up Catholic had left me sick with sex-shame. During those months, I learned that feeling anguished made Hole sound … different. The music wasn’t just angry, it was urgent, like it was desperately trying to save your life. Courtney Love’s rage and pain were so female, too—the true beginning of my feminist education. “They found pieces of Jennifer’s baaaaah-dee”: I must have sung that awful line ten thousand times.

Live Through This isn’t my favorite album; nowadays, I’ll forget about it completely for years at a time. But MAN was it important to me then. I had it on tape, and played it at top volume on my Walkman over and over in the dark. Lying on the stiff mattress of my lofted bed at night, trying not to cry, getting braver. Whenever I think of the album the first words of the first song unfurl in my mind—“And the sky was made of amethyst,” set to the pulse of a too-quick heartbeat, and I can hear the perfection that was always there.

A few years ago I saw Hole play for the first time. Courtney Love was unbelievably powerful in person, with huge long legs like an Amazon. We got close to the stage, which isn’t hard to do at an old-people rock show, and I looked up at her in amazement as she bucked and heaved and belted out my getting-brave music, right there in front of me. It was 15 years after the album helped me save myself, and I no longer needed it the same way I once did. But I still loved it.