Sunday, July 17, 2011


Leslie Feist

Pushing the perimeters of Bazaar Country, discovering the wilder shores of Chic - the Outrageous Original, a young woman born with the silver spoon of imagination.

Th Face to Match The Chic

The face to match the chic, unhampered by preconceptions; looking happily, very much itself. The kind of face you imagine emerging from the mists of an English heath, hair blowing in tendrils above the brow. The bloom of beauty natural and fresh; the young woman, wise enough to know it and lending her best efforts to keep it that way.

The Look Is Bold
Delman Shoes

Riot of Checks, Rage of Red

Checks and Plaids

The Look Is Vital
Checkered Legs...shorter skirts...small, smooth boots

The Look Is Rakish
Couture West - Adolfo hat

The Look Is Rakish
Georgia Bullock - Adolfo hat


A Letter From Gloria Guinness

Dear Nancy:

  You asked me to report to you on the new super world of the young.  I have bad news. We are being licked.  They are invading our territories, stealing our pleasures and destroying our illusions. If you thought chic, elegant restaurants and nightclubs belonged only to the old and middle-aged, go and look. If you hoped to dance cheek to cheek to some romantic tune with some romantic beau, go and try. If you thought, or think, that you can still find a young ear to listen to kind advice, forget it.

  There was a time when I was young, when it took decades to grow up and still longer to be considered such. Today, there seems to be only childhood, and then, all of a sudden, everyone is as old or older than everyone else.  What I have seen , or talked to, are sophisticated, independent, dominating, influential, self-assured people of , say, sixteen or seventeen years of age. Of course the ones in their twenties are all of these things too but just that much more so. The nearest I got to what you had in mind was a little girl of eight, and even she was rather disconcerting. She knew how she wanted to wear her hair, didn’t approve of my own hair-do and advised me to buy a wig.

Which I did!

From A Letter From Gloria Guinness
Harper's Bazaar August 1964

"When I was One
I had just begun.

When I was Two,
I was nearly new.

When I was Three
I was hardly me,

When I was Four,
I was not much more.

When I was Five,
I was just alive.

But now I am Six
I'm as clever as clever.

So I think I'll be six now

for ever and ever."

From Now We Are Six by A.A.Milne
Harper's Bazaar August 1964
Photography: Bob Richardson

Fashion Independent 
Miss Alexandra Stewart in Clodagh of Dublin

Brown Seal by Fantasia

A Seaside Scenario

The sea was gray, the sky was gray, Anna wore gray. It was a gray world and to smile was not easy. Anna and Roberto, squeezed by the cities verticals, had made the escape to the country. Only it had been an escape. Anna glared at him.

Gray corduroy by Couture Specialties

Sensing his failure, Roberto spoke quickly, with passion. “Let me tell you how I write my books,” he said. Anna yawned with a kind of dazzling sincerity. Roberto tried opening the picnic basket, but after one bite of her chicken leg, Anna tossed it to the ground, like a challenge, and walked away. Something was wrong.

Yellow jersey - brown leather by Tanner and Leathermode

Catching up with her on a tumbled pile of rocks, Roberto asked breathlessly what was the matter. Anna smiled secretively. “I’ve been thinking.” Roberto stopped stunned. “What?” he said. But Anna only grinned and waggled her finger. “Later, later,” she said and went scuttling off over the rocks, chuckling to herself as she went.

White silk twill by Nat Kaplan

In the distance, a band played a slow tune in harmony with the birth of another exhaustingly sad day. “I don’t think I love you anymore,” said Anna suddenly, a radiant smile playing over her lips. “It came to me last night when you were being so bored between the fish and the meat.” 
“How could you not love me?” said Roberto, the childlike wonder of his tone crossed with a strain of melancholy.
“Odd,” she said, pointing to a rabbit looking thoughtfully at the sky.
“He’s not the only one,” said Roberto, letting the sand dribble through his fingers with reckless bravado.
“I remember how it was at first,” Anna went on, pulling a crumpled letter from her pocket for handy reference. “’I love you endlessly,’” she read, “’the way you wear your hat, the way you dance till three.’”

Brilliant plaid by Lanz

“Who wrote that?” Roberto asked suspiciously.
“You,” Anna answered hollowly, all meaning washed from her voice.
“I must have been drunk,” said Roberto; his eyes empty. In the darkness, he seemed to see Anna in a new light. He knew he loved her, But it was too late.
“What a scoundrel I’ve been, Anna,” he said, clutching her to him like an old rag doll (maybe it wasn’t quite too late.)
She protested violently, succumbing. Just then, a fly landed on Roberto’s nose. He looked cross-eyed at it. Anna wanted to laugh, but laughter has no place in love. She bit her lip so hard it hurt. Ah, that was better. She was miserable again.

They had a chance.

Harper's Bazaar August 1964
Photography: Bob Richardson

Jean Cocteau
I never wake up without telling myself,
You can do nothing about it: accept.

A narcissist, yes; and an inspired self-publicist, yes; and certainly one of those poets in whom the flesh eagerly became scandal and legend, as well as printed words. Like Whitman and Poe and Gertrude Stein, he will be remembered for his face as well as his books. He was much photographed and he complained about celebrity, but his nature found it impossible to remain invisible. His own body, his hands, his hair, his speaking voice and most personal habits, all had to get into his creative act; and whether we like it or not, there they will remain, obstinately untemporal and numinous, alluring to the memory, teasing to the imagination, and forever renewing their promise to reveal something to us, something about ourselves, and which we shall not be able to discover by any less equivocal means.

From Remembering Cocteau
By Robert Phelps
Harper’s Bazaar August 1964


No comments: