Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  Corny, our founder, had been a glittering and dependable fixture at the Paris and New York shows, a wearer and collector of all things couture, and a muse for some of the world’s most accomplished designers. She had bequeathed twenty million dollars, her entire collection, and her magnificent white limestone mansion to create this valentine to her life’s passion. Tanya, who was a fund-raising genius, continually courted the city’s wealthiest benefactors in hopes of raising another hundred million to ensure that the museum endured in perpetuity. She fantasized about having it named in her honor. No one was supposed to know that, but as her assistant, I saw her doodle “The Tanya Johnson Institute of Fashion” on more than one scrap of paper.

  The stately mansion was perfect for us. It had ceiling frescoes of angels and nymphs, finely carved paneling that glittered with gold leaf, and a lavish ballroom on the top floor that easily accommodated six hundred, a vestige of Manhattan’s gilded age when the Vanderbilts and the Astors ruled. Corny’s sumptuous home also boasted multiple galleries and an imposing walnut-paneled banquet hall that was ideal for charity lunches. It was an elegant showcase for special exhibits curated by the museum staff, along with Corny’s own priceless ensembles, which comprised a significant part of our permanent collection.

  The vault was three thousand square feet of cedar-lined heaven, filled with scores of handmade creations by the most talented designers of their time. Corny’s wardrobe was stored in its own private room, where each piece was photographed, hung on fiberglass hangers molded in the shape of Corny’s torso, placed in a white garment bag, and hung in alphabetical and chronological order by couturier and year it was created. Beaded dresses were laid out on special shallow drawers after being carefully covered in acid-free tissue paper.

  Corny’s collection was enormous even by wealthy socialite standards. And though the Cornelia Peabody Gallery was the grandest room in the mansion (besides the ballroom), only a fraction of her iconic outfits could be displayed at any one time. Tanya spun this limitation into an advantage by creating special mini exhibits from the enormous selection—Givenchy in the Fifties, Twenty Designers Interpret the Little Black Dress, The Suits of Schiaparelli, The Fashions of 1980s Hedonism (that was my idea).

  Our staff meeting was about to start, so I headed for the “Y”s—Yves Saint Laurent—and pulled a 1940s-inspired pale yellow silk tailored trouser suit from his 1966 collection, the year he first introduced masculine elements into women’s wear (his greatest contribution to twentieth-century fashion history, if you ask me). I knew it would fit, having dressed the mannequins in the Cornelia Peabody Gallery more than a few times. The two of us had been close enough to the same size: She—five nine and one hundred fifteen pounds. Me—five eight and one hundred ten pounds. Corny had worked hard to maintain her stick-insect figure. Not me. I eat well, rarely exercise, and never put on weight. Alessandro says my metabolism is one of my best features.

  Too Marvelous for Words

  STUFFING MY DIRTY WET suit inside the black Hefty bag, I hid it in a corner, and headed for the conference room, giving Gus a wink as I zipped by in Corny’s proud vintage suit. As a kid who grew up wearing homemade creations, couture gave me a feeling of worthiness that I rarely experienced, and I enjoyed it more than I cared to admit. My heart raced at the thought of my promotion being announced. Tanya promised she would do it today.

  Speaking of which, Tanya floated in behind me, the picture of executive chic with her size-two charcoal Oscar de la Renta suit, geometric blunt-cut black hair, pale complexion, and lips so vehemently red they looked like a fresh wound. She had recently taken time off to have “work” done. Nigel was sure she’d had her ass tightened, but she claimed it was her eyelids. Naturally, she wore Chanel sunglasses. Tanya said her corneas couldn’t take the light after surgery, but we all saw it for what it was—a convenient medical excuse to imitate Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue and Tanya’s personal goddess. Designers fought to lend Tanya their clothes, as she was so often photographed in the society pages at museum events and charity balls. They arranged for celebrity hairdressers and makeup artists to style her so she would look even more striking in their creations.

  “Nigel, how was your trip?” Tanya asked, her chin raised high.

  As the museum’s conservator, Nigel’s job was to repair and stabilize garments that were damaged. If we lent clothing for a show, he would first examine it, with every irregularity and impairment noted. He would repeat the inspection when the costume was returned to be sure it had not been harmed while it was out of our care. We often exported shows to other museums, and whenever we did, Nigel made the arrangements. Then he would travel to the exhibit to dress the mannequins. Believe it or not, you have to be specially trained to fit delicate garments over fiberglass forms. As a reward for his excellent work this year, Tanya allowed him to speak as a fashion expert on a luxurious Mediterranean cruise, a privilege usually reserved for curators.

  “It was très magnifique,” he said. “I sailed the French Riviera on the Silver Whisper. We started in Paris, where I led a tour of the Musée de la Mode et du Textile; that’s in the Palais du Louvre. They had a special shoe exhibition featuring all French designers: Christian Louboutin, Michel Vivien, Pierre Hardy…”

  “Yes, yes,” Tanya said, “we all know our French shoe designers.”

  “Right,” Nigel said, momentarily flustered. “Anyway, the ladies loved it and I daresay it would be a good model for a show we could mount. The history of the couture shoe.”

  “Ooh, ooh,” I said, practically bursting out of my seat. “What if we didn’t limit ourselves to shoes, but included all couture accessories—faux jewels, witty bags, amusing hats. We could call it les riens de couture, you know, the ‘little nothings’ that posh ladies buy at designer boutiques.”

  “I love it,” Nigel crowed. “Balenciaga pillbox hats, Christian Dior pocketbooks and gloves, Moschino hats—remember when he showed that airplane headdress…”

  “1988,” I said, “also the year of the Napoleonic coat-hanger hat.”

  “We could show Christian Lacroix bibbed necklaces,” Cosima Fairchild added. “Chanel brooches and cuffs and necklaces…”

  “Oh my,” Nigel said.

  “Sto-op! It would be so much fun to put together,” I said.

  “Cosima, why don’t you take this one,” Tanya said. While we were all encouraged to offer ideas for exhibits, it was the curator’s job to write the proposal and “own” the show. First, she would outline the story she wanted to tell, and then list the objects she would need to bring the narrative to life, along with where she thought she might find them. I’d ghostwritten more than my share of exhibit proposals.

  “Nigel, did you give any talks?” Cosima asked, her green eyes darting from Nigel to Tanya and back again.

  “When?” he asked.

  “On the cruise,” she said, twirling her flame-colored curls with an index finger. Bright blotches appeared on her ivory face and neck. Cosima, who specialized in fine jewels and accessories, was one of our most innovative curators, but she was deathly afraid to speak in public, which was why she hadn’t yet lectured on the cruise circuit. Tanya had warned her to overcome the phobia, or else. The top cruise ships were swarming with potential donors for our museum. We had already garnered hundreds of vintage ensembles, four million dollars in donations, and twenty-five million in promised bequests just by befriending and working this überwealthy crowd. I had to hand it to Tanya. It was another of her shrewd fund-raising strategies and none of our competitors had caught on.

  “I gave the lectures that Holly wrote,” Nigel said. “The Life and Times of Coco Chanel, The History of Oscar Fashions, and Hollywood Legends as Style Makers. They were well received. Thank you, Holly.”

  Oh, go on, I thought, but sadly he didn’t.

  “Let’s go around the room for updates,” Tanya said. “Elaina, what’s the final word on the Audrey exhibit?”

  Elaina Erskin, another senior curator, always remi
nded me of Marilyn Monroe. She had golden blond hair, a bright smile, and wore low-cut dresses that showcased her voluptuous breasts. Elaina was active in the human potential movement and often quoted A Course in Miracles.

  “I’m happy to report that Tinsley Stachyra Presents: Audrey Hepburn, Icon of Style was the most successful show in the history of the museum,” Elaina trilled. “We spent half a million dollars to mount and market the exhibit, but ninety percent was covered by Tinsley’s donation. Ticket sales were two-point-eight million over four months, net profit was two-point-six million, and the publicity and prestige the show brought us was priceless. We’ll be dismantling over the next few days and shipping it to Italy for the fiftieth anniversary of Roman Holiday.”

  “I didn’t realize Roman Holiday is only fifty,” Nigel said.

  “Fifty-five, but Italians aren’t sticklers on time,” Elaina explained.

  “What’s our cut?” Tanya asked.

  “Ten percent of the gross,” Elaina said.

  Tanya led us all in a round of applause. “Excellent. Leveraging the fiftieth anniversary of Roman Holiday was one of my more brilliant notions,” she said, taking a bow with a slight nod of head.

  Tanya suffered from an acute case of high self-esteem.

  It may have been Tanya’s idea to send the Audrey show to Rome, but it was my idea to create the exhibit in the first place. I was sure the public would love it and naturally they did. As a little girl, I would watch Sabrina and daydream that my father would ship me off to Paris, where I’d learn to crack eggs properly and bake a soufflé. When I was a teenager and went to my first boy-girl party (where no one asked me to dance), I retreated to the world of Roman Holiday, and dreamed of waltzing in the arms of the oh-so-manly Gregory Peck. After I got my first job in a Greenwich Village bookstore, I would put on Funny Face and imagine Fred Astaire popping in to do a location shoot, discovering me, and putting me on the cover of Vogue. The Hepburn show was my way of honoring my favorite actress of the 1950s, the woman who never failed to raise me up when I was down. And the exhibit was a major success, thank you very much.

  “Cosima, how’s the new show coming along?” Tanya asked.

  “We announce Denis King Presents: Tiaras through Time on Wednesday,” she said.

  My stomach did a somersault when she mentioned Denis’ name.

  “The press conference is set. Tomorrow, Lloyd’s of London is installing the special safe they’re requiring. Starting Thursday, they’re providing their own security guards. They won’t accept ours. I want to thank Holly, who has been instrumental in researching and writing the catalog and organizing the press conference.”

  Oh, please, no need to applaud, I thought, unless you really want to.

  “Excellent updates, everyone. And now I want to announce a staff change,” Tanya said.

  Oooh, time for my close-up, I mentally squealed. I was scared. I was excited. I practically tinkled in anticipation.

  “As you know, with Karolina Burden’s departure, we’ve had an open senior curator position that I’ve been looking to fill for some time. I am happy to announce that Sammie Kittenplatt has been chosen for the spot.”

  They Can’t Take That Away from Me

  THE ROOM WENT SILENT. Jaws dropped. Eyes widened. For a minute I thought she said someone else was getting my job. But that wasn’t possible. I’d worked years for this opportunity. Tanya told me I was indispensable, that the job was mine. Alessandro said “break a leg” this morning. Pops sang a little prayer for me. I shook my head. Rewind. Delete. Do over.

  Tanya continued, oblivious to my mental meltdown. “Sammie graduated from Bauder College. She has always had a passionate interest in our industry. Her mother, Tappy Kittenplatt, is a founding member of our board and her family has long been among our top contributors. After interviewing Sammie and listening to her innovative ideas, I am convinced that she is by far the best woman for the job. Let’s all welcome our newest senior curator, Sammie Kittenplatt.” Tanya gestured toward the side conference room door and, as if on cue, in walked a familiar fixture from the Manhattan social scene.

  Wait, STOP! I wanted to shout. This was my job. It was promised to me. How could Tanya cast me aside for this interloper? My heart was thumping and I could barely catch my breath. Objection, objection, I thought. But I was momentarily paralyzed, which happens to me under stress. I sat there like a pile of discarded fabric on the dressmaker’s floor.

  You could tell that Sammie was one of those girls born with a Kmart exterior that had been attended to by the right dermatologists, hairdressers, trainers, and stylists. Now she was all Bergdorf’s—legs that were long and lean, arms that were buff, shimmering peach skin, Aegean-blue eyes accenting her thick blond mane. Her heart-shaped face was punctuated by a short, wide pug nose that had not been fixed. All that perfection surrounding such a snout made Sammie ugly and pretty at the same time, prugly like Diana Vreeland had been. I envied her. Ugly beauty was all the rage this season.

  “Hello, everybody,” she chirped. “I’m Sammie Kittenplatt. It’s an easy name to remember; think Sammie, only without the Davis Junior. And without the black skin or glass eye.” She turned to Nigel, the only person of color in the room. “Not that I have a problem with black skin or glass eyes, because I don’t.”

  “Do I look like I have a glass eye?” Nigel whispered under his breath.

  Now I remember, I thought. She introduced herself the same way on Project Runway last season.

  But back to my rant. Miss Kittenplatt was dressed head-to-toe-to-purse in the same designer (Chanel), which simply isn’t done by anyone who knows anything about fashion. And let me add that her entire ensemble was black, a look that went out in the late nineties, just two more good reasons why I (mentally) cried foul play.

  Tanya led us in a round of applause for Sammie. I joined in. I’m such a weenie.

  Sammie’s face brightened and she fanned herself with one hand. “Thank you. Thank you. Tanya, I’m honored that you gave me this opportunity,” she started. “Ever since I was a little girl, my dream was to be a fashion designer. But when I was bid auf Wiedersehen on Project Runway, it gave me the chance to rethink my career choice. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my talents would be better spent showcasing designers who were even more talented than I. So I talked to my mother, who’s on the board here, and, well, the rest is history. Get it?” she chuckled. “History?”

  Nobody laughed.

  “History. See, we’re a fashion museum that displays historical things. That’s what makes it funny,” she explained.

  Silence.

  “You know what they say,” Sammie added, “those who can’t, work in museums.”

  Tanya chose this comedy knucklehead over me?

  Checking her watch, Tanya said, “Sammie, I’d like you to spend a week following each of our curators and Nigel, our conservator, so you’ll have a better idea of your responsibilities. Holly’ll put together a schedule for you. She’ll brief you on everything about the museum. Holly knows more about what goes on here than anyone—next to me, of course.”

  Tanya stood and breezed out of the room, with her perky whack-job new hire in tow. Sammie was dragging a few squares of toilet paper on her heel. That was the only bright spot of the morning.

  “I’m speechless,” Nigel said. “That job was yours.”

  “What could you not accept if you but knew that everything that happens is gently planned by One Whose only purpose is your good?” Elaina said. “That’s from A Course in Miracles.”

  “Are you saying this is for my good?”

  “Tanya had no choice,” said Martin, our ultrareligious Jewish audiovisual guy who always left early on Fridays. “Sammie’s a Kittenplatt, of the Cape Cod Kittenplatts. Her parents are huge donors. Res ipsa loquitur.”

  “Res what? I said.

  “It’s Latin. ‘The thing speaks for itself,’” Martin said. “Something I learned in law school before I dropped out.”
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  “The girl’s an A-list socialite,” Cosima said. “She knows everyone who matters, serves on the right charity committees, goes to the right parties. She’ll be pure gold when it comes to fund-raising.”

  “Silly society gadabout,” I muttered.

  “Yes, and you can’t compete with that,” Cosima said.

  “I know, but do you think Tanya might make me a curator too? Not a senior curator,” I said. “I’d settle for being a junior one.”

  My colleagues shook their heads. “This isn’t the Met. We can only support so many curators,” Elaina said.

  So that’s it? The end of the story for me? Suddenly, there was a lump in my throat the size of Sammie’s schnoz. For once, I could not speak.

  You Call It Madness

  PLEASE, HELP ME UNDERSTAND,” I said, sitting across the desk from my boss.

  Tanya spun her leather throne around and looked me in the eyes. “She came up at the last minute and was better for the role.”

  “But…but how can you say that?” I asked. “I have a master’s in fashion history from FIT. She went to Bauder in Atlanta. I’ve assistant curated almost twenty shows. I wrote half the lectures anyone here has ever given. I researched eighty percent of our catalogs. I’m the only one here who knows how to write a foundation grant. I know more about what goes on at this museum than anyone; you said so yourself.”

  Tanya pursed her lips. Then she laced her fingers together and cracked her knuckles. “You have all the technical qualifications,” she murmured. “I’ll give you that. But there’s more to being a curator than experience and education. Curators are the public face of the institution. And we’re a fashion museum. Look at you—no makeup, no manicure. And the way you dress, Holly.” She pointed to Corny’s Yves Saint Laurent. “It’s so pedestrian.”

  I glanced at the sleek, streamlined suit. It was from the 1966–67 couture collection, one of the earliest examples of “Le Smoking,” which became a perennial style in Saint Laurent’s future collections. A similar ensemble had sold at Sotheby’s last winter for fifty-eight thousand dollars. Tanya had an MBA from Arizona State University. She knew her profits from her losses, but not her vintage Yves Saint Laurents from Loehmann’s backroom specials.