The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup

by Susan Orlean

  Blass’s own recollection of the visit: “The Swan Ball is a good event, but, my God, it’s always on the hottest goddam night of the year.”

  A grand, formal, larger-than-life-size portrait of Mrs. Massey hanging in one of her parlors at Brook House depicts her in a draped gown of ecru pleated silk with a petal-pink cummerbund, her blond bob swept back, her face set in an idle smile, her fingertips dandling a string of pecan-size pearls. The portrait was commissioned by her late husband, Jack, who was the venture capitalist behind Kentucky Fried Chicken, Hospital Corporation of America, and Volunteer Capital Corp. It was painted by Aaron Shikler, who has also painted Ronald and Nancy Reagan and Gloria Vanderbilt. The dress in the portrait is by Bill Blass. I know this because while he and I were walking around Brook House on the evening of the dinner in his honor, he stopped in front of the portrait to remark on how pretty Mrs. Massey looked. Then he interrupted himself with a gasp. “My God, I think that’s one of my dresses!” he said. “I honestly think it is. It’s one of my dresses.”

  There were twenty-eight guests in the house at the time. They had been having cocktails in a vast horseshoe-shaped room with French doors that looked out over a brook and a stone fountain (a boy with a frog) and a big guesthouse and some clipped lawns and hedges, and now the guests were done with cocktails and were brushing past us toward a wing of the house which was too far away to see, but I could hear the scrape and chatter of chairs being pulled out, and I was starting to smell dinner. Several butlers were shooing people toward the dining room, and one of them hesitated behind us, gesturing with a silver tray and murmuring, “Dinner is ready in the east room, sir.” Blass went on eyeing the portrait. After a moment, he shook his head and said, “Well, I’ll be damned. It is one of mine. I remember that dress.” He popped me in the ribs with his elbow and said, “Say, that was a good dress, wasn’t it?”

  JAMIE STREAM, the woman who owns Jamie Inc., had met us at the airport with her limousine and a driver. Jamie is snappy and blond and forty-eight. She opened her store twenty years ago, when Nashville was on the outer edges of the fashion frontier. “We pioneered Oscar and Bill and all those people in Nashville,” she once told me. “When I moved to town, I really didn’t know what I’d find here. I come from the ranch country in Texas, where everything is pigskin, Hermès, and tweed.” I asked her why she thought that Bill Blass had managed to remain fashionable for so many years, and she said, “Well, this isn’t a glamorous thing to say, but Bill Blass is just . . . so . . . appropriate. Don’t you think? Isn’t that a compliment in this day and age, to say someone is always appropriate? And no one can take a little satin skirt and a little cashmere sweater and make it as glamorous as Bill Blass can. You know what I say? I say Bill Blass clothes have good bones.”

  In the limousine, Jamie was telling us about picking up Yvonne Lopez, the Blass fitting model, and Craig Natiello, of the design staff, who had arrived in Nashville a day earlier. Yvonne and Craig had brought the collection with them on the plane. It filled thirteen trunks. Jamie said, “I had the two of them over to the house for drinks. I said, ‘Come over, but I’m warning you, I’m just wearing a sweatsuit.’ ”

  “In which she looks adorable,” Blass added.

  “Well, that’s what they were seeing me in, anyway,” Jamie went on. She turned to the driver and called out, “Basil, can you turn up the air-conditioning back here? It’s beastly.” She squinted out a window. We were driving down a four-lane road in Nashville rimmed with fast-food joints and muffler shops. It looked as if it was about to rain. Jamie said, “Oh, I think we’re going to have a loblolly. If it lasts for days, it means I’m going to have to hire some parkers for the luncheon. We’ve invited seventy-five people, and I’m being very tough—all of them have to already own Blass. That’s what I’m telling people who are calling me, because I can’t just be throwing invitations around. It’s a legacy luncheon for the real Blass devotee.”

  Blass said, “It’ll be intimate. Ten tables of heavy hitters.”

  Jamie nodded and then said, “I’m telling you, this limousine is a wreck. It’s our work car. It’s just like a truck. We just use it like a truck when we go up to our Adirondack camp in the summer. When we come home, we just load this thing up to the rafters with everything under the sun.”

  We passed an enormous pillared building sitting back from the road. Blass sat forward and said, “What’s that? What’s that building? My God, that’s something.”

  “That’s the Parthenon,” Jamie said. “It’s the world’s only full-size replica of the Parthenon.”

  “My God, I’d want to see that. If there’s a full-size replica of the Parthenon in Nashville, I think that’s something to see, don’t you?”

  Jamie pursed her lips, and said, “You’ve got dinner at the Johnsons’ tonight, and the fittings for the models are on Monday, and you’ve got an appearance on a local television show, and you’ve got dinner at Mrs. Massey’s on Monday night, and the lunch is on Tuesday, so I don’t really know when you’re going to go.”

  Blass pushed his hand against the ceiling and said, “My God, I haven’t been in Nashville in years, and already I’m so busy that I don’t have a goddam minute to breathe.”

  MONDAY, 12:30 P.M., at WTVF, Channel 5: “Mr. Blass, I’m Debbie Alan, one of the hosts of the show. We’ll be talking about romance and clothes. We have a good time on this show, so just cut loose, okay? The other segments are Thanksgiving centerpieces and a guy with some great hair-care products. Hey, would one of you tell the hair guy I’m going to ask if conditioners really cure split ends, and if we have time I’ll touch on one of the other products, like maybe the curl enhancers.”

  A production assistant in front of us is wearing fawn-colored twill jeans, a white poor-boy sweater, and brown moccasins. Blass looks at her and says, “My God, those look like my jeans. Call her over. Those are my jeans.” The woman turns and comes over to him, looking embarrassed, and says she hadn’t known he was going to be on the show, and didn’t wear the jeans on purpose. Blass is examining the jeans and doesn’t answer. “That’s a nice fabric, that twill, isn’t it? It’s a nice finish. It looks like suede.”

  “I love them,” she says.

  “She’s got herself up nicely, hasn’t she?” he says to me. “That’s a good look.”

  The show begins, and Debbie Alan announces that the internationally famous designer Bill Blass will be coming up after the commercial. Then she giggles and says, “I have Bill Blass underwear and perfume, because that’s all I can afford, and I’m not going to tell you if I’m wearing either of them.” Blass, now perched on a tall director’s chair, hands in pockets, lets out a beefy chuckle. Once the commercial is over, Yvonne Lopez comes out wearing a slim-cut white jumpsuit piped in blue, followed by a model in a white-gazar-and-black-lace strapless gown. Debbie says, “Will someone scoop this up for, say, the Swan Ball?”

  Blass says, “I hope so, Debbie.”

  Now a model is wearing a Prince of Wales plaid pantsuit overlaid with black lace. Debbie asks whether women in Nashville dress differently from women in other parts of the country. Blass says, “There are wonderful-looking women all over this country, Debbie. I truly have a variety of customers—active, busy women who work or, like Alyne Massey, who are involved in charities, and so forth, and live all over the country.”

  A few more outfits are shown: a boyish blazer in a granite-print fabric, a floral tiered minidress, and a long gown in the same floral fabric with black illusion sleeves and neck. Then the segment is over. Debbie thanks him for coming. Blass says, “Thank you, Debbie, and enjoy your underwear.”

  A FEW OF the Nashville models had gotten their breasts done. No one had anticipated this. The models had been discussed before our trip to Nashville: Craig had wanted twenty, but he and Jamie settled on eleven. Blass had said that because they would be local girls he expected them to be “a little plumpy.” As it happened, the Nashville models were not particularly plumpy, but they did have bi
g breasts, one pair quite recently enhanced. When we got to Jamie’s store on Monday, Craig was fitting them into the samples and doing cleavage checks while three workmen were building a little runway in the store. The luncheon would be in the front room, which has a crystal chandelier, thick taupe carpeting, gilded molding, and plate-glass windows looking out on a small parking lot and then on Harding Road and across to a Kroger’s and a strip mall. The rest of the store is broken into separate nooks for different designers; there is also a shoe nook, a fine-jewelry nook, and a lingerie nook. The center of the store is a living room elegantly furnished with an ottoman, a coffee table, and two side chairs. Jamie was saying, “There just aren’t any shops like this anymore. Martha in New York—gone. Lou Lattimore, in Dallas—gone. Isabell Gerhart, in Houston—gone. In Nashville, I’m it. Let’s face it: In the past, we all used to fly our own planes around and spend a fortune on clothes, and we’ve all had to cut back. I still wanted to make this a special place. And that takes a little something. Those chairs for the living room—they’re oversized French fauteuils with needlepointed leopard upholstery—cost thousands of dollars, but I think it’s worth it, don’t you? It gives it a homey feel, don’t you think?”

  Craig was helping one of the models into a gray and white chalk-striped sweater and morning-striped pleated skirt, saying, “Your cleavage, dear.” Blass rummaged around in a box of accessories on a counter, pulled out a little shoulder bag, and said to the model, “Put this on. Across your shoulder. Across. Yes. That’s good. That’ll jazz it up. Craig, use more of this goddam stuff to jazz it up.” He murmured to me, “I would never use a bag in the New York shows. I also left out a few of the pieces I showed in New York and added some from the resort collection—flowered things that I think will be big here. A lot of these customers go to Palm Beach for the season, so they need that sort of dress. Everything in New York has to be goddam severe. Of course, in New York they dislike everything anyway, so you give them as little to dislike as possible.”

  Joyce Preston, Blass’s sales representative, walked in and stood next to Jamie, and Jamie said, “Joyce, I’ll be disappointed if we don’t do a hundred and fifty thousand dollars at the show. Most of the big people are coming, but we’ve got two Fortune 500s who are out of town and are going to miss the show. So that’s disappointing right there.”

  IT HAD RAINED all day and all night, and then sputtered to a stop just moments before women began arriving for the luncheon. The runway was ready, and tables set with linens, silver, bushy centerpieces, and Bill Blass, Ltd., pencils were now arranged in a semicircle around it. Jamie was dressed in a sharp-looking black wool crepe Blass suit from this fall. Mrs. Massey arrived wearing a suit from the same collection in red. Mrs. Johnson, who had had us over for dinner Sunday night, arrived. Mrs. Hunter Armistead, of the Tennessee Armisteads, and Mrs. Jimmy Bradford, of the J. C. Bradford brokerage Bradfords, and Mrs. James Cheek III, of the Maxwell House Coffee Cheeks, and Mrs. Neil Parrish, of the National Life and Accident Parrishes, and Mrs. Pamela Iannacio, a pencil heiress, arrived. In all, sixty-four guests were there, most of them wearing good Blass luncheon suits, with trim silhouettes, big buttons, smart details. The women were pearly, well coiffed, unglamorous, but timelessly good-looking; there were some mothers and daughters and probably a good span of generations, but for a million bucks I couldn’t have guessed anyone’s age. Mrs. Massey was seated at our table, next to Blass. Waiters circled the room and placed a papaya stuffed with lobster at each place, and after a few moments the show began. Yvonne came out in a black faille puff-sleeved jacket and morning-striped pants. Mrs. Massey leaned over to Blass and said, “That’s very correct, very fun.”

  Blass said, “That’s a good suit. Those are good-looking pants. That’s something you ought to have.” Mrs. Massey made a note on a pad of paper. Then out came one of the buxom Nashville models, in a floral suit. Mrs. Massey glanced at Blass, and he whispered, “You should have that, babe. That’s very you.” She picked up the pencil again.

  The next model wore a short black lace dress with black lace stockings. Blass pointed at her legs and said, “Love those stockings. Two hundred bucks a pair and goddam fragile.”

  Mrs. Massey snorted, and said, “Darling, never.”

  As soon as the show ended, the women popped up from their seats and headed for the next room, where the sample racks were lined up. Mrs. Massey was at Blass’s elbow, saying, “I need something for Palm Beach. Not too severe, because it’s for Palm Beach.”

  People buzzed around the racks. A woman standing near Joyce said to her, “I’m giving something for the Super Bowl. What can you put me in?”

  A young woman with a light brown ponytail emerged from one of the dressing rooms wearing an iridescent, mousseline strapless gown that cost $6,040. She said, “I can’t breathe, I can’t talk, I can’t move, but I love it.”

  Blass looked her over and said, “It’s very good.”

  She sucked in her breath and said, “I think I’ll buy it.”

  I was bumped into one of the racks by someone grabbing my arm and saying, “There was the cutest little girl waiting on me who was Kappa Kappa Gamma at Vanderbilt. Do you know where she is?”

  At this point, every dressing room was full, and Joyce, Craig, Jamie, and Jamie’s sales staff were bounding from rack to room with the samples. By two o’clock, they had written orders for eighty-five thousand dollars’ worth of clothes. Mrs. Massey had picked nine outfits, including a gown for the Swan Ball; they would all be tailored and delivered in a few months. Then she kissed Blass good-bye and left for Brook House.

  A few minutes later, the phone in the store rang. Joyce took the call. After hanging up, she said to Blass, “That was Mrs. Massey. We have to protect her. She wants us to protect her especially on the gown and also on the suit.” Blass grimaced, and Joyce said, “Bill, we have to. I promised her no one else would have that at the Swan Ball.” To herself, she said, “I’m going to have to pull that plaid suit with the lace overlay, too. I could sell six, I’m sure, but I’ve already sold two, and this town is too small for another one.”

  WHEN THE TOTAL of orders approached a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, Blass decided he could sneak out to see the Parthenon after all. We called for a limousine. It had a new driver. Mr. Blass looked at him and said, “Good-looking man.” The driver, Jim, opened the glove compartment and handed Blass a photograph of himself modeling suits for a local store.

  “Very nice,” Blass said. “I think we should see the Parthenon.”

  “You should go see Opryland,” Jim said. “The entertainment business is to Nashville what a pinkie with a diamond ring is to a hand.”

  Mr. Blass settled into the seat and lit a cigarette. When we got to the Parthenon, Jim told us to be sure to look inside at the statue of Athena, because it was the largest indoor sculpture in the Western world. When we saw it, Mr. Blass stopped and stared in amazement. The statue was chalk white, and was wearing a peplos, sandals, and a military headpiece. After a minute, Blass said, “Well, that’s the biggest goddam fake job I’ve ever seen. My God, it’s incredible. I’ve never seen anything so awful in my life. Have you ever seen anything so awful?” We went down to the gift shop, where he admired a T-shirt and then told the cashier her printed-silk bomber jacket was amusing and asked if it was for sale. She said it was. He took a second look and said, “It’s a good jacket. It’s amusing. But it’s really not for me.”

  TIFFANY

  ONE THING THAT TIFFANY, TIFFANY’S MANAGER, and the entire Tiffany organization would like you to know is that even though it may seem too good to be true, Tiffany’s real name is really Tiffany.

  “Of course her real name is Tiffany,” says George Tobin, her record producer, manager, and vigilant shepherd. “Her name is Tiffany, just like Madonna’s name is Madonna. You know, I’d actually prefer that you didn’t use her last name at all. No one ever uses Madonna’s last name—it’s always just Madonna. I like it to be just Tiffany. If her name
were Mary or something, then we’d use her last name, but we have a name like Tiffany, and that’s perfect, and it’s real.”

  Tiffany, who is sixteen years old and whose debut album, Tiffany, has sold 4 million copies worldwide, says, “I know Tiffany is a pretty unusual name. It actually was really unusual when I was born. But then, when I was about two, it started to become really popular.” She rubs her forehead and then says, “When I was about two, they even started making Tiffany lamps and even Tiffany rugs. They even started making Tiffany jewelry. I guess it’s just a name that got really popular.”

  Another thing that Tiffany, Tiffany’s manager, and the entire Tiffany organization would like you to know is that even though her success may seem too instantaneous and easy to be true, Tiffany’s talent is real.

  “She’s going to be around for a long, long time,” Tobin says. “She’s going to have a long career. The whole trip with her is that she’s real. It’s going to last. We’ve built a fan base of support, and now we’re solidifying it. I’m sure that you’ll be writing about her many, many times in the future.”

  “I’m myself onstage,” Tiffany says. “I want to come across as a real person. This is my career. I’d like it to continue for a long time. Or, I guess, I could end up being a manicurist or something, right?”

  It is the night before the day that Tiffany will perform at Disney World. For the first time in her life she will be singing with a band before a large audience. Granted, her statistics are impressive: She is the youngest female to have her debut album go to the top of the pop charts, and the youngest person to have the first two singles of her first album (“I Think We’re Alone Now” and “Could’ve Been”) hit Number One, and the first person in three years to have two different songs hit Number One simultaneously, one in England and one in the United States. Her record is already multi-platinum. But her only experience in front of crowds has been singing along with tapes in shopping malls.