by Karen Karbo
Nora wrote no witty novel about dying, no sly rom-com screenplay or slim book of perfect, hilarious essays. In her last days, she was working on a play called Lucky Guy, set in the late 1980s, about a tabloid newspaper reporter. She, who had written frankly about her nutty parents and their mad drinking, her famous husband’s adultery, her shame over her sagging neck, wrote nothing about dying. She wasn’t having any of it—in part, I’m going to presume, because she found the experience to be both tedious and not something she could control. And above all, Nora liked to be in control.
I, who have read every syllable she’s written, suspected something was up when I Remember Nothing, published in 2010, failed to live up to the million-copy best seller I Feel Bad About My Neck, published in 2006, but written before her diagnosis. “I Remember Nothing is fluffy and companionable, a nifty airport read from a writer capable of much, much more,” wrote Janet Maslin in the New York Times. Maybe, I thought, all that Huffington Post blogging was making her sloppy. But of all the things Nora Ephron was—domineering, persnickety, warm, generous, judgmental—sloppy she was not.
Maybe she didn’t tell people she was sick because her great mantra was to be the hero, rather than the victim, of her own life. It was something she told the Class of 1996 when she gave the commencement speech at Wellesley that year. She also wrote about it in I Remember Nothing. “When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you; but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it’s your laugh. So you become the hero, rather than the victim of the joke.”
Nora kept a picture of mobster John Gotti on her desk to bolster her during her post-flop moments. It was taken on the way out of the courthouse on the day he was handed a sentence of life in prison. He wore an excellent, well-cut suit. He looked terrific. I imagine Nora was thinking that she wanted to go out like John Gotti. She didn’t want to be a dying person dispensing wisdom. She despised complaining—it was one thing she hated about feminism, all that kvetching. “All those women-in-film panels!” she once said, throwing up her hands. One night she appeared with Arianna Huffington at an Advice for Women event (that was literally the name) about the “myriad challenges women face today.” Her best advice: Be in denial.
Upon Nora’s death on June 26, 2012, Lena Dunham (see Chapter 28) wrote in a tender remembrance for the New Yorker: “Nora introduced me to, in no particular order: several ear, nose, and throat doctors; the Patagonia jackets she favored when on set because they were ‘thinner than a sweater but warmer than a parka’…the photography of Julius Shulman; the concept of eating lunch at Barneys; self-respect; the complex legend of Helen Gurley Brown; the Jell-O mold; her beloved sister Delia.”
Nora introduced me to the concept that a woman could be opinionated, witty, exacting, and still beloved. In a word: difficult.
CHAPTER 23
DIANA VREELAND
Outlandish
MY GRANDMOTHER LUNA was born in Warsaw in September 1903—the same month of the same year that the très difficile fashion magazine queen Diana Vreeland was born in Paris.
Luna was a couturiere in Hollywood in the ’60s. She made fancy gowns for the wives of movie moguls and kept a small family of cross-eyed Siamese cats. She gave me my first issue of Vogue (setting me up with the fashion bible was the only activity she could think of to occupy me while I was under her care). I would sit under her big cutting table and drink it in, page by page, while she worked. She waved away my mother’s justifiable concerns (I saw my first naked boob in Vogue) by saying the magazine was “educational.”
Like Diana Vreeland, Luna had dark hair, hooded eyes, and an exacting, imperious European manner. Both women used cigarette holders and had bright red polished nails. There the comparison ended. But somehow, for most of my life, I’ve conflated them, believing irrationally that maybe Diana Vreeland was my grandmother. A lifelong practitioner of “faction”—a cross between fact and fiction—Diana would understand and probably applaud this urge.
Diana was the most inspired, outlandish fashion editor of the 20th century. When she assumed the post at Harper’s Bazaar in 1936 (a position she held until 1962), the job was mostly one of glorified wardrobe mistress. Diana transformed it into a position for an artist with a great eye, great style, and an ability to predict (and create) trends. In 1963, at the age of 60, she became editor in chief of Vogue. At 69, in 1971, she began her final, glorious third act as a consultant at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute. Pre-Vreeland, it was a sleepy department of the museum, of interest only to scholars. Diana single-handedly revitalized it, mounting 14 dazzling exhibits in 14 years and making the museum a pile of money. La Vreeland also injected new life into the Met Gala, transforming it from an obligatory overcooked chicken Kiev fundraiser attended by dutiful museum-supporting dowagers to a fashion-forward star-studded event tied to the opening of her brilliant exhibitions. Vogue editor in chief Anna Wintour took over the hosting honors in 1999, and the Gala (as it was now simply known) became the most sought-after social ticket in the known world, a gathering of every celebrity you love, and love to hate, all spiffed up in over-the-top avant-garde. It always feels fresh, exciting, and outlandish; not to take anything away from Anna Wintour, but it’s the spirit of Diana that energizes the evening.
Diana Dalziel was the daughter of an American socialite mother and British stockbroker father. (Her difficult name was pronounced Dee-AH-nah Dee-EL. You may have no need of this information, but in the event you’re ever sipping champagne at a fancy party and the subject turns to Diana Vreeland née Dalziel, I’ve got you covered.) The catastrophe and (eventual) blessing of her life was not being born beautiful.*1 Her mother, Emily Key Hoffman, was very beautiful, and Diana’s younger sister, Alexandra, took after her. Diana’s father, Frederick, was tall, dashing, and responsible for the Dalziel nose. Diana inherited this spectacular appendage—something her mother never let her forget. She called her “my ugly little monster.” Really, how does a girl survive this? By taking a page from Diana Vreeland, and becoming outlandish.
Before the outbreak of World War I, the Dalziels moved to the Upper East Side from Paris, where they had lived on the avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne since before Diana was born, and became titans of New York society. Diana spoke no English, and lasted at the Brearley School for three months before leaving to study dance with a Russian ballet master who she would always claim taught her discipline. In 1919, when she was a 16-year-old debutante, she determined that the only way she could compete with the other girls was through stylish theatricality. Diana may have had no formal education—something she would feel insecure about all her life—but this was a truly inspired idea. “You don’t have to be born beautiful to be wildly attractive!” she would say one day. Of all her celebrated expressions, this is one of the best. What Diana meant was: Be singular, be interesting, find what works for you and never stop working it.
Life began looking up when Diana discovered makeup—red lips, nails, a defiant slash of red rouge on each cheek—and caught the eye of Thomas Reed Vreeland, a tall, handsome bank trainee. They met in Saratoga, at a party (where else?). Vreeland was lanky and handsome—the young Gary Cooper comes to mind—and the best looking guy in the room. Another woman might have set her cap for someone richer, but Diana was swept off her feet. They married in March 1924, quickly produced two sons, Thomas Jr. and Frederick, and zipped off to London, neatly dodging the U.S. stock market crash in 1929. Diana had inherited some money from her maternal grandmother, allowing the Vreelands to live a joyously decadent life in a fancy flat on Hanover Terrace, near Regent’s Park. They bought a Bugatti and employed a young driver. Diana took rumba lessons in her dining room, painted bright yellow. She was in heaven.
The Vreelands ripped through her inheritance, and when they returned to New York, they needed money. Reed, as it turned out, wasn’t a terrific businessman. There was also the matter of his wandering eye, and the money he spent on his mistresses. Reed
was Diana’s weakness. She would go on to be demanding and uncompromising in her professional life, but she would always give Reed a complete pass. He is rumored to have asked for a divorce, but she refused. She would adore him for the duration of their 42-year marriage.
Meanwhile, fate intervened in the form of Carmel Snow, the fierce editor in chief of Harper’s Bazaar. Snow glimpsed Diana at a party, dancing on the roof of the St. Regis Hotel in a white lace Chanel dress, roses pinned in her black hair. She called her up the next day and asked whether she wanted a job.
Diana’s first move as Bazaar‘s fashion editor was to conceive and pen “Why Don’t You…?”—a monthly “advice” column that proffered no genuine advice but gave readers a shot of fizzy fantasy—a welcome diversion in the middle of the Depression. Why don’t you…
…Find one dress that you like and have it copied many times? You will be much more successful than if you try to produce the same effects each evening. (I’ve totally done this.)
…Rinse your blond child’s hair in dead champagne to keep it gold, as they do in France?
My favorite for sheer cheeky lunacy is: “Why don’t you…have every room done up in every color 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?” First, please note the sentence construction: have every room. As in, that’s not going to be you at the paint store collecting chips and buying brushes, but some servant or hired decorator. For years. It will be so delightful for you to watch him work. And not only will he be painting, he will also be collecting green porcelain. I don’t even have to know anything about green porcelain to know that it wasn’t something you picked up at the five-and-dime. I will leave the thought of having furniture covered in “sad green” with you.
The column was an instant hit; people adored its crazy extravagance.*2
For 25 years Diana came up with this squirt of pure fantasy every month, and for 25 years people loved it.
“I think part of my success as an editor came from never worrying about a fact, a cause, an atmosphere,” she said. “It was me—projecting to the public. That was my job. I think I always had a perfectly clear view of what was possible for the public. Give ’em what they never knew they wanted.”
The stories of Diana’s fashion triumphs at Bazaar are legendary. In 1943 she discovered Lauren Bacall, and jump-started the career of celebrated photographer Richard Avedon. She was a blistering, dizzy fashion force. But in the end, when it came time for Carmel Snow to retire, Diana was passed over for the job in favor of Snow’s niece, Nancy White. Diana was mortified. “We needed an artist and they sent us a house painter!” she cried. (Truth be told, Diana was the artist—but let’s face it, the artist should never be put in charge of the budget.)
Five years later, at the age of 60, Diana had the last laugh and became the editor of America’s foremost fashion bible: Vogue. She was high-handed and tough to please. She spoke in riddles and koans. Clarity in communication meant nothing to her. When photographer David Bailey was off to shoot the Italian collections, her marching orders were “plenty of wops.”*3
Perhaps because she had been born and bred in Paris, her sensibility was essentially French. She was drawn to people she felt were interesting, rather than conventionally attractive. Her models weren’t the usual pretty faces. Pale-eyed amazon Veruschka, alien-looking Penelope Tree, and Edie, with her anthracite eyes and bony hips (see Chapter 13). A full-faced and very young Mick Jagger. Lauren Hutton. Cher. Anjelica Huston.
Under her direction, Vogue became the magazine that enchanted me as a little girl. Tahiti, the pyramids, Veruschka in Japan in the middle of winter in all those furs. It was like a very fancy National Geographic, and this was probably what my grandmother meant when she said it was educational.
Diana Vreeland in her 60s, in the ’60s, was a woman in full. I could chronicle her outlandish eccentricities all day long. She chain-smoked Lucky Strikes in a holder and didn’t get dressed until noon. She liked to take her phone calls in the bathroom, from a phone mounted on the wall. Her usual ensemble consisted of black trousers and a black cashmere sweater. Her usual lunch consisted of peanut butter and a shot of Scotch. She typed all her memos on onionskin with a carbon. They were as mysterious as her verbal directives. “I am extremely disappointed to see that we have used practically no pearls at all in the past few issues,” she wrote on December 9, 1966.
The year 1966 was a bad one for Diana, though you would never know it. Reed died of esophageal cancer that year. Her determination to be positive and up up up! was exhausting to those who knew her well. She never let on her heart was broken then—or five years later, in 1971, when she was let go from Vogue. Her fundamental lack of respect for the budget played a role, but so did the changing times. Feminism was on the rise—a concept she wasn’t interested in and claimed not to understand—and collectively, the country seemed to have sobered up. Suddenly the extravagant fashion shoots—models in bikinis at the pyramids, or wandering through the Amazonian jungle in evening gowns—seemed a little crazy.
If we need any evidence that our final professional acts can be our best, consider Diana’s showstopping stint at the Metropolitan Costume Institute. Jackie Onassis pressed to have her hired, and in the same way she completely revamped her role as fashion editor at Harper’s Bazaar, she redefined the term “consultant.” Brought on as a favor to Jackie, Diana was tasked with “raising awareness” of the institute, and perhaps pressing her rich friends to donate. Her first exhibit, showcasing couturier Cristóbal Balenciaga, blew the collective minds of New York society. The museum fathers were expecting a row of mannequins fitted with nice outfits. They never expected art installations in the true sense of the word. Dramatic lighting, mood music, fragrance pumped in for maximum ambience. And the glow from the stars who showed up: Bianca Jagger, Paloma Picasso, Halston, and Jackie O, of course.
What have we learned from Diana Vreeland? That being outlandish—her particular form of difficult—is a strong, smart way to navigate life. According to her, to be chic is to be interesting and original—and these qualities, truth be told, are far more compelling than being beautiful. Beauty, after all, is an accident of birth, rather than an act of imagination and creativity. “There’s only one very good life,” Diana wrote. “And that’s the life you know you want and you make it yourself.”
*1You would think her mother, being so well traveled and cultured, would have more imagination when it came to female allure. Most people found Diana to be rakish and fascinating, with charisma to burn.
*2So popular was this column that Harper’s Bazaar brought it back in 2014. The 21-century iteration is less preposterous and far too useful.
*3This directive predated political correctness but was considered offensive even then.
CHAPTER 24
KAY THOMPSON
Incorrigible
UNLESS YOU’RE A total musical comedy nerd, chances are you know Kay Thompson only (only!) as the creator of Eloise, the six-year-old heroine of children’s literature who lived at the Plaza with her pug, Weenie, her turtle, Skipperdee, and no adult supervision, save the boozy Nanny. If that’s the case, please go straight to YouTube and watch “Think Pink!” Kay’s show stealer from Funny Face, one of the great (by which I mean totally campy) films of Hollywood’s golden era. She costars as eccentric magazine editor/despot Maggie Prescott, who calls in her army of assistants to proclaim, in song, that pink is the new black. (“Red is dead / blue is through / Green’s obscene / brown’s taboo.”)
That’s Kay Thompson.
Brazen, cheeky, and flamboyant, Kay is arguably the most gifted song-and-dance woman of the 20th century. Genius lyricist, gifted choreographer, agile pianist, superb voice coach, sparkling actress and comedienne, Kay was the mad scientist responsible for the DNA of the class
ic Hollywood musical. All those performance conventions we don’t even think about—the saucy gestures made by the diva as she struts around the stage, the stars belting it out and dancing at the same time, the chorus singing nonsense syllables that make them sound like musical instruments—they all came from the fantastically creative musical mind of the complete nut job Kay Thompson.
BORN CATHERINE LOUISE “KITTY” FINK in St. Louis, Missouri, on—well, no one is quite sure when she was born, because she lied strenuously about her age for the majority of her life.*1 We’ll go with November 9, 1909, because that’s the official date on IMDb. Her father, Leo, ran a pawnshop but called himself a jeweler; her mother, Harriet, was vivacious and musical and poured all her talent into raising her four children.
Oh, it was the usual thing. Kitty Fink had three attractive siblings—a brother and two sisters—but she was the one with “personality.” That personality was rowdy, distinctly unfeminine, and prone to hijacking attention by acting out, pulling pranks, and behaving in a bratty manner that would, decades later, be celebrated as Eloise-esque. Her avid mother, eager to find something in which Kitty might excel, started her on the piano at age three. Even then, she had a gift for music, and by 16 she was playing Liszt with the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra. But she had no interest in classical music, she liked to say, because it would have required her to cut her fingernails.
Kitty Fink was a mediocre student at best. She graduated in the bottom third of her high school class and quit college to pursue a singing career on the radio. During the Depression and early 1930s, the radio was it, home entertainment–wise; the top shows were as beloved as whatever we’re currently obsessing about on HBO or Netflix.
In the late 1920s, CBS affiliate KMOX was the number one radio station in St. Louis. Kitty showed up at manager George Junkin’s office claiming she had a nonexistent appointment, also informing his secretary that she was in a tremendous hurry and was squeezing him into her schedule. Both the secretary and Junkin fell for her act; Junkin thought he must have met her at a party somewhere and asked her to come in.*2 She sang for him, emulating the blues singers she loved. He offered her $25 week; she demanded the amount he paid his other torch singers. He lowered his offer to $20. He was impressed with her voice—it was deep, smoky, even soulful—but not her brash attitude. Kitty was unconcerned. Even then, she knew that management came and went, but no one had a voice like hers.