After a Fashion
Stephen rests then divests
CONVALESCING I'm still reeling from my trip to Galveston last week. Aside from the daily reminders of my little scabs and soreness as the deep abrasions try to heal, my leg has developed a cankle – you know, like when Nancy Reagan's calves were the same size as her ankles. They're called cankles. No woman wants them. You can only imagine that she'd at least be marginally distressed by this condition, constantly having to break in every shoe because of bunions and fallen arches (said an unidentified shoe sales person). But when it rains, it pours. What looked like a few deep scratches within days turned into a swollen, hot inferno, too tender to touch. And while my nose was indeed broken in the "bicycle" contretemps, it doesn't appear that Owen Wilson has anything to be afraid of, and it only hurts when I wear my Vulgari sunglasses.
AN ANGELIC CELEBRATION The wonderful Locks of Love organization benefited last night from something cleverly called She Gave Us Wings: A Tribute to Farrah Fawcett, who is valiantly battling cancer. The evening was chaired by Nina Seely, Gail Chovan, and M.P. Mueller, and spirits were high. Farrah, though not in attendance, was definitely there in spirit. The coolest part of the evening was the call for attendees to bring photos of themselves sporting Farrah's famed winged hairstyle. I was fortunate to get the human steamroller at Austin Film Society known as Shannon Moody to track down the film tribute to Farrah that I had put together for the Texas Film Hall of Fame when Farrah was inducted, and the actress was so charmingly dismayed by her award. She was the tiniest, most birdlike creature that I'd ever seen. At the event, she clung to my arm as if her life depended on it. I love that the Austin ladies are honoring Farrah, a Texas legend, now, while she is alive. But then again, Farrah will live forever.
SALE OF THE CENTURY Well, it just happened, dontcha know. I decided on the date of the sale and made an agreement with myself to sell off the bulk of my collections. It was an agonizing decision to make, but secretly I knew my spirit was encouraging me to not let the burden of material goods hold me back. Now, bearing in mind that I worshipped daily in front of Neiman Marcus, the idea that I could rid myself of such earthly possessions was preposterous. Please. The jewelry? Furs? Hats? Make-up? Clothes? Cars? Sunglasses? How on earth was I supposed to do without those things? Okay, well, I didn't sell my car, and I did start feeling shallow about my dependence on things. After all, they were the things I held dear for decades – the things that seemed to protect me and comfort me, some things that go back as far as my infant memory. Very few things meant more to me than my vast and lavish collection of fashion books. It sounds shallow, but the portraits and paintings and drawings in these books inspired me and informed my life. In many books, there are notes and tags referring to specific outfits or ensembles – a detailed history of my background in fashion. A good bit of my jewelry was on the auction block, as it were: brooches that I'd not worn in centuries practically, or at least decades. I just don't go out as much as I used to, and when I do, it practically takes a proclamation for me to be completely dressed. But then again, if I have so little to choose from, dressing up will never be drama again.
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