The Art World is Dead. Long Live Art.

By now, anyone who cares is well versed in the Tragedy of Becky Smith's Bellwether.

Once sales dried up by the fall of 2008, Becky called three of her largest collectors, pleading for some business — “I tried playing it cool, and then I tried playing it direct,” she said. She recounted a typical conversation: “I need to sell you something to continue to be here,” she would tell a collector.

“I’m just not buying,” was the reply.

“Did you hear me? I have this artist you collect who will have to get another job. If I can’t sell you something right now, I’ll have to close,” Becky would say, but the response was the same. “I felt forsaken,” she recalled. “All these collectors who supported me and my artists, they just disappeared. They didn’t care.”

Although I was not the kind of person who ever registered on Becky Smith's radar, I feel about as sorry for her as Chris does. She was something of an idealist; even as she careened into a business that, at its peak, cost her $75,000 a month in overhead--more than most artists earn in two or three years--she thought that it was at least partly about the art. About ideas, creation, passion, beauty, humanity, exploration, the pursuit of excellence, originality and insight. That stuff.

I guess we all do.

I can count on one hand the number of Chelsea art dealers who have ever been polite to me. Polite, as in acknowledging my existence when I say "Hi, I'm Stephanie. You are..?" instead of blankly looking through me for a second before speaking to the person next to me. Polite, as in offering me a glass of champagne and allowing me to accept it, instead of moving it past my outstretched hand to the couple ten feet behind me. Polite, as in saying, "that would be lovely!" when I offer to show them my portfolio after visiting their gallery regularly for a year and a half, instead of "It's a waste of time for me to look at your work."

(Actually, not a single one has ever said "that would be lovely," even though that's my usual response to other artists. As far as I know, there's not a single Chelsea dealer who has any idea what my art looks like, let alone an opinion about it.)

That hasn't stopped them from sending me press releases, once the 'art criticism' business imploded and the art blogosphere took off. Talk about wasted effort. Dudes, get a clue: once you have been egregiously, offensively, unnecessarily rude to me in person, you can inundate me with hype and schmoozing for fifty years and I won't come back. I won't come back to interview you, have a glass of wine, or sneeze on the art. I will ignore you. You are a waste of my time.

But what I realized, after the Fall of Bellwether, was that some part of me still believed that there was some reason to respect these people. That no matter how idiotic, banal, frivolous and inane was the majority of the 'art' I saw in their galleries, nevertheless the New York Art World stood for some sort of quality. Some kind of allegiance to the life of the mind and the exploration of the spirit.

Then I thought, "$75,000 a month in overhead?" That's not art, that's fashion. Fashion, corruption, and excess.

Because a business that generates a $75K monthly overhead for a white room filled with arcane, useless objects can only be sustained by the kinds of people who happily pay themselves multimillion dollar bonuses in taxpayer money after their personal actions torch the global economy. It can only be sustained by the kinds of people who are driven to accumulate infinitely more than everybody else, no matter how many others go sick, hungry or unemployed. It can only be sustained, in other words, by sociopaths.

It's no mystery that I and the New York Art World don't get along. My interests lie in the direction of timelessness and balance.

'Twisted lotus mandala' (study), Stephanie Lee Jackson, 2009

Thus, I have realized that if I am to maintain my integrity as an artist, I have to forget about galleries. Instead I will seek to hang my work in wellness centers, yoga studios, doctor's offices, spas, churches, and any other place that exists to heal and nurture the human spirit, not crush and deride it.

I'm pretty sure this is the right direction to take, because immediately after coming to this conclusion, I started working steadily, despite being blocked for over a year, despite being broke and stressed and taking care of an infant all day.

Does that make me a kitsch artist? Well, it could, except that I'm not going to change into someone else. If people think my art is kitschy, they're not looking very closely. And if there's one thing I've discovered about New York art dealers, it's that very few of them actually know what they're looking at.

This Just In--Shopping is a DRUG!!!

Darlings, guess what? Pretty Lady has Arrived! A major retail marketing campaign is now bribing her! With a $25 gift card, an hors d'oeuvre reception and a big block of chocolate shaped like a First Aid kit!

Pretty Lady has never made a secret of being cheap.

However, having sold her journalistic integrity for chocolate and a bargain-basement shopping spree, she must deliver the goods. Within the bag containing her bribe, there was also, most unsubtly, a Press Packet, which she will now proceed to quote.

May 15, 2008--A new study reveals that shopping and discovering an unbelievable fashion find produces a euphoric experience greater than sky diving, kissing or eating chocolate--increasing heart rates to 192 beats per minute, more than triple the normal resting heart rate of 60. While it has long been known that many women enjoy shopping--it is something they do willingly and often--now there is evidence that shopping does actually bring physical happiness.

To hammer home the point, a couple of British Scientists at the reception wired up a number of lady volunteers with brain-electrode caps (they looked like flight helmets covered with blue and green Life Savers) and sent them Shopping for Bargains. Pretty Lady, mindful of her dignity, did not volunteer. She does have some limits.

But there you have it; shopping may be added to the list of potentially addictive activities, designed to anaesthetize our brains from addressing the grim reality of Modern Life. Pretty Lady always suspected it was so.

Happily, she may report that the managers at TJ Maxx are on top of the problem, and have counteracted the potentially dangerous effects of too much shopping by providing a distinctly depressive dressing-room experience. Nothing curbs the euphoria of finding a fetching designer dress, marked down 60%, like having to stand in line for 10 minutes at the door to the fitting room, only to discover upon finally being admitted that fully one-third of the miniscule, fluorescent cubicles within are unoccupied.

(This is why Pretty Lady far prefers, when in need of a fix, to shop in high-end stores that have spacious dressing rooms, with armchairs and cozy halogen lighting. She can try on fabulous costumes for hours, and emerge Calm and Refreshed, without spending a penny! Much more economical.)

Pretty Lady later suggested to one of the charming TJ Maxx PR department girls that the dressing room was shamefully understaffed. She remarked, 'Yes, it's our busiest time of day,' and helped herself to another chocolate.

Pretty Lady now sees clearly; her choice of careers was woefully unwise. If she had gone into PR, she, too, could travel coast to coast, dressed to the nines, hosting glamorous parties and reciting inane copy to everyone she meets. And her salary for doing so would be considerably higher than a $25 gift certificate every year or so.

But since she is who she is, she will grudgingly admit that the likes of TJ Maxx is where she does her practical shopping. She armors her hypersensitive psyche with a Teflon force field, seeks out the natural fiber fabrics in a sea of polyester, and practices Zen meditation while standing in line after loud, tedious, proletarian line. And she manages to dress fairly well.

Another Fashion Post

On the subject of Winter Boots: make certain that the top of the boot reaches at least as high on the shin as the bottom of one's coat, preferably several inches higher. Otherwise your legs will freeze. All else is subject to Personal Taste.

Pretty Lady is sorry to be so unwontedly terse, but indeed she has so bored her intimates upon the subject of Boots that she genuinely fears to discuss them. When Pretty Lady opens her closet, she is greeted by an embarrassment of boots, from Curly to Combat, these being the only item of footwear which flatter her feet, or at least camouflage them. The day Pretty Lady is reborn into a body equipped with size-five feet and Balanchine insteps, is the day she goes hog-wild over frivolous high-heeled sandals; until then, she thumps around like Nanook of the North, and is content.

No, Pretty Lady is not here to rail about her feet; she is here to rail about Old Navy. The price marker-downers at Old Navy must have peeped into Pretty Lady's closet, and read her mind; they must have noticed and remarked upon the dearth and dire necessity of three-quarter sleeve T-shirts with curly, fanciful, obscure slogans on them. At any rate, Old Navy provided a gloriously chaotic mountain of these necessary shirts, and Pretty Lady tried on almost all of them. Eventually she narrowed them down to six or eight. (Tragically, the one with the Damselfly on it only came in XXL.)

And they weren't marked down at all.

The outrage! Every other miserable, pedestrian, flimsy item of clothing in the place was 50% off! Old Navy knows upon which side its bread is buttered; it knows the score. It knows that for the most part, it sells humdrum clothes that fall apart after one season. For the most part, this is fine, because the price and style are right.

But $16.50 is still a little steep.

Nevertheless, Pretty Lady curbed her impulse to toss her pile of groovy T-shirts atop a rack of uninspiring white pants (what are they thinking? Nobody who shops at Old Navy takes Caribbean cruises, at least not the ones who shop on Flatbush) screwed up her wallet, and paid for three of them. Champs Elysees, Cafe de la Cité (yes, she's actually been there) in bright yellow; LILLE 29, Olympic Training, in pink and white; and Be(ar) Aware, Safety Comes First! Cleaning Your Campground After Every Meal Will Help Curb The Interest Of Bears, in chocolate brown.

Now, back to our regularly scheduled, esoteric matters.

Severe Winter Fashion Emergency

Pretty Lady hereby declares a State of Emergency in Winter Outerwear, starting this very second. Please cease and desist wearing all full-length quilted nylon coats, in shades of Newcastle Black, Dirge Navy, Olive Drab, and Destitute Dun, immediately. Life is too short for this travesty.

For nobody ever nestled into a four-horse sleigh with seven of their closest friends, laughing all the way, wearing a black nylon overcoat. Nobody bursts through a doorway, lightly frosted with new-fallen snow, and declares, "Hark! It's time to put on the mulled cider!" sporting one of those things. Quilted nylon overcoats reek of dank, dire, grinding, lightless days without a spark of mitigating romance. They speak of endless slogs through gutters knee-deep in gray slush; they whisper of office coffee that tastes of burnt dishwater. Don a nylon quilted overcoat and you are donning an early, desperate middle age, of faded dreams and hopeless drudgery.

Pretty Lady turns a deaf ear to all your pleas of Poverty and Practicality, because she knows you bought those horrible things at Brooklyn Industries, which has perpetrated a most lucrative scam, in selling knockoffs of 1975 Salvation Army bin scrapings at designer prices. Shopping at Brooklyn Industries does not make you Hip and Edgy, it merely alerts the world that you are an immature poseur with no taste or originality, whose parents are still paying your bills.

And furthermore, those full-length quilted nylon atrocities would be no earthly good on either a ski slope or a farm, being too long for the former and too flimsy for the latter. If you want practicality, go to L.L. Bean, and stay there.

No, you must boycott Brooklyn Industries and go to the REAL Salvation Army, where you are assured of finding a range of cheerful and classic wool coats for under $75, half of what you paid for that hideous nylon rag you're wearing. As Pretty Lady looks through her own coat closet, she notes that she has a most attractive and deliciously snuggly coat or two for every occasion, none of which cost her anywhere near Brooklyn Industries prices. To wit:

• Vintage black cashmere lady coat with brown mink collar: purchased at the San Francisco Urban Outfitters in 1998 for $50. Worn to Sunday Brunch, the MOMA, and expeditions to photograph the windows at Bergdorf's.

• Royal blue full-length down coat in sueded microfiber with fur-trimmed hood and embroidered piping: purchased at outlet store on Manhattan Avenue in Greenpoint, for $129. Frigid casual.

• Blue-gray wool army coat: a gift from the girls who moved out downstairs. Punk casual.

• Black microfiber three-season lined raincoat with black velvet hood: gift from Beloved Sister, who worried Pretty Lady might be cold. All-occasion.

• Black leather hourglass jacket with fake fur lining, cuffs and lapels: purchased at going-out-of-business sale in aforementioned Polish district, $50. Warmer-than-frigid casual.

• Antique mink three-quarter length coat: most generous gift from the mother of a very dear old friend. Pretty Lady hasn't quite figured out what to do with this one yet, but she'll wear anything in Chelsea.

• Mink jacket: ditto. She has experimentally been wearing these to brunch; they draw quite the looks in Brooklyn.

• Floor-length white alpaca coat with gargantuan white chinchilla collar and cuffs: inherited from Glamorous Aunt. Pretty Lady really can't wait for the occasion which merits the wearing of this; perhaps a Whitney retrospective is in her future. Or maybe she'll throw it over jeans and cowboy boots and go fake out some pretentious Chelsea art dealer.

• For the gentlemen, all that is necessary is a leather bomber jacket for casual, and a long black wool for formal. As Pretty Lady's Gentleman Friend understands, being an Italian who knows about these things.

With all these myriad options, Pretty Lady has not yet even purchased any of the Satirical Plaid or Artsy Brocade numbers which she regularly finds in thrift stores; there are plenty left out there for the rest of you. Indeed, warm winter outerwear which expresses Wit, Cozy Good Cheer and Edgy Originality, and does not include nylon, is nearly infinite. Pretty Lady trusts her words will be heeded, or she may have to go through the streets with a loaded sautering iron. Please do not force her to such extremes.

Armchair Halloween

Dear Brucie has inspired Pretty Lady to issue a little Challenge of her own, although what with all the shipping boxes cluttering her hallway, she has no desire whatsoever to offer prizes, at least anything which requires dealing with the postal service. So your prizes will consist simply of the Joy of Sharing.

Pretty Lady's challenge: What was your favorite Halloween costume, ever?

Pretty Lady herself is divided between the time she went to the Castro as Humphrey Bogart, and the time she collected a bag full of mildly obnoxious tricks and went to a party as Puck. She is a firm believer in the Persona aspect of costume-creation--to her, a simple Concept is grossly inadequate. You will never catch Pretty Lady dressed as a Kleenex box, or a bunch of grapes. Her Puck character strolled past persons dressed as bunches of grapes, and strategically exploded firecrackers next to their silly little balloons.


One notes that Demeanor is at least as significant an element of this costume as the fact that Pretty Lady scoured the local Goodwill for as decent a suit as she could manage; indeed, the wingtips were remarkably comfortable, and serviceable for years afterward.

When creating a true Persona, it is advisable to plumb one's own soul and bone structure for elements which resonate with the desired target. In this circumstance Pretty Lady chose to emphasize both her equine jawline and a certain world-weary melancholy, inherent within her temperament. These served equally well a couple of years later, when her hair had grown out, she'd settled those perplexing gender-identity issues, and a passerby was overheard to mutter, "really does look like Scully."

But enough of that. Pretty Lady is dying to hear your stories; photos would not come amiss, either. This Halloween she is going to see Legally Blonde on Broadway, and most likely will skip the parties afterward.

Bette Davis Overload

Pretty Lady has figured out that the chief benefit of her new hairdo is that it goes so well with her CarolAnn Wachter hat collection.


Sadly, if this phase continues, she's going to have to invest in another tube of Pompeii-colored lipstick. The old one has fossilized from lack of use.


Ah, well. Back to the twentieth century with thee, Bette, dear.


Update: How do y'all like this for a new profile photo?

The Back of the Closet

Pretty Lady does not quite believe in Global Warming, normally, for the very good reason that Daddy the Brilliant Scientist has done an extensive study on the issue, in his spare time, and has told her that Global Warming is Not So. Mostly. But when we are getting San Francisco spring weather at the beginning of January in New York City, she begins to wonder.

Since she cannot do much about Global Warming at the moment, however, Pretty Lady took advantage of the balmy temperatures to rummage around in the closet and pull out some items that haven't seen much use since she moved to a city with Seasons. Foremost among the nifty stuff in there was this, a Labyrinth jacket made entirely out of hemp, and once owned by an Asian fire-eating stripper. 'Miss Jade' is her name. Perhaps you have heard of her?


At times, despite her worldly experience, Pretty Lady can be exceptionally naive. When she browses through designer clothing boutiques, largely for artistic reasons, she can't help noticing that the price tags on nearly all of the items are consummately prohibitive, given that the target demographic--nubile young females--does not tend, generally, to be in the High Income bracket. Moreover, the styles have a tendency to be flashy to the point of near-indecency. "These look likc clothes for high-end female escorts," Pretty Lady has been known to speculate.

Come to find out, that's exactly what they are. Which is why Pretty Lady considers it a badge, not only of canny, pragmatic thrift, but of actual straightforward Virtue of Character, that she buys all of her bizarre high-fashion novelty items either secondhand, barter, sample sale, or factory second. These clothes have the added virtue that they occasionally come accompanied by interesting stories, having been both produced and owned by personalities as colorful as Pretty Lady's own.

This particular jacket was quite a score--Pretty Lady had been wandering hopelessly into the Labyrinth store in the Lower Haight for a year or more, trying on fantastically medieval, sculptural creations and mentally staking them out, just in case she happened to get married or something. (There was one thing, a two-layer Asian-influence construction that incorporated bright orange swooshy pants, burgundy tunic, gold and orange floral overskirt, and bright red bodice, in a startling manner that both worked as an ensemble and set off Pretty Lady's short burgundy haircut at the time, that she earmarked as either a wedding dress, or what to wear for one's own opening at the Museum of Modern Art. Sadly, neither of these events has yet to come to pass, and the Labyrinth label appears to have passed on to more pragmatic enterprises.)

In any case, when she fetched up against this jacket in the local consignment shop, with a tag well within her means, she could scarcely believe her luck. It was mere icing on the cake when the salesgirl informed her, "Miss Jade brought that jacket in. She was cleaning out her closets, and hadn't worn it in over a year."

Pretty Lady wore it, and still does; something about the hemp, the heft, the solidity of its construction makes her feel both protected and powerful, in some esoteric way. It confirms the notion she has that if she had been born in some medieval era, she would probably have been burned as a witch.

Pretty Lady's Position on High Heels

Teetering and unstable, darlings, is always counterproductive. Even if it were not for an ancient injury, which makes high heels an exceedingly unwise option for Pretty Lady, she would largely eschew them by virtue of the fact that she lives in New York. If one lives in New York and has not the resources to take cabs everywhere one goes, even one block, the wearing of high heels is an indicator of either madness or masochism. Pretty Lady wears Furry Boots in winter, and Fetching Sandals or Funky Walkers in summer.

This does not mean that she does not enjoy the wondrously Dominant feeling of towering over the masses, on the rare occasions when she finds and dons a pair of heels which are both comfortable and appropriate to the occasion. Indeed, during one distressing bout with plantar fasciitis, a certain pair of high-heeled boots was instrumental to both her physical and emotional recovery from her hobbled state.

Thus, Pretty Lady is sorry to say that she must take her Nemesis to task once again, upon issues both trivial and grand, incisively as these issues are couched.

Look, claiming to love your high heels because they appeal to you in some comprehensively objective, lofty aesthetic sense, separated by a million brilliant intellectual miles from the culture of femininity that spawned’em, is a cop out....Women whose continued existence depends on capitulation to the feminine directive will get no argument from me. I often use “survival skill” as a synonym for femininity. The structure of patriarchy, which places anyone with a vagina in a continuum of femininity whether they like it or not, is such that the daily opportunities for self-deception and self-betrayal are mucho, relentless, and — with a frequency that depends on class, skin color, and proximity to domineering male godbags, drunks, and pervs — often unavoidable.

Pretty Lady says, hmph.

Once upon a time, when she was young and foolish, Pretty Lady met the Frenchman, in a café, for a trial coffee (as per the Rules.) Her initial impression of him was that he would do. (Lest this sound like an underwhelming recommendation, let it be known that Pretty Lady's impression of 99.8% of males she has encountered in this lifetime is that they Won't Do, for her at any rate. She is not judging these gentlemen in any way; she is simply persnickety.)

She almost fled, however, when he näively announced that he was looking for a 'feminine' woman.

If Pretty Lady had been just a wee bit younger, she would have leapt down his throat. "What do you mean by that?" she would have declared, aggressively. "Do you mean that you want a woman who is passive, agreeable, namby-pamby, and helpless? You think you're such hot shit? You want someone with no brain and no opinions, who will defer to your dominant masculinity in everything? Up yours, asshole!"

Thus might have spoken the Young Pretty Lady. And she would have missed out on a quite staggeringly enormous amount of fun.

Thankfully, the slightly older Pretty Lady decided to chalk his conversational faux pas up to cultural differences, and suspend judgment until she got to know him better. Also, he called later that week and invited her skiing, all expenses paid.

Gradually, as she chatted with the Frenchman on ski lifts, and in top-flight restaurants, and over bottles of exquisite claret in the penthouse overlooking downtown San Francisco, she came to understand what he meant by 'feminine.' He meant 'feminine.' Graceful, courteous, kind, nurturing, unflappable, engaging, adventurous, versatile, easygoing, expressive, charming, and lovely, in other words. The notion of passivity, stupidity or helpless dependency as attached to these characteristics had never even occurred to him.

In fact, as time went by, it became clear that although the Frenchman may have initially been attracted by Pretty Lady's prettiness (though even this is in doubt. He confessed, years later, that he couldn't make out the photograph terribly well on his monitor), what kept him around, and what nearly drove him to distraction when Pretty Lady decided, regretfully, that he wouldn't quite do after all, were her characteristics of (she blushes to admit) brilliance, creativity, initiative, confidence, independence, and leadership.

For example, when she performed a spontaneous solo thrash-belly-breakdance at a club in San Francisco, he chortlingly embraced her in a state of high excitement, declaring, "I was very proud to be your man this evening." When she cheerfully discussed art, politics, economics and religion at his friend's bungalow in Nice, he stated, "You outshone those other pathetic little women by an order of magnitude." When she picked up and moved to another country, in order to think things through, he threw a few tantrums, then decided that this was a splendid idea, and invited her motorcycling around the world.

It is most important to understand that if Pretty Lady had succumbed to psychological passivity, helplessness, or dependency at any point, this relationship would have been toast much sooner, and not in a good way. Pretty Lady's rock-solid internal confidence and self-esteem were what carried the day. Her proof of this was when the Frenchman came to her, hat in hand, bearing the physiological signs of extreme distress, and declared, "You know when you said that you are an extraordinary person, completely unique, and that if I don't love you exactly the way you are, then somebody else will? WELL, IT'S TRUE."

So there.

You see, my dearest most misguided Twisty, 'femininity' is neither a negative, nor a characteristic defined solely by its opposite. It is also only incidentally and superficially associated with aesthetics. True femininity is a positive force of grace and power which may well be inborn, but which must also be nurtured with all the powers of discipline and intellect at one's disposal, in order to make us capable of moving mountains and healing the world. Mere brute aggression quails and capitulates at the slightest whisper of mature feminine nature.

Also, indulging one's genuine aesthetic attractions for the shiny, the lacy and the hyperbolically flowery can be an almost indecent amount of fun. ;-)

Feminist fashion advice

Pretty Lady went to an Academic Conference yesterday evening! The thrill! She has not been on a college campus since...well, never you mind. Obviously she must be old and fuddy-duddy and Out Of Date, for she could not begin to parse the outfits that these up-and-coming young ladies were wearing.

That is, until she imagined the existence of some theoretical boxes in the attic, marked 'Office Temp Clothing: 1982-1987,' hearkened upon by a mob of creative but penurious youngsters. Then it all made sense.

Darlings. Pretty Lady recalls, does she ever, some of the more egregious ensembles she used to assemble, while larking about on campus. She once went through an entire day of classes with a teardrop painted on her cheek in blue eyeliner. She regularly donned tattered men's suit jackets, purchased from the Salvation Army, over antique beaded sweaters with holes in them, tattered jeans, and those strange black lace-up leather shoes that were All The Rage, way back when. She has worn pink Converse All-Star Hi-tops with pale blue long johns, purple plaid skirt, oversized black T-shirt, and a yellow hand-me-down sweater three sizes too big. Pretty Lady knows all about Looking Like a Fool in Public.

She must say, however, that even retro-ironic, bargain-basement, anti-fashion fashion statements have a few ironclad rules. And you young ladies are breaking them.

You may, of course, thumb your noses at Pretty Lady, quite properly. "What care we for your Patriarchal Aesthetic!" you shout. "We do not care to look Attractive. We are uninterested in your hidebound Rules of Proportion. We are Serious, yet Carefree. We do our own thing. Pretty Lady, by contrast, is bound hand and foot by the Dominant Paradigm, and does not appreciate our efforts to liberate her. How boring."

To which Pretty Lady replies: very well. These arguments have merit. Pretty Lady must respect them. However, when you wish to make a powerful impression in venues of import, do not come weeping to Pretty Lady when you are either Utterly Ignored, or Viciously Mocked, because you look like a dweeb or a clown. Pretty Lady herself believes in harnessing every tool at her disposal, when challenging patriarchies, and she does not herself feel that she can afford to cast aside her primary weapon of creative rebellion--her insouciant armor, her judiciously bohemian fashion sense. Ignore her at your peril. You will learn soon enough.

So, in case any of you are secretly intrigued, Pretty Lady will post these rules, and you may read them when all the other feminists are out rallying about something or other.

1) Balance your ironic tensions.

For every strong aesthetic statement, there must be an equally weighty element in opposition to it. One wears garden-party floral sundresses with combat boots. Tattered, holey jeans must be accompanied by excessively flashy costume jewelry. Street-thug wool stocking caps may only be worn over a mop of riotously curly hair.

If you persist in over-balancing your aesthetic, you run the risk of random viewers missing the irony entirely, and believing that you are, indeed, a slightly deranged escapee from a temp agency in Dallas. Thus you may never wear floral polyester dresses with opaque white stockings and pointy-toed flats, or periwinkle pull-over sweaters with striped Oxford shirts buttoned up to your chin.

And white sneakers are never, ever, ever appropriate, unless you are actually running.

2) Only one unnatural bulge per outfit.

One must be aware of one's silhouette at all times while dressing. A single cancerous lump interrupting the expected hourglass trajectory may be passed off as daring, dynamic and provocative. Two or three, and your figure ceases to register as human. To a young lady who is primarily concerned with avoiding street harassment, this may be seen as a distinct advantage; Pretty Lady reminds you, however, that when one is making the political point that Women Are People Too, it greatly assists one's cause to actually look like one.

Thus, lumpy leggings are splendid; lumpy leggings paired with flared miniskirt, high heels, bulky scarf, and excessively bulgy 80's-retro padded jacket, not so much.

3) Color, color, color.

You may get away with nearly any combination of colors, prints, and fabrics, as long as the manner in which they are assembled conform, metaphorically, to the above standards. But do not be a complete dweeb about it. Head-to-toe black with brown shoes is egregious. Head-to-toe fade-into-the-woodwork blue gives Pretty Lady hideous seventh-grade flashbacks. Head-to-toe red looks like you are trying too hard. Head-to-toe featureless drab with wool stocking cap and no hair looks like you are auditioning for the role of street person.

4) Moderation on the make-up.

A moment of aghast silence, please. Hell has, in fact, frozen over. Pretty Lady has turned into her own mother.

But heavens, it's true. Too much, and you look like a prostitute. Too little, coupled with Option D: Head-to-toe Drab, and you look like you would genuinely, truly prefer not to exist at all, and have only shown up in the flesh in order to confer about the best manner of escaping it.

You may proceed with the Public Flagellation, now.

Fashion photos

Oh, all right, Scott. Top:

Bottom:



It is all about the swoosh. Swoosh, swoosh.

Perfect Attire

Pretty Lady has been inspired by the Dandy to undertake the self-indulgent and seemingly trivial topic of Perfection in Dress.

I am completely happy in white tie and tails, I admit it. Now, before you nigglers in the audience get started, I will myself point out that I am not exhibiting regulation wear, here. I have fully taken liberties. Yes, I have the traditional pique vest, but I am wearing with it (horrors!) a pleated formal shirt, rather than matching pique. And as well, my tie is satin and is frankly a little large, a little flowery, a little...well, queer, of course! *w* (Polyester? Pre-tied? I think not...!) The white linen pocket square is not visible here. Bringing together the range of white textures and shades: a fragrant gardenia in the lapel.

I will not obsess that somehow in the photo, regrettably, no white shirt cuff is visible. I should be embarassed to take your time with petty protestions that, in fact, great care was taken to ensure the jacket sleeves were exactly the correct length to allow that traditional flash of white.

When there are so many weighty matters oppressing us on every side, it may seem downright narcissistic and empty-headed to exult in matters of sartorial detail. But Pretty Lady maintains that creating the proper outfit in which to attend a fraught occasion can occasionally boost the soul's satisfaction to such an extent, that corresponding resonance is achieved, with regard to deeper spiritual affairs.

For example--back in the Dark Ages of Pretty Lady's student days, she made plans to attend an Art World affair of more than usual personal duress to herself. For not only are Art World denizens more than unusually lacking in social skills and common courtesy, but this particular event starred a querulous young lady who had, quite recently, stolen the affections of Pretty Lady's First Love, right under her nose. Pretty Lady was proud, single, and smarting. She must needs go Armored.

So she assembled a costume which, although not overtly alluring, precisely captured the late-eighties haute aesthetic of Underground Grunge. From the bottom up:

Black, thrift-store-purchased men's wingtips, a few months shy of duct tape (applied when holes wear through soles.)

Black pleated hourglass pants.

Black sleeveless mock turtleneck.

Olive green men's suit jacket, also thrift-store-purchased.

Antique, ornate Guatemalan silver chandelier earrings, with stones that might possibly be uncut emeralds.

Black, pink and olive green hair scarf, from Denmark.

Black eyeliner.

This ensemble may appear somewhat hobo-esque and unflattering in the light of today's standards, of course, but in these Dark Ages, take Pretty Lady's word for it, it was Perfect. As she swept through the door of the Art Event, outwardly calm, inwardly quailing, she arrested the attention of both her former First Love, and her genius professor from Thailand. Her genius professor launched himself forward in spontaneous enthusiasm and joyfully bussed her on the cheek; the entire performance was witnessed by her First Love, who visibly flinched. She will be eternally, deeply grateful, both to the demi-gods of Sartorial Inspiration, and to her lovely professor, for that moment.

So, in the interests of shameless self-indulgence, and as an example of how one's personal style may evolve over the decades, Pretty Lady will now describe what she wore to go party-hopping last Saturday night. Simply because she liked it so much.

From the bottom up:

Black over-the-calf Sketchers boots, with high leather lacings and fake fur trim. Not only are these boots exceptionally comfortable, but due to some miraculous alchemy of design, they make Pretty Lady's feet appear roughly two sizes smaller than they actually are.

Pale lavender openwork textured tights.

Gypsy goth skirt; white lace over white satin over sage-patterned ruffles, hem which sweeps considerably lower in the back than the front.

Black knit form-fitting pullover top, with graceful horizontal pleating in front, square neckline extending daringly to the edge of the shoulder. (Donated by aging slutty friend.)

Charcoal grey cashmere shoulder cape. (Serious thrift-store find.)

Black leather hourglass jacket with fake fur trim.

Luxuriously flashy citrine and topaz earrings, extravagant gift from Best Friend.

Special-occasion use of curling iron, super-shine conditioner, eyeliner and glitter gel.

It is a great pity that the parties Pretty Lady attended did not turn out to be the kind which form spontaneous, enthusiastic dance floors, but she blasted Grupo Fantasma in the car to make up for it.

This is all, of course, sheer vanity, but in the grander scheme of things it is relatively harmless.

The Inner Seven

There is no reason why Pretty Lady should be Moping Round today. She has finally found what appears to be a reliable subletter, and will be shortly departing for a long-overdue, monthlong vacation in the country. The heat wave has broken, and the light has subtly shifted to that deeply shaded brilliance which presages autumn. The Brat has shown no signs of urinary difficulties, and nobly saved her from a potential wasp attack, yesterday evening.

Yet, still, Pretty Lady's tendency to episodes of mild melancholy has asserted itself once again. No doubt it is simply a matter of laziness. The remedy for this is, as Widespread Panic would have it, "Go! Put your work clothes on! Go and leave your mark!" But still, Pretty Lady is letting herself get too dark.

This is the time for reinforcements. This is the time to reach deep into one's closet, and put on clothes that remind one of being seven years old.

Seven, according to child psychologists, is a year of Mastery. It is the time when previously shrinking young girls become Bold and Forthright. Seven, Pretty Lady recalls, was a good year. It was the year she could confidently ride her bike past the end of the block, and swim in the deep end, and was given adult permission to do so freely. It was the year that other kids on the playground briefly called her "Pepper." It was a year of confidence, of freedom, well before she began to notice boys as a source of anything other than mild annoyance, when they stole her crayons and put their feet on her desk. It was the year she arbitrarily decided to pay attention in Geography class and do her homework regularly, with the result that she got an A++ on her final exam, and had her essay read aloud to the class.

(She remembers that her best friend, Adina Weisblatt, got a D-- on this same exam. Pretty Little Girl admired her for this. She felt that it took guts to get a D--; she was sure that Adina had done it on purpose, as an act of creative defiance in the face of the inanity of academia. She mused on the fact that it was no accident Adina was her best friend; she felt that there was a poetic symmetry in the bipolar extremity of their grades. In Pretty Little Girl's mind, A++ and D-- were precisely equivalent. She didn't understand why Adina seemed so mopey and out of sorts that afternoon.)

At seven, things are interesting, and they are simple, and there are no dark shadows of complexity, uncertainty and anguish lurking round the edges of the psyche. At least, there weren't for Pretty Little Girl. Those didn't really take shape until sixth grade. That is why Pretty Lady always has at least one outfit in her closet that says, emphatically, "SEVEN."

For example:

Keds. (Campers will do in a pinch; although they are still ridiculously trendy, they look enough like bowling shoes to pass for the true seven-year aesthetic.)

Too-small, pale-blue T-shirt that says 'Roller Angels," complete with a small hole and some desultory rhinestones, purchased at a yard sale.

Coney Island T-shirt.

Cut-off jeans which have been used over several seasons in which to paint houses, with the ragged bottoms rolled up.

Any cotton T-shirt with a zipper on it somewhere. (This is a fairly specific reference to Pretty Little Girl's favorite shirt, a hand-me-down from the big girls across the street; it had a blue torso, green sleeves, and a scooped yellow collar with a zipper and a ring on it. Pretty Little Girl wore this until it was forcibly seized, pulled apart, and added to the dustrag pile.)

Skirt with large pleats.

Pink jumper thing. (The one Pretty Lady donned today is linen, purchased in San Francisco as a factory second from some actual designer person; thus it does not fulfill the full-on seven-year-old code, 'cheap' and 'well-worn' being key qualities. Still, it is cheerful and sexless enough that it makes her feel like she's getting away with something.)

Cotton skirt with mushrooms and cherries printed on it, and loopy things on the bottom. (This was seriously and unjustifiably expensive, being purchased from a real live designer in her real live boutique on Fifth Avenue. But it fit so well, and was so seven, and the designer was so much like she imagines Mitzibel to be, in person (yes, Mitzibel, you. Pretty Lady does tend to get along with punked-out creative entrepreneurs) that she blew her year's clothing budget on it. She has not regretted it for a moment.

T-shirts with V-necks and cap sleeves that are raw and unhemmed, purchased from the selfsame designer.

Battered Tevas, not the sport-engineered ones, the relaxed feminine ones.

The cool-ass baseball cap.

It is Pretty Lady's fanciful notion that the more we can get in touch with our inner seven-year-old, the more effective and responsible grown-ups we will be. The archetypal seven-year-old has no need to judge, no need to impress, no interest in seduction or control. Seven-year-old clothes may be about self-expression, but they are definitely not about fashion or competition; they are simply themselves, comfortable and utilitarian. Wearing them, we may go forth to discover the world.

Haberdashery

Pretty Lady has been inspired by the stylistic perfection of one of her colleagues to advance an unsupported, purely subjective personal opinion: Polo Shirts are a Blot. Either a Blot, or a Blight, take your pick.

I realize this may fill the hearts of many gentlemen with dismay. This is not a personal attack. It is simply that Pretty Lady felt she finally must speak out upon an issue that has been oppressing her psyche since junior high school. The Polo Shirt is the single least sexy item of clothing it is possible for a human being to own. To don a Polo Shirt is to instantaneously acquire the sex appeal of a paper doll, in Pretty Lady's warped perceptions. Particularly if said Shirt is knit of that crusty sort of acrylic-polyester knit that resembles industrial-grade carpets. The soft cotton Ralph Lauren kind is marginally superior, but it still makes Pretty Lady shudder.

Rugby shirts are okay. Pretty Lady can't exactly say what it is about stupid, thick little collars on would-be sports shirts that gives her hives; tightish elastic piping on short sleeve cuffs makes her equally queasy. No doubt this is a holdover from buried associations having to do with private school, buttressed by one or two unfortunate freshman-year dates with computer-science majors. However, she doesn't think extensive psychotherapy is likely to make any difference at this point; the fact is, Pretty Lady loathes Polo Shirts. So there.

So, then, what should a gentleman wear? His options are so limited!

Well, Pretty Lady herself has always been partial to the Mid-80's Demi-Punk look, due to associations equally arcane, and which got her teased in the mid-90's by a boyfriend who, unfortunately, had known her since the mid-80's. "You like guys to dress like Torvald," he accused her, acutely. Pretty Lady had to confess that he'd nailed it. We never really get over our first love.

Not that Torvald's aesthetic was anything spectacular. His look was basic and easy to achieve. Jeans: well-fitting, without any labels, flares, drainpipes, stone-washing, patterning, embroidery or other rot; weathered and torn by excessive use and honest washing, never purchased that way in the store. T-shirt: black, white, or the occasional thrift-store find bearing a cryptic legend such as 'Deer Camp Minnesota, 1979.' Flannel shirt, unbuttoned, in your choice of red or blue plaid. Converse All-Star Hi-Top sneakers, in any color you choose.

(In latter years, Pretty Lady has come to prefer a set of well-worn, good-quality, heavy work boots to the Converse. The Converse just became Too Trendy For Words, and their level of quality has consistently declined. In fact, she's not even sure if real Converse are made anymore. Does anybody know?)

(Never mind, she Googled them. They're still there, without the star, and boy do they look silly.)

The more creative types can get away with such things as cut-off army fatigues, secondhand high-top Doc Martens with blue shoelaces, odd and colorful vests, striped button-down shirts with the sleeves torn off, odd and colorful ties (as long as they are never worn with anything resembling a suit), hats with the brim bent back and stuck full of pins, strings of wooden beads, and patchouli. If you are one of these types, you already know it. If you don't know, don't try it.

Never wear a baseball cap unless it has never borne the legend of a baseball team, and the brim has never been worn facing forward.

Now, mind you, Pretty Lady has never said that gentlemen should not clean up. On the contrary, "he'd clean up nice" is high praise in her home town, and in Pretty Lady's opinion, modern gentlemen don't clean up nearly often enough. As long as they don't don the dreaded Polo, there are many options of clean, from Architecture Casual to Frack. She will now enumerate a few of them.

Aforementioned Architecture Casual: Black or white T-shirt, of higher quality than the T-shirt mentioned above; scoop neck, heavy-weight cotton. Pleated pants. Interesting belt. Footwear that does not too closely resemble that of an Italian gigolo.

Professorial: Chinos, slightly tattered blue button-down shirt (never white. Shudder), frayed tweed jacket with patched elbows, scuffed wingtips. This costume is best worn with a sense of knowing irony, and is not precisely sexy, but it's better than a polo.

Rugby shirt and bermuda shorts: only to be worn if one has the legs of a soccer player.

Needs-Must Business: Never wear an American suit. Americans cannot make suits; few Americans can wear suits. Those stiff, square serge things give Pretty Lady the screaming horrors. If you must wear a suit, for goodness' sake go to Savile Row and get a real one, or else go to Italy and get some Clothes.

There is nothing more horrifying than the sight of a gentleman who has been forced by economic desperation into dressing 'corporate' for the sake of low-level temporary employment. Pretty Lady has little advice for these hapless souls, except to pack a T-shirt in your backpack and change into it in the office bathroom at 5 PM. Try to get away with Architecture Casual, at the very least.

Frack: Dinner jacket and tails, black pants with black satin side stripe, pleated white button-down shirt, white tie, cummerbund. Black dress shoes shined to mirror-hue. Cufflinks. Viola case. Oops, betraying another personal preference, there.

Under no circumstances may a gentleman ever wear a pair of pants which expose any portion of his gluteal cleavage, by accident or on purpose, at any time. I do not know how to make myself clearer.

In conclusion: for those of you out there who are still confused as to matters of masculine attire, Pretty Lady directs you to the Dandy's trenchant and informative discussion of drag, complete with illustrations. She has only to add that despite whatever her abovementioned mid-90's boyfriend may have wanted to think, when she attends a party dressed as Humphrey Bogart, she is most definitely in drag.

Inappropriate attire

Please forgive Pretty Lady for being short-winded this evening. The Whitney Biennial opened today, and of course she was obliged to put in an appearance; the show, unfortunately, rather depressed her. She was appalled to see the number of full-length fur coats being worn on Madison Avenue, in thirty-four-degree weather, in bright sunlight. How very vulgar.

Teddy Girls

Some of these photos remind me of the occasion that Pretty Lady attended a Halloween party in the Castro, dressed as Humphrey Bogart. Her costume was greeted with such impassioned, drunken approval by the boyfriend of a friend of hers, that she suspects it had something to do with the subsequent demise of that particular friendship. Some women do not handle their competitive instincts at all honestly.

Style, fashion and thrift

Pretty Lady had occasion to buy a new pair of jeans, recently. She wandered into a tony boutique on Fifth Avenue, and was swarmed upon by an officious helper. She mentioned her interest in jeans, and was soon supplied with a large stack and a dressing room.

(As an aside--what IS it with this ridiculous 'hip hugger' look? The affectation does not flatter any woman but those with the figure of a twelve-year-old boy. She has even seen them doing severe damage to the figures of girls who DO somewhat resemble twelve-year-old boys. They create unattractive pooches at the hips and belly where none were originally, and give the general impression of badly-stuffed sausage. Unfortunately, this seems to be the only style currently available.)

So Pretty Lady tried on her stack of 'hip-huggers,' further adorned with patches and embroiderings, in the style of late-sixties do-it-yourself flower children, which she does not much object to, though it is not one of her favorite eras. She found a pair that did not distort her excellent figure too terribly badly; the sales helper pronounced them "cute." Then she looked at the price tag, and laughed. Pretty Lady does not pay one hundred sixty-five dollars for a pair of jeans.

She emerged from the dressing room and politely returned the stack. "Aren't you going to get those jeans? They are so cute on you!" insisted the helper.

Pretty Lady insisted right back. "Jeans do not cost one hundred and sixty-five dollars," she informed the dear girl, kindly. "Jeans cost twenty dollars." She thereupon left the boutique, went to Old Navy, and paid twenty dollars. Really.

It is a tragic misconception that a lady must spend large sums of money in order to be stylish. It is an even greater misconception that being stylish has anything to do with being fashionable. Style and fashion are, in fact, oppositional concepts. A fashionable person is a shallow individual with the conversational half-life of a chimpanzee. A stylish person may give the world of fashion a passing glance, out of artistic curiosity and appreciation, but selects only those items which fit both her internal sense of self and her pocketbook. Her clothing is thus unique to herself, and never goes out of fashion, for the simple reason that she is wearing it.

A stylish woman knows both her eras and her temperaments. She may have many of each, and they may overlap, but she never attempts to stuff herself into a mode which does not fit. For example, Pretty Lady has a fifties figure and a forties outlook, with the occasional dash of gypsy, grunge, witch or princess. (It is now to be stated that Pretty Lady did NOT follow the 'grunge' craze of the early nineties; the 'grunge' craze followed HER. Hmph. She was walking the streets in flannel plaid, black t-shirts and paint-stained army fatigues, years before anyone had heard of Kurt Cobain.) A stylish woman purchases an item only when she adores it, and it suits her coloring, her figure, and at least one of her temperaments.

Thusly, Pretty Lady's wardrobe is an organic, evolving entity, with items being cycled in upon discovery, re-accessorized as season and whim dictate, and retired only upon irremediable physical deterioration, not the ludicrous notion that they are "out of fashion." She obtains many of these items at sample sales, clearance racks, thrift stores, the Salvation Army, and barter among her designer friends. (One of her most prized collections is a series of classic designer hats, obtained at barter from the artist she showed in her own gallery, about a year before this artist was co-opted by Barney's Fifth Avenue; no girl of Pretty Lady's income level will ever be able to afford these hats again.)

So, to those girls who feel swamped, overwhelmed, and utterly confused by the world of fashion, she offers a few words of advice; forget about it. Go Within. Ask yourself what kind of woman your six-year-old self dreamed of being, and follow her dictates. Did she wish to appear at kindergarten and dazzle her classmates as Glinda, the Good Witch of the North? Then what is she doing in a tweed suit? Throw out the tweed and troll the Goodwill for fouffy taffeta skirts, or at the very least, soften the tweed with a Bavarian crystal necklace or two. Did she fancy herself as Pocohantas, chasing a deer fleetly through the jungle, bringing it down with a single shot of her powerful bow arm, and carrying it home on her well-defined shoulders to feed the tribe? Then put those high-heeled pumps in the back of the closet for weddings and church services, and go to work in that scrumptious pair of knee-high fringed mocassins, for mercy's sake. Nobody will fire you.

Or if they do, you didn't want that boring old job anyway. Start your own enterprise, and be at one with your true nature.

Winter dressing

Couture tip # 47:

When forced to wear a long winter skirt because of inclement weather, wear a slightly longer slip underneath, trimmed with a deep flounce of Belgian lace. It will keep you warm, and drive sentient gentlemen quietly insane with longing when it peeps from beneath your hem.