It's not the French which puzzles me, but the can-can ass chair backs... Sitting in one removes all the titillation factor. And most mechanical risque humor cards have a surprise when you open them; this one, not so much. Puzzling.
Katherine Heigl Under Siege From Celebrity Sleuth Magazine, 1996
Two pages of chatter about Katherine Heigl -- with photos, of course -- found in a 1996 issue of Celebrity Sleuth (Ingenudes 9, "Issue #69!")
Billed as a "Beauty To B-Hold" and promising to deliver talk of Under Siege 2 (where Heigl appeared with Steven Seagal), most of the article is spent dishing like gossipy school girls, turning nothing into a risque giggle-fest.
For all the underage innocence Katherine exudes {like in this hands-on candid from a Seventeen magazine bash in '94, facing top left}, there's also been a dark territory hidden behind her squeaky-clean surface {like the dark cleavage, bottom left}. And isn't that Sandra Taylor with her hands up next to Katherine in a scene from Seige? (middle right) -- Taylor used to be Penthouse Centerfold Sandi Korn.
Seriously?
Seriously.
The majority of the film-focused talk is on the 1993 Disney flick, My Father, the Hero, Heigl made with Gerard Depardieu. From the blue box on the second scan, titled Ingenews:
"The smirkiest touch in My Father, the Hero involves parading naughty little Nicole {Heigl's character} in a thong swimsuit (below right)," fumed one critic, while another angrily wrote, "Some Americans in the audience might well cluck their tongues at the way the skimpily attired 14-year-old Heigl's body is exploited by {director Steve} Miner's camera." Now add to that the twisted incest plot-twist, and we discover Disney's real definition of "family" entertainment: "When Nicole falls for a hunky local, she concocts a jealousy-making scheme to rope him in. She pretends {dad} Gerard Depardieu is actually her lover and an international spy. The vacationers all think he's a child molester and give him scorching stares." ____________
Disney was nervous about the film before its release, as evidenced by the post-production makeover Katherine's costume received for previews. Bottom right: "Disney wanted to market My Father by showing its trailer along with G-rated movies. Unfortunately, Heigl's outfit didn't quite have the, um, material to play the lion King crowd {as opposed to the Loin King crowd!}. A quick digital paint job meant the Mouse could have its cheesecake and eat it too."
___________
THE SCENE: "I'm going to the beach," Katherine tells her protective papa. "Aah," Gerard gasps, grabbing her discarded towel. "What are you wearing?" he stammers. "My bathing suit," Katherine responds. "Are you sure you didn't leave part of it in the box?" he demands. "Get real, Andre," Katherine crows, flaunting her cheeks to the poolsiders. "Everybody's wearing them." "Everybody's staring at you," he blithers -- following after her bouncing buns with the towel.
We used to own a Just Pants store; it was a miserable failed business experience, in part due to the double books being kept at the time of the sale. ...But maybe it was a lack of advertising?
Found in the December 1970 issue of Playboy, a decade prior to our owning the store, a sexy ad that actually lists the store we owned. Maybe if we had kept up with ads like this, I'd still be measuring men's inseams & climbing that denim wall.
(The scan is huge; I can't tell you how much this find thrilled me.)
I'm rushing to post this because hubby, who regularly reads at the A.V. Club and Metafilter, told me there's been some heavy panting over Oh mighty Isis! and we both knew that I had recently bought at auction a magazine with The Secret of Isis: JoAnna Cameron.
The trouble was, which one? Well, I took the time to page through the stack of vintage & retro mags just for you -- and those Metafilter and Onion folks. Oh, the things I do for you...
But I found it: Inside Celebrity Sleuth's Network Nudes Volume 2, 1986 by Trianon Publications, Inc. (pages 44-45), photos from Cameron's topless and other scanty appearances in Peeled, B.S. I Love You, and Pretty Maids All in a Row.
I've long avoided films with Jack Lemmon in them. Because of Tony Curtis' poor treatment of Marilyn in Some Like It Hot, all things & persons connected with that movie were sour. I don't have to explain it (and frankly, if you weren't ever a teen aged girl who idolized Marilyn, you'll never understand it anyway), it's just the way it was. So Jack Lemmon became a real lemon to me -- about as welcome as lemon scented dishwasher tabs which leave that smell which makes me think what I'm drinking has a (most unwelcome) lemony taste. I hated lemons before Jack, but they both elicited the same nose-wrinkling "No, thank you," response.
Enter TCM with it's broadcast of several Jack Lemmon films.
I don't mind telling you that I'm a TCM addict -- and I have no plans for quitting, either. I was more than greatly disappointed to find Jack hogging my favorite television channel; I was twitching for something to watch.
Eventually I decided to give Irma La Douce (1963) a try -- the lure of a retro Parisian prostitute played by Shirley MacLaine was too much to pass by. And since I'd never heard of the film before (or if I had, I'd blocked it due to Lemmon), I figured it might just be train-wreck-y enough to make mocking of Lemmon my evening's real entertainment.
Enter my surprise that Irma La Douce is a fabulously fun film.
Just campy enough, but not overdone with kitsch; gorgeous in fashion, rich in absurdity, and lush in MacLaine's beauty; all good things. Perhaps most surprising was the blend of risqué & reality -- sans the predictable post code moral judgments.
The plot revolves around an honest & naive Paris policeman, Nestor Patou (Lemmon), who falls in love with titular prostitute (MacLaine) who always appears in her signature color green, and the lengths to which he goes to win her affections -- which, in typical male thought, means she will give up her life of impure sex crime and sexually belong to him alone.
She, like any independent career woman, doesn't want to give up her work, her life, for some man who will probably only be temporary anyway.
Her practical stance, one most any sane woman holds today, is quite unusual for the time; but her high regard for her sex work career is still something not oft depicted in media even today. I'm not saying that this film is a true rendering of sex work, then or now, but it was far more frank and unapologetic than I had anticipated. (Perhaps it was a 'blame it on the French' attitude which allowed Wilder to get away with it all?)
Nestor, unable to convince her to quit, divines a plan which will keep Irma off the streets and only in bed with him. He dresses up as a rather foppish elderly English lord, pays her 500 francs just to play cards with him, and promises to visit her twice a week.
Irma excitedly does the math and, as Nestor had hoped, concludes she only needs to work twice a week with Lord X as her only client. She announces the happy news in public and all the prostitutes and pimps elect Nestor as their leader -- which means he's to pay the huge bill for the party along with the 500 francs he borrowed to start his plan. And so begins the multiple lives of Nestor.
He works multiple jobs at night, spends time with Irma by day, and twice a week appears as Lord X, the money ticket. Now, the money Nestor earns is given to Irma by Lord X, but Irma spends it nearly as quickly as she gets it, putting Nestor further and further behind. In the rather typical 1960s comedy-of-errors-fashion, Irma becomes suspicious of so-tired-I-can-barely-can-keep-up Nestor, believing he is seeing other prostitutes.
So, at Lord X's next visit, Irma seduces him into playing more than cards and tells him that she wants to leave Nestor and go with Lord X to England.
Nestor decides it's time for Lord X to leave permanently. Shouting "Goodbye your bloody lordship!" and other insults, Nestor throws his Lord X costume into the river -- which, of course, is overheard by one of Irma's former pimps, who then thinks Nestor has literally rather than symbolically murdered Lord X. Irma becomes convinced that Nestor killed Lord X out of love for her and decides to stand by her man -- even when Nestor goes to jail.
The bar owner (far larger in film character -- and person -- than mentioned here) helps Nestor escape jail and return to a very pregnant Irma.
In a very absurd scene, Nestor brings Lord X to life and then is able to meet Irma (all in white - the only time she is not seen in green) at the church just in time to marry her -- right before the babe is born.
While the ending is one of Moral Right, it isn't the usual post Hollywood code judgment in which Shirley MacLaine's Irma, like Tom Hanks' Michael Sullivan in Road to Perdition, must die for her sins.
And what of Jack Lemmon's sins?
Well, despite the fact that Irma was a role one could easily see Marilyn playing (and in fact, Billy Wilder was so impressed with her performance in Some Like It Hot, that he originally wanted Marilyn Monroe to play Irma -- but Marilyn died before film production began), I forgave Jack Lemmon his sins.
It was Lemmon's acting, not the green of Irma's wardrobe, which cast Lemmon in a new light -- a greener light of a lime, a fruit I much prefer in everything from drinks to dishwasher tabs. He is so funny & touching in this film, I would have preferred him to have been in The Seven Year Itch (though Lemmon's age may have been an issue there?) rather than Tom Ewell.
I enjoyed Irma La Douce so much that I have since watched several other Lemmon films.
Other notable tidbits from Irma La Douce:
The film was one of the biggest box-office hits of the year, grossing twice as much as The Great Escape and The Birds; I'm going to put part of the film's success down to the unapologetic risqué attitude.
Tura Satana played street walking prostitute Suzie Wong.
Jane & Ruth Earl played the fabulous kitschy Zebra Twin prostitutes.
"Why is it," I asked him rhetorically, "that smut is less acceptable than violence or the shallow idolization of 'famous people'? It's damn odd really, because my kids got here through normal, healthy sex -- not via violence or the vicarious living or emotional stalking of celebrities."
Speaking of books and moms, Elline (at Girl with Pen) happily reviews Mama, PhD: Women Write About Motherhood and Academic Life in Off the Shelf: Mama, PhD:
The contributors in this book, edited by Caroline Grant and Elrena Evans, break the seal of silence that suppresses the intense difficulties and institutionalized prejudice that academics who want to be more than just a "head on a stick" – but rather a whole person, including a maternal body – experience.
In what certainly will not be news to feminists who have long argued that images in & portrayals by the media, the bottom line was, according to Dr Bjarne Holmes, a psychologist who led the research, "We now have some emerging evidence that suggests popular media play a role in perpetuating these ideas in people's minds."
Interestingly, after participating in the survey about media and relationships, Alessia then asked Which Came First? The Chick-Flick Or The Egg On Your Face? Worth reading -- and keeping tabs on her continuing thoughts on the study.
Because, yes, it bothers me deeply when you (especially my sweet cross dressers), get all squeamish about menstruation. Some of you think it's TMI, but a few of you have made comments about how "lucky" they are to "take what they want of femininity and leave the rest" -- and that really makes me angry. It makes most women angry.
The greatest harm that I can find in the story I have to tell, is that when I thought porn was evil, it had a negative effect on my confidence with women, and in myself; it led to psychological issues for me, and it meant a denial of my true sexuality. That ideology was harmful to me in the same way as it appears that certain right-wing Christian ideologies can be harmful to young gays in their midst. I am glad to accept erotica and porn as being not in and of themselves evil or wrong.
There just seems to be this inability for some of Luke's fans, mostly male fans from my experiences, to accept the fact that this character is a sexual being. I suppose because the Force and being a Jedi is always depicted as being "spiritual" and away from the body, those fans feel the need to see him as a celibate priest. I won't even get into the debate over the Old Jedi Order (Yoda, et.al.) and its regulation that Jedi have no attachments and whether or not that meant celibacy. Lordisa, I'm not touching that one right now!
Nothing against him -- he's been very nice dealing with a movie fan whose ignorance is pretty clear -- but how do I better articulate my thinking that our perceptions may be, at least in part, influenced by our genders (and related expectations, emulations, and emotions) without sounding like a silly girl? Or worse yet, some foaming-at-the-mouth feminazi?!
But at the end of the day it isn't sex in exchange for money that degrades, cheapens and enslaves women it's societal norms and roles. Prostitution will NEVER go anywhere because it's apart of human/ape/primate identity, it's who we are. Whether or not you look at it this way there is "prostitution" all throughout "regular" sexual relationships between people even marriages.
Because you know there's still a lot more defending of sex work to be done, Amber Rhea (of Being Amber Rhea), has some Red Herrings for you:
It's about people articulating their own sexual desires and boundaries - especially women, as we have been traditionally denied this right.
Last, but not least, Latoya Peterson's post (at Racialicious) called The Not Rape Epidemic which is so good, that I cannot select a quote from it. Just go read it all. I mean it.
A few final words about this carnival...
I had a great time hosting it. While the holidays admittedly slowed the number of submissions, those I received were wonderful; in fact, I'll be adding quite a number of new blogs/bloggers to the sidebar due to this experience.
The carnival, and in fact the issues the carnival supports, needs your support too. So please submit to future carnival editions, consider hosting a future edition, and link to the carnival posts.
Perhaps most important of all, please continue the conversations presented in individual posts/articles in the Feminist Carnival of Sexual Freedom and Autonomy. It can be silently, in your mind; in person discussion with friends & family etc. in the real world; or via blogging, letters to the editor at other publications, or other use of media. But continued exploration and expression of these issues is important.
While my carnival hosting duties may officially be over, I'm open to hearing from more of you about such related topics; so please, whenever you have or find posts which fit my beat aka submissions call, please do contact me.
Hugh was cleaning up his desk and ran across something he had saved from about 1965:
A friend and I, just out of university - went for the first time to LA - and wound up at the Pink Pussy Cat.
That led me to search the web - since I thought I remembered a recent news cast that said the Pink Pussy Cat burned down. I found your blog, noted the artifacts in your blog and found I had a couple that you don't have. See attached jpg.
The pink feathers were stuck into your hair by the waitresses - they are meant to be "ears".
Notice, lads and lasses, when you click the image to read the larger scan, that the Pink Pussy Cat Stripper's Kit includes not only costume pieces (aka "Teasing Togs") and the stripper curriculum (with you boys giving the final exam), but a subscription to the Pink Pussy Cat Magazine -- now that's what I'm talking 'bout!
This sex positive carnival highlights posts/articles promoting the sexual rights and freedom of women -- you can get an idea by seeing past editions at Better Burn That Dress, Sister and Sex-Kitten.Net. However...
I just might be mixing things up a bit with my edition. I'd like to focus on the past -- for otherwise we are doomed to repeat it. So, in my official call for submissions, I'd like to outline a few specifics ideas or topics I'd really like to see.
Because this blog is about history, I'd like to see/read posts which are focused on the past. That includes, but is not limited to:
* Explorations of your personal sex/relationship history -- not fiction, but non-fiction musings about lessons, frustrations, etc. Bonus points if you can tie it to a film, show us art which reflects it, point to parallels in the life of a pinup, or otherwise connect it to some pop culture reference point.
* Biographies or discussions of famous folks; what they've taught you, forced you to think about, or rudely awakened you to.
* Art history, artistic movements, artists, specific works, etc. which explore themes you dig, wish would return "because", or otherwise have you pondering gender, sex and rights.
* Political, religious, criminal, cultural history lessons involving sexuality & human rights.
* Reviews & analysis of film, music, magazines, books, etc. from the point of view of where they fit in or the messages they send/reflect regarding sexuality & society.
* How & where pop culture and public policy intersect regarding sexuality, sex education, and private lives.
Again, the above are suggestions, hopes, dreams -- but don't feel like you are crushing them (or my spirits) if you write/submit something that's more traditional fare for the carnival.
You are free to write anything along these lines just for this carnival edition, send me a link to a piece/pieces you've already written on any of these or related and appropriate themes, and/or submit a post/article you've read by someone else that seems to fit & rocks your world or impresses you enough to make the effort to nominate someone.
Please email your submission to me at Naughty(dot)Words(at)gmail(dot)com prior to noon on January 4th, 2009.
Nettie Rosenstein's Odalisque Perfume ads in the 40's and 50's romanticized "odalisque" including the risque use of artistic nudes in the print ad campaigns.
"Odalisque" is a French form of the Turkish odalık, meaning "chambermaid." The term specifically signifies a virgin female slave who, being the lowest ranking member of a harem, was not allowed to serve the sultan but instead his concubines and/or wives.
There's not a whole lot of romance there, Nettie Rosenstein; not in being a slave, not in being the one to deal with the piss-pots of the harem, not in being too-lowly to even deal with the master -- unless, of course, you could prove a 'talent' and work your way 'up' from piss-pots to male pissing tools and be a sexual servant.
But Nettie was not alone in romanticizing these women. In the 19th century, odalisques were common fantasy figures in the Orientalism movement, featured in many erotic paintings from that era.
Tip Top magazine billed itself as a "cultural, scientific, and sociological publication produced and distributed as adult educational material aimed at illuminating on-going changes in contemporary patterns of societal behavior" -- but that was just to be allowed to sell & distribute smut. The magazine's tagline, "From the Tip of the Toes to the Top of the Hose," tells a better story of its true nature as a mag for nylon, pantyhose and stockings fetishists.
It's not a teasing peek-a-boo type of men's magazine but an explicit retro publication, with lots of natural (i.e. hairy) pussies shown spread wide open above those stockings, garters, & high heels. Not only does this magazine clearly remove any notions that "old porn was always classier", but I couldn't resist saying that this woman with glasses was no Tina Fey.
Not only do the babes wear hosiery, but they love it so much the lick it -- and of course, that leads to licking and screwing one another.
Tip Top, a Parliament Publication, Volume 10, Number 1 (August, September, October, 1970)' published by Jaybird Enterprises, Inc.
I absolutely abhor it when a person starts off a blog with "I'm sorry I haven't written", a preamble to some excuse that, frankly, nobody really wants to read; but today I have to do it. (Such is the curse of uttering the word "never".)
I've had a dreadful sinus infection, keeping me couch-ridden for several weeks as moms cannot afford to take to their beds and still watch the tots -- yet I was too tired to climb the stairs just for a change of sleeping venue. The reason I mention this is not to 'excuse' my absence (as a hobby-blogger, you pay me nothing for my services; so I owe you nothing in return), but rather to explain just how I managed to watch hours upon hours of films as I just have. OK, and maybe to justify things if, still under the influence of cold medicine & an antibiotic still ripping its way through my digestive tract (and sure to cause a yeast infection), I don't make a lot of sense right now.
Enough of the disclaimers already; get yourself a beverage and settle in to read because I'm about to begin a long post.
For the second time in my life I watched Let's Make Love (1960). The first time I saw it in its entirety I was about 16 & I really disliked it.
I told myself that I didn't like it because of Yves Montand. His personal ickyness in his relationship with Marilyn was so visible in his character (Jean Marc Clement) -- or at least that ickyness was the general perception of Jean Marc Clement & why the theatre group in the film was mocking him. Also, because 16 was the age at which I began stalking Marilyn Monroe, knowing how horrid director George Cukor was to her made me feel the whole film was a mean mess. While this film isn't Marilyn's greatest, and there's something valid in Marilyn's real life situations which would affect the film thus, the real truth -- the honest truth -- is that sixteen-year-old-me was uncomfortable with Marilyn's sexuality.
And it hits you right from the start of the film, with the voluptuous blonde wearing a bulky but short purple sweater over a sheer black nylon catsuit.
Strangely, I've always loved Marilyn singing My Heart Belongs To Daddy. I've owned it on CD and even performed the song, including public impersonation of Marilyn singing it (actually I did so twice, if you count my parody performance of My Heart Belongs To Mommy at a "lesbian music festival"). But the vision of Marilyn in such sexualized 60's beatnik garb just didn't sit right with me at 16; while the song was verbalized peek-a-boo & tease, the physical display was nearly vulgar to me.
Aesthetically speaking, I prefer more glamour and peek-a-boo tease than blatant sexuality in dress; but what made me squirm at that age, though I never would never say so out loud, was all those curves -- including a soft, feminine, rounded tummy. Watching the film again as an adult, I was once again embarrassed -- but this time, over my confused, immature, 16 year old self's reaction.
It's easy to understand, and forgive, a young woman's discomfort with such an out-there, highly-sexualized presentation of the female form. And I did forgive myself for that easily enough. But that other part, that lack of acceptance of a woman's real form -- including her belly, that seems unforgivable... Unless you allow for my early indoctrination of beauty standards which eschew the realities of the female form. And that's precisely what upsets me.
How unforgiving I was, how unkind to my idol, to not allow her her humanness in physical form when I was so ready, willing and able to condemn those, like Cukor and Montand, who wouldn't allow her human frailty-- or would exploit her for it. My inability to accept her non-perfection -- even when so uncomfortable being confronted with her attractiveness, her sexuality -- seems nearly unforgivable.
My only consolation is that I have out-grown such childish notions. Having put them aside, I no longer will need to avoid watching Let's Make Love.
Feeling wiser and somewhat emotionally victorious, but no better health-wise, I was prompted to then watch another movie that I had not seen since I was 16.
That movie was Blue Lagoon.
Blue Lagoon was the 'it' film for teens in 1980, and raised quite a ruckus which I felt was a much-to-do-about-nothing. Maybe it's because I was already reading far 'worse'; or maybe because while I found the film to be a sensual ode to (primarily) Brooke Shields, I did not find it erotic. Shields was (still is) beautiful, but I found the film footage to be more artistic than smutty... The island setting, the flora and fauna, the ocean and sky, were beautiful and Shields' beauty just seemed to blend in with that. It was natural. Not that sex isn't natural, but I didn't feel any heat. Not 'down there', not on my cheeks either.
You'd think that after all I said about Let's Make Love and Marilyn's obvious prancing sexuality that I'd have had some discomfort or other with this film. Especially as Let's Make Love was watched at home alone, while Blue Lagoon was a public trip to the theatre with my peers. But I didn't experience any sexual confusion or discomfort; at least not directly.
Perhaps this was because Christopher Atkins did next-to-nothing for me. He was too soft & pretty -- like those non-threatening boy-band guys (then and today). Which totally explains his 1982 nude appearance in Playgirl.
Even watching it again as an adult I was more moved by, attracted to, Brooke's beauty than his. But I certainly didn't feel 'erotic'.
Not that Let's Make Love made me feel erotic (then or now); but there was the idea of sex, much more so than in Blue Lagoon... In fact, Blue Lagoon, while lush & far more beautiful (in terms of film quality too), just had the feeling of kids playing at being grown-ups. It could have been the awkward acting, simplistic dialog dumbed-down rather than portraying innocence (almost mocking what we then-called Third World countries for a lack of education and superstitious rituals in place of actual Religion), but even then I held the director, Randal Kleiser, accountable for being too in lust with 'beauty' to care about the story.
In fact, I wasn't just "not erotically moved" by the film, but disappointed angry at what was delivered as opposed to what could have been. There were hints of possibilities, things to think about, but it was campy -- and what was up with that tacked-on rushed ending? Wasn't the family's return to 'society' one of the most interesting concepts to explore?
I guess Brooke & Chris were too beautiful for anyplace other than that island setting.
Anyway, the sticking point for this film, the food for thought for today, is what happened after my friends and I had watched the film back in 1980. All my friends, those I had seen the movie with and those who had just seen it period, were absolutely in teenage love-lust with Christopher Atkins -- and staring at me oddly because I was not.
This is where my embarrassment kicks in.
No, I didn't think I was a lesbian; I didn't think I had any problem at all. I was embarrassed by their adoration of this pretty man-child, that they would fall for some mishap of movie making which attempted to manipulate them -- transparently, cheaply, and without any skill or finesse. Like a cheesy country song or the clumsy hand of a careless lover whose only concern is to please himself. (Yes, Kleiser, you can take that personally.) How could girls fall for that? Truly embarrassing.
It was even more embarrassing & disconcerting than those who objected to the film for moral reasons.
I was keen to watch Blue Lagoon again after my recent experience with Let's Make Love, I wondered how I'd feel about it now; but nothing had changed after all. I'm still disturbed that anyone could be moved by the film enough to fall for the romance or be outraged by the immorality.
Whatever points 16-year-old-me lost with Let's Make Love I more than recouped with Blue Lagoon.
But my re-run movie fun isn't over yet.
Next, up The Wedding Singer. There's not much to say other than I have always loved this film (I own it and the soundtrack); as a product of the 80's why wouldn't I? While watching it with my husband he asked, "What else has the actress who plays Linda been in?" I couldn't think of a thing -- which is rather a shame because Angela Featherstone's excellent as the bitch-to-hate.
But the real reason I mention this is that right after The Wedding Singer ended, I flipped channels.
What did I find?
On the Sci-Fi channel, Caved In: Prehistoric Terror, an as-to-be-expected campy horror film -- starring Angela Featherstone and Christopher Atkins!
I shit you not.
Featherstone is still pretty; but Atkins isn't -- he's finally handsome!
Chris and I have finally grown up, I guess. And now I wouldn't mind some nude photos...
PS If you're still reading this, I will be (fingers crossed) moving this blog to its own domain & private hosting this weekend.
I do this because ever since the "blogger warning" has been issued to me (and yes, I take it personally), traffic (also affected by a lack of posting, I know) and stat tracking (which should not change with poor posting habits) has dropped drastically.
I honestly have no idea what fresh hell I shall discover with such a move, but, despite the possibly snarky sounding (yet accurate) statement that I owe you nothing as far as guaranteed postings, I do apologize in advance for any craziness which comes from 'moving' the blog.
Having fallen in love with Queen Marie, I was thrilled to discover in the February 22, 1941 issue of Liberty magazine "Madame Pompadour Of Rumania: The Story of Magda Lupescu and King Carol" by Frederick L. Collins.
Billed as a "new drama in the vivid chronicle of a red-haired woman who ruled a monarch", the story reads like fiction -- an exploitative fictionalized biography with a huge emphasis on lurid depictions of Magda, "the beautiful half-Jewess."
I don't own this magazine; Pop Tart does (she let me read it and sent me these scans) and as I still owe her some magic beans for the Pink Pussycat goodies I can't dare dream of it (yet). However, as this is part four of the serialized story, I'd have at least five more issues to get anyway. (The soap-opera styled teaser at the end promises the next chapter, not the last chapter.) Saved eBay search, here I come.
I Think I Love You, Sadie, Sally, Whatever Your Name Was
Still fascinated by the Pink Pussycat, of which there is little on the tubes of Internets, I've become drawn to Sally Marr (aka Sally Marsalle and Boots Malloy), the former dean of the college of strip tease who was also Lenny Bruce's mother.
Virtually whenever anyone writes about Marr, and admittedly few do, they mention her 'bawdy' and 'outspoken' nature. The examples are that she's said to have 1) taken son Lenny to see burlesque shows when he was just 12 and 2) allowed him to read adult materials.
These two statements are repeated ad naseum, becoming one-liner legends I'm tempted to dismiss as being copied one from the other in a strange daisy-chain of cut-and-paste -- but I won't. For while those statements are repeated at a frequency worthy of dismissal (further penalized by the blandness that only an absence of documentation coupled with a lack of description can provide) they also represent something else.
First looking at the context of the statements, the on-one-hand 'credit' (these experiences creating the comedian's successful act) and on-the-other-hand mention (a nod to the bizarre foreshadowing the comedian's doomed life), points to the question of Marr's fitness for motherhood. Because moms cannot be sexual or sex positive without damaging herself and her children, her parenting is so unorthodox that no further explanation is deemed necessary.
For the record, I snort & chafe at such beliefs.
In Seriously Funny, by Gerald Nachman, there seems to be some discrepancy over Sally's literal mothering -- some claiming that she was rarely around for Lenny between the ages of 8 to 17. Surely at odds with the stories of how the 12 year old was watching the burlesque shows him mom emceed; make up your minds, people.
(And, speaking of such things again, it should also be noted that at burlesque shows in those days, no strippers went nude -- it was an art form of tease and humor. While I cannot say just what 'adult materials' Bruce had, let alone which momma Marr allowed him to have, we cannot ignore that while complete nudity and even penetration porn may have existed, Marr herself is to have said, "A woman's best weapon is a man's imagination." In that case, it's pretty clear that Marr knew that a g-string dollar was proffered for the teasing suggestion, not any actual delivery.)
Many go further and seem to seek to mar Marr's reputation by depicting her not only as morally questionable, but as opportunistic as well. They mention how she dared to enjoy being famous as Lenny Bruce's Mom; ignoring the fact that Lenny's big break, the gig at Ann's 440 where Hugh Hefner spotted him, wouldn't have happened had Sally not told the manager of Ann's 440 not to hire herself but her son. They mention how she sought Lenny's limelight, even milking it after he was dead; but side-step Marr's willing assistance & support (including financial) to other comedians. (She is credited for spotting the talents Cheech & Chong, Sam Kinison, and others.)
What's really telling about all of this is the irony. While they are busy depicting Sally Marr this way, the truth is seen: It is they who are only interested in Lenny Bruce, and Marr for her relationship with him.
Born Sadie Kitchenberg, Marr had, at age twelve, been a contestant in a beauty contest judged by Rudolph Valentino. She was offered a job on the basis of her provacative performance, but her father refused to let her accept it. She began dancing, winning a variety of contests, giving dance lessons, and always looking to perform.
During World War II, with her son Lenny off in the navy and her husband long gone, Marr worked in bars an an emcee. Audiences responded well to her slightly off-color jokes, and eventually she moved on to larger comedy clubs. When her career waned, Marr transferred her show business ambitions to her son, becoming Lenny's coach and number-one fan, in the tradition of Sadie Berle and Minnie Marx.
Such intriguing brief hints at Marr's life before motherhood -- of her having a life before and outside of being the comedian's mother... I drool from my aroused organ (my brain; sheesh, you're smutty).
Even if she wasn't going to ever win any awards for World's Most Traditional Mother (and who the hell wants that honor?!), even if she was thrilled to bask in Lenny's fame, even if you don't like her -- I do.
I'm intrigued by this woman who impressed Valentino, who taught girls (of all ages & sorts) to dance (all sorts of dances), who understood seduction, who played with risque humor, who not only raised a son so funny & wise but got his humor too. It's her biography I want to read.
And if you've got any more info about Sally Marr, any objects & photos etc., no matter what name she's billed as, please share!
Ephemera from The Pink Pussycat of Hollywood, 7969 Santa Monica Boulevard, Hollywood 46, OL 4-0280
Pop Tart traded all of this to me for a player to be named latter. Thank you!
A napkin (one of two!)
The Pink Pussy Cat Burlesk "A STAGE FULL OF THE MOST EXCITING GIRLS IN THE WORLD"
A table topper, proclaiming a two drink minimum per person (exclusive of food):
HARRY SCHILLER presents The Pink Pussycat BURLESK you'll PURR!!! when you see "A stage full of the most exciting girls in the world."
But The Pink Pussycat was more than a club... It was a college of strip tease too. Per Time, November 10, 1961:
Once upon a time, little girls agrowing used to think dreamily of the day they would matriculate at Vassar, Smith, Wellesley, Bryn Mawr or Sweet Briar. But with the population explosion, those colleges, can no longer take care of everyone, and some girls have to settle for less. In Los Angeles, for example, there is the Pink Pussycat College of Striptease.
Founded six months ago, old Pussycat is steeped in tradition, and the campus bustles with a sense of purpose. "There are lots of girls who want to strip, but few know how," said President Harry Schiller in his first baccalaureate address. "Now they got a place where they can come and learn."
Tuition at Pussycat is $100 for a ten-session curriculum. After such basic, required courses as The History and Theory of the Striptease and The Psychology of Inhibitions, girls can major in everything from Applied Sensual Communication to Dynamic Mammary, Navel, and Pelvis Rotation. The entire faculty is Sally Marr, 52, mother of four-letter Comedian Lenny Bruce. With knowledgeability gained during her career as a tank nightclub comedienne, Professor Marr lectures her pupils: "Keep your eyes on the audience at all times. Learn how to look at one man and take your clothes off for him. Not too much bump and not too much grind—that's passé and went out with Minsky."
To prepare for a screen role in Seven Thieves, Actress Joan Collins dropped in at Pink Pussycat College to see how it is done. But most undergraduates are less celebrated—ambitious unknowns with names like Dee Pontius and Jo Lynn, who will go out into the world after graduation with new professional names selected by the college's vocational-guidance department: Peeler Lawford, Fran Sinatra, Toni Curtis.
Old Pussycat, says President Schiller, is filling a vital need "in a field barren of talent and ideas." Indeed, just as Cambridge University developed soon after Oxford, old Pussycat may some day stand at the head of a great line of U.S. institutions of higher learning, ranging from the University of Pantsylvania to Tartmouth and M. I. Tease.
What's pink and cuddly and worn almost all over? And has "THE NAVEL ACADEMY OF THE WEST" written in purrrfectly svelte black velveteen? And is 100% warm, cuddly, pussycat-pink cotton? And you can buy it only from the famous Pink Pussycat in Hollywood? And costs only $5.00 Give up? She will... when you give her the Pink Pussycat Tease-Shirt.
Ads on page 14 of the San Francisco-Bay Area Official Amusement Guide, Week beginning May 4, 1967.
Galaxie ad: "Pretties Topless Dancers", featuring Jeani Monroe, original amateur topless contest, record stars Rick Stevens Four.
And ad for Finocchio's Worlds Greatest Female Impersonators, featuring Jackie Phillips, "The Riotous Redhead."
Moulin Rouge promo for Marta Dane -- "The Gorgeous Dane".
And Follies Burlesk, oddly enough, promoted themselves as having "S.F.'s only live stage show" -- which implies that Jeani, Jackie, Marta and the rest were dead? The Follies Burlesk also had "Girls Galore" and "Zany Comics" (dibs on that last one as my stage name!)
To Provide For The Various Phases Incident To Love, Courtship & Marriage
Love Letters With Directions How To Write Them by Ingoldsby North includes "the Art of Secret Writing, the language of Love portrayed, and rules of grammar" -- Because the various phases incident to love are affected by grammar.
An ad in the back of Donohue's Vest Pocket Webster's Dictionary & Complete Manual of Parliamentary Practice, copyright 1901.
Bran Castle, built in the 14th century as a fortress to protect against the invading Ottoman Turks, was home to the Romanian royal family from the 1920s until the communist regime confiscated it in 1948. At the end of communist rule in the 1980's, Bran Castle was restored, dubbed "Dracula's Castle," and thus became a popular tourist attraction, with some 450,000 people visiting the castle each year.
While Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia, aka "Vlad the Impaler", may or may not have ever stayed at Bran Castle, the Transylvanian castle did inspire Bram Stoker's classic 1897 novel Dracula -- and apparently that is enough for millions of people.
Me? I'm not such a fan of horror & blood. But I am a lover of affairs of the heart & hearts themselves... beating with life they literally keep the beat of our lives, turning the rapid pulse of emotion into the racing hearts of passion and then the heated pumping of erotic acts... and how the heart stills with emotional too, be it the skip at romantic introduction or the pause when the heart is broken... I even love them long after they've stopped beating. So, I'd still go see the Bran Castle -- but not for Dracula; I'd go for Queen Marie of Romania.
While married to Ferdinand of Romania, Marie not only had an affair with Lieutenant Zixi Cantacuzene which produced a child "disappeared from history"; a longer affair with Barbu Ştirbey which produced at least one son, Prince Mircea, and possibly one daughter, Princess Ileana; but Princess Maria (called Mignon) might have been the daughter of Grand Duke Boris Vladimirovich of Russia.
Certainly all of this had to have affected Marie's thinking regarding her son, King Carol II, and his relationship with Magda Lupescu -- first his mistress, and this his wife after his abdication -- but she publicly stated he had "sinned grievously". The irony seems to have been lost to Marie who only became further estranged from her son.
All such juicy things to further investigate...
And then there's this bit: Queen Marie made arrangements in her will for her heart to be kept in a cloister at the Balchik Palace -- her son Carol II dutifully carried out the request.
In 1940 her heart was transferred to the chapel at Bran Castle (the casket with Queen Marie's heart has since been moved to National History Museum of Romania in Bucharest).
Who doesn't want to pilgrimage to this woman's home?
If that's not enough to seduce you to, how about this quote from Queen Marie regarding a proselytizer:
I have met ..... I did not like him. He seemed to me to be a snob. He spoke of God as if He were the oldest title in the Almanach de Gotha. And all that business about telling one's sins in public -- He wanted me ... me ... to get up before my children and confess everything I had ever done! It is spiritual nudism! Ça se ne fait pas.
In 2005, the Romanian government passed a law allowing restitution claims on properties seized by the Communist government of Romania in 1948. It was due to this law that, in 2006, the Romanian government awarded ownership of Bran Castle to the son and heir of Princess Ileana, Archduke Dominic of Austria, Prince of Tuscany, known as Dominic von Habsburg -- then a 68-year-old New York architect.
Because of Princess Ileana's questionable lineage, among other things, the property distribution was challenged; but as Queen Marie herself named Ileana as the one to inherit Bran Castle, the Constitutional Court of Romania and an investigation commission of the Romanian government reaffirmed the validity & legality of the restitution procedures used and in December 2007 issued confirmation that the restitution to Ileana's son, von Habsburg, was made in full compliance with the law.
According to the contract signed when Bran castle was returned, the government pays rent to von Habsburg for the right to run the castle as a museum (including charging admission) for three years. That period ends in 2009 and full rights to the castle & property will then transfer to von Habsburg.
Having no experience with running a museum, von Habsburg and his family have put the castle up for sale to those "who will treat the property and its history with appropriate respect."
I'm not sure my lusty love of history would meet approval; but as Bran Castle is expected to fetch over $135 million, I don't suppose I could afford it anyway.
a little risque....a little naughty by 1940's standards anyways....they are along the line of "Jiggs and Maggie", if you remember that cartoon strip.
(Link added by SPS.)
Risque?!
Let's get real here. The woman brandishes a rolling pin -- from the lump on his head, she's connected at least once already. How does he retaliate? By removing her breast!
Honestly, just where did one display or use such S&P shakers? At the dinner table with the kids? When one entertained business associates? When the in-laws came over? Or maybe they were just used in the basement or rec-room bar, where drunk folks thought such risque things were supposed to be.
We're concerned (yet again) with a bare breast but not the violence -- even when the violence has severed a breast.
These are so bad that I must have them; like African Americans collect the horrible history that is Black Americana, I must have them.
I don't ask you for much, readers... So donate money to me so that I may buy them -- or let me know that you'll be buying them for me. (No need to bid against one another now!)
At the risk of regression, I have to point out this gem of a quote from Marilyn on the mutual non-love affair between herself & Tony Curtis on (and likely off) the set of Some Like It Hot.
In a letter to a friend she wrote:
"There is only one way he could comment on my sexuality and I'm afraid he's never had the opportunity."
Aces.
The fact that Marilyn owned a child's recording of Walt Disney's Snow White is sweet...
I'm trying to resist all urges to comment on how Monroe had too many dwarfs in her life... How she was not only both Madonna & Whore, but both the Sweet Princess and the Evil Queen, poisoning herself into slumbers that only the kiss of true love could wake her from...
Many women are searching for the answers to what it means to be female, historically and right this minute, and how we feel about that ~ and we're using porn & erotic materials to do it.
...No matter who the body before us belongs to, it becomes our own. That could be our tits, our ass, our labia spread wide open like a briefcase on his desk. We could be the whipper or the whipee. Just how do we feel about all that?
A rather crudely drawn postcard, featuring a woman behind a dressing screen in a doctor's office. She appears to be nude, except for her shoes; her stockings and bra draped over the screen. The male doctor appraises her.
"ARE YOU SURE DOCTOR? WINCHELL'S ALWAYS BEEN RIGHT BEFORE"
I gather the Winchell referenced is Walter Winchell, making this a humorous stab of gossip about the doctor's reputation, or the woman's, as well as Winchell's.
Then again, my guess that it's Walter Winchell is based, in part, upon the fact that the postcard's incomplete sentence relies heavily on the reader knowing about Winchell & the period's current events and persons -- something Winchell himself was known for.
Not knowing the context, the postcard becomes cryptic & convoluted. The humor is hinted at, but like a child hearing a double entendre, I just don't have enough knowledge to share the laugh.
I appreciate any information from readers.
Other postcard info: Signed ERICK (or E RICK). Divided back, unused; published/printed by Glacier Stationery Co., Great Falls, Mont. No year, circa 1940's - 1950's.
October 4th was Buster Keaton's birthday. Growing up, I always thought Buster Keaton was a euphemism -- even when I wasn't sure what it would be a euphemism for. But then, I also didn't know what a "Buster Keaton" was, so it only added to my confusion.
(Of course, Buster didn't come up in conversation too often. Diane Keaton did, however. And, combined with the attitudes & jokes about Mr. Goodbar, such namedropping conjured the weirdly reminiscent, "Hey, I'd like to bust-her keaton!" ideas.)
In any case, I eventually came to know just what a Buster Keaton was -- and became rather smitten with him. Sure, most of his films are rather formulaic, and they don't exactly feature strong women, but they are charming for what they are. And the absence of strong females in Keaton films doesn't appear to be (nor even feel) misogynistic. From The Keaton Heroine:
It was totally intentional on Keaton's part to make his heroines distant and dramatically underdeveloped. They were there purely as an impetus for his journey through the picture. His silents were love stories of some description, all with the same formula -- Buster wants girl; girl or her family doesn't want Buster: Buster proves himself through some heroic fete: girl (generally) wants Buster or her family finally approves of him -- End. Keaton said of his leading ladies,
"There are usually but three principles - the villain, myself and the girl and she was never important…. The leading lady had to be fairly good looking, and it helped some if she had a little acting ability. As far as I was concerned I didn't insist that she have a sense of humor. There was always the danger that such a girl would laugh at a gag in the middle of a scene, which meant ruining it and having to remake it."
What was Keaton's reasoning behind the lack of development in his female co-stars? To push them into the background so he could egotistically be the center of attraction? Doubtful, he was considered to be a generous performer by his peers. The public were paying to see a Buster Keaton film staring Buster Keaton. That in itself dictated a high priority for Keaton screen time. There is also little room in comedy for extended passionate and involved love scenes between the hero and heroin… it just isn't funny. Once a love scene becomes funny it is no longer believably passionate. A quirk of the times seemed to dictate that comedy films had the morals of Victorian culture rather than that of the Jazz Age (the exception being Clara Bow). Sex were not the territory of the young, it was an adult privilege to be earned, not an instant proof of adulthood to be embarked on as soon as the hormones kicked in. A respectable young man of the middle classes was expected to prove his love and maturity through non sexual displays of valor, and show he had the means to support a wife before being allowed the joys, or otherwise, of marriage.
There are three exceptions in Buster Keaton films; and you can read about them The Keaton Heroine.
Simply watching 80's porn won't do that for me because for the most part the fashions shown rarely reflect "me" at that time. And, no, I didn't really watch porn in the 80's. Aside from a few views for a fellow I was dating, I had no need to watch it.
She brings up a few points which were likely brewing in my subconscious... Like how much do things like clothing & setting affect my viewing or porn?
I know when I laugh out loud & become snark-master rather than slipping my hand in my panties; but what about more subtle things, like when I want to connect to the time and place? I know I can't really relax into arousal with erotica so poorly written that a character has a third hand reaching for her heaving bosom, or when his shorts inexplicably find themselves back on again. Like readers of historical fiction who freak when there's a car being driven on roads before Queen Victoria's birth, I can't help but be annoyed by those things -- and such annoyances interfere with my willing suspension of disbelief.
Now, we all know porn by & large offers little in the way of practicality & accuracy, but we do have to find something to relate to. So what happens when you are turning to porn for a sense of nostalgia? Surely porn can offer the fantasy of your own yesteryear, right?
But what Gracie says is that she's yet to find porn that can transport her back to her youth, her "glory days", because none seems to capture or reflect the fashions & settings of her at that time.
Is that too much to expect from porn?
Maybe; but it still raises some good questions, if not libidos horny for nostalgia.
It makes me wonder what & who the fashions in porn reflect today... What other elements in porn might be missing which renders porn non-relatable... Is this what makes amateur porn so appealing ~ that we see ourselves in those clothes, those situations and so are more responsive?
I don't know. I'm still looking through porn and thinking about all this. Of course I'm also still just looking at porn for the fuck of it too; so it may be awhile before I get any closer to those answers.
Me too. *wink* But now I have another excuse to look at more of it.
The seller of this reprint, who has marked the image with his seller ID, claims this is a reprint of an item from his own collection -- but sadly says nothing else about it. (Too bad, because I occasionally buy reprints if I know something about the original.) The fruit & breasts as wares on display naturally reminds me of the vintage bumper crop of boobies promo piece.
Discover the lurid secrets of sex and sexuality as you wind through the streets of the Jewish Lower East Side. Spanning from the 1880's to the 21st century, from synagogues to sex shops, the former shtetl will come alive with tales of Jewish prostitution, pornographers, birth control pioneers, undergarment peddlers, bath houses, burlesque performers, erotica, fetish and fashion.
According to this article, Josephine Judson Carringer was musically gifted, highly intelligent, ad entered college when she was 16 yrs old. She wrote Three Little Fishes with Betty Lynn Kirk, her sorority sister at the University of Tennessee in the late 1930s. They then sold the song for $200 and Saxie Dowell adapted the lyrics and music into the piece that became a number one hit in 1939 as performed by the Kay Kyser orchestra with Ish KaBibble singing.
According to Time, June 19, 1939, "Saxie Dowell recently heard, in the South, an old nursery tune called Down in de Meddy. He thought it mighty cute." We can't blame Saxie for the giant PR machine which would deny buying music (especially for a mighty cute old nursery rhyme song), and so we can likely believe the rest:
The result was published last April by Santly-Joy-Select, Inc., which got out The Music Goes 'Round and 'Round and admits to liking "crazy things." Under its title Three Little Fishies, Saxie Dowell's song last week had set something of a current record by leading the field in sheet music sales for a month.
Three Little Fishies has verses which can be sung either in English (Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool) or in "fish talk" (Down in de meddy in a ITTY BITTY POO). The chorus can be sung only one way: Boop boop dittem dattem whattem Chu! The song, likely to cause reverse peristalsis in fastidious stomachs, is all about some "itty fitties" who "fam and dey fam" until they "taw a TARK!" (shark). Den dey fam back to deir poo. The publishers, wary of overplugging Three Little Fishies, withheld it from all but a few big orchestral names—Hal Kemp, Guy Lombardo, Kay Kyser, Paul Whiteman, each of whom recorded it. The song was plugged on the radio by Mildred Bailey, Fannie Brice, Judy Starr. Along with the itty fitties, fat Saxie Dowell fam into such fame that he is now thinking of leaving Hal Kemp and starting a band of his own.
The song is a relative childhood classic -- that is to say, if you had a corny family like mine, you heard your relatives sing it. Often. You may have even heard Madonna and Rosie O'Donell perform a cover of the tune.
Now, you might be wondering why I'd be taking so much time to discuss a cute old kids' song here at SPS. Well, the idea of Baby Snooks, the bratty character played by Fanny Brice fascinates me.
It plays well-enough on the Baby Snook radio shows but, as Brice was fond of dressing & behaving 'in character', once you can see as well as hear it takes on other elements.
Putting a grown woman in little-girl-garb may have it's humorous elements, but it also says something about power & dominance -- and you don't have to be a perv to see it. Little girls are innocence, but they are also property; they belong to daddy. Short baby-doll dresses, oh-so fashionable these days, communicate these things -- innocence and access -- which is why I don't own a single one of those monstrosities.
Having a bratty girl-child mouth-off to her master may be cute, but underneath it all lies -- as sure as those ruffled panties -- the idea that she will eventually heel and heed her master. Or, if she does not, then he is less-than-a-man and plays cuckhold to her charms. Sure, all this can only make it funnier; but did they get it?
Without Brice & Snooks, we likely wouldn't have had Lily Tomlin's Edith Ann on Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In -- but there's a huge difference between the two.
Tomlin's Edith Ann appeared alone in her giant rocking chair where she told stories about her family & dog. Having her be alone could have been a choice to deal with scale; but even so, simply being alone meant Edith Ann was not (as) eroticized.
Baby Snooks, by comparison, not only acted with others but interacted physically with them, drawing in all those adult contexts. There is a large difference between discussing a punishment, a la Edith Ann, and showing a grown woman dressed as a child over the knee of her daddy figure like Baby Snooks; the image has erotically charged elements.
At the base of this humor is prettified misogyny &/or glorified cuckholding. It's all good & fine for adult role-play sex-scenarios, really; but as entertainment one really ought to be aware that's what they are enjoying.
Baby Snooks (with Hanley Stafford as "Daddy") was performed on television only once (and this was Brice's only TV appearance too), on CBS-TV's Popsicle Parade of Stars in 1950 (one year prior to Brice's death). Entertainment folks document Brice's height &/or age as the reason for its failure, and Brice herself is said to have admitted that the character of Baby Snooks just didn't work properly when seen... But come on!
This wasn't the first time Baby Snooks had appeared before people. Baby Snooks was even in Judy Garland's Everybody Sing (1938) prior to radio success.
While Brice & Garland are wonderfully funny in that scene, this was not the usual Baby Snooks routine. Baby Snooks was built on the annoying relationship with her father and, sometimes, other men. The Baby Snooks character had been preformed live on stage for years and, height of male actors aside, there clearly were other issues at work here.
Fanny, who rejoined the Follies at the Winter Garden, was still not in the best of health, and had to clear her throat in her Snooks scene Hope. "That's my cold clearing up," she ad-libbed at one point.
"I thought you were just oversexed," was Bob Hope's quick reply. The line stayed in.
Yeah. No wonder it just didn't work properly on television.
I wonder just what it is that people were thinking about Baby Snooks at the time.
Note:Gone Fishing (06/01/1939) & Baby Fish Story (04/11/1940) have quite a bit of similar content for a woman who eschewed rehearsals, saying she wanted to give performances a spontaneity and unpredictability that would be lost with an over-familiarity with the lines and other players. That could just be the writers milking their own jokes. What do you notice about the shows?
I command you to read it; or the boobies won't be bared here for quite some time. (Intelligent comment & discourse will be accepted as proof of reading.)
The Beloved Brat, by James Street, an article on Fannie Brice as published in Radio Guide, week ending Sept 22, 1939. (Many thanks to Pop Tart for scanning & sending!) Along with photos of Fannie as Baby Snooks, there are photos of Fannie with her children, Frances & Bill, from her marriage to Nicky Arnstein -- including one of Fannie helping Frances "don 'sock and buskin'" for Frances' debut, at the age of 17, in Ziegfeld's "Follies" in 1936.
Sadly, this is just part one of The Beloved Brat, but the article ends on a rather whimsical note (links added for reader assistance):
The character [Baby Snooks] was created eighteen years ago, quite by accident. There was a song called "Poor Pauline" going the rounds. It was a take-off on the "Perils of Pauline," the old movie thriller. Fannie was at a friend's house one night and sang the song as a child might. It clicked, and Moss Hart and Dave Freedman wrote lines for Fannie and she used "Snooks" in the Follies. Today Miss Brice is "Baby Snooks," not the wife who sang "My Man." The giddy era has passed.
At the top of the heap, she married Billy Rose, but that one didn't take. Mr. Rose and Eleanor Holm are betrothed. Miss Holm is working for Mr. Rose at the New York Fair and recently she was late for a cue. Mr. Rose asked how come, and his sweetheart told him she had been laughing so much at a radio program that she forgot the time. The program was "Baby Snooks" singing "The Little Fishes."
And so the woman who made the world cry with "My Man" now plays a brat who amuses the woman who won one of Brice's men.
3)Foundation garments inspired by the fashions of Queen Victoria and King Edward.
4)Just Like Us?: "What's the point of a portrait of the Duchess of Devonshire with the politics left out? The new film version works well as a study in misogyny, argues Amanda Vickery, but spare us the cod psychologising and allusions to Princess Di."
A white glazed terracotta figure of what Sotheby's calls "possibly the muse Erato" (an assumption likely made due to the lyre) which "possibly" is a 19th century French piece -- possibly fetching 5,000—8,000 EUR.
When you mention the name Veronica Lake, everyone remembers the hair. (There was one movie, which for the life of me I cannot remember the name of, in which a male character refers to a group of girls -- each sitting there with the trademark Veronica Lake peekaboo hair wave -- as being in their Veronica Lake phase. If you remember the scene, please tell me; it's killing me not to remember!)
But, as evidenced by this vintage photo, Veronica was also sold on another physical attribute: her dirty smirk.
DIRTY LOOK--DIRTY FACE HOLLYWOOD--Constance Keane--Vernoica Lake to-you-- can give the dirtiest of dirty-looks and have the dirtiest of dirty faces and still be charming. She proves this in her second stellar role of her meteor-like film career in :Sullivan's Travels," Paramount Picture to be released in February. Here she turns on that dirty look for Sullivan, played by Joel McCrea, when she finds out that the "bum" she has befriended with her last 35 cents is really a movie director rolling in the lap of luxury.
The seller adds the following info about the photograph: "Vintage 1942, 6" x 8" Publicity Portrait of Veronica Lake as featured in SULLIVAN’S TRAVELS – (although this portrait was first used to promote THIS GUN FOR HIRE in 1941)."
Unorthodox in the extreme is Bartlett's method of gathering material for his programs. Every day promptly at 2:05 he whirls into the Chicago Home Arts Guild, an institution supported by national advertisers, to lunch and show 100-odd women the sponsors' 100-odd products. Tommie shouts "Hello, girls!" at the assembled matrons. Ten minutes later, after the girls are all in spasms at Tommie, who thinks nothing of rolling on the floor to get them giggling, WBBM technicians begin to record Meet the Missus. Twittering like sparrows, yanking nervously at their girdles, some of Tommie 's girls answer questions about their clothes, husbands, honeymoons, aspirations, frustrations, children, while the rest of them hoot and howl.
Apparently, Bartlett was quite the man; earning 20 wedding proposals and the moniker "housewife’s pinup boy".
Not a bad looking man. And I can only assume that even as his hair whitened and his middle thickened, his wallet's growth from all the Wisconsin Dell's attractions only served to make him more attractive. If girls and matrons once "yanked nervously at their girdles" (and isn't that a delicious bit of vintage imagery!), I bet that once the girdle was banished, the smoothing of hair & skirts, the licking & biting of lips, and other signs of lusty interest continued.
But Bartlett never married.
This would not interest me so if there weren't such a blank in the press about the man's private life. A legendary figure in the Midwest (and beyond), you'd think his exploits would be documented. Even here on the Internet, home of all things imbecilic & impolite, there is no tribute to the man, no home for all things private (let alone pervy) regarding Tommy Bartlett.
How could such a public man lead such a private life?
If he was a playboy bachelor, where are the celeb stalkings? There's no dirt on his wild youth, no dish on his radio hey-days, no smutty speculation on his incredibly wealthy years as a kitsch mogul. Where was the scandal of his will after his death? No rug-rats crawling out of the woodwork for a piece of that pie? And there's virtually no photographic evidence of his life.
Too damn quiet, if you ask me.
So I wonder, was this man gay?
Now I know you're going to accuse me of perpetuating stereotypes. Suggesting the maker of stacked water skier spectacles is anything but hetero certainly seems "typical" of a hetero. But honestly, where's the trail of his romantic life? Only a gay man living the life of such a large local legend would keep so secretive.
If you have any knowledge, news clippings, photos, anecdotal evidence, please spill it.
Satyrs are most commonly described as having the upper half of a man and the lower half of a goat. They are also described as possessing a long thick tail, either that of a goat or a horse. Mature satyrs are often depicted with goat's horns, while juveniles are often shown with bony nubs on their foreheads. Attic painted vases depict satyrs as being strongly built with flat noses, large pointed ears, long curly hair, and full beards, with wreaths of vine or ivy circling their heads. Satyrs often carry the thyrsus: the rod of Dionysus tipped with a pine cone.
They are described as roguish but faint-hearted folk — subversive and dangerous, yet shy and cowardly. As Dionysiac creatures they are lovers of wine, women and boys, and are ready for every physical pleasure. They roam to the music of pipes (auloi), cymbals, castanets, and bagpipes, and love to dance with the nymphs (with whom they are obsessed, and whom they often pursue), and have a special form of dance called sikinnis. Because of their love of wine, they are often represented holding winecups, and appear often in the decorations on winecups.
Satyrs are not immortal, but grow old. On painted vases and other Greek art, satyrs are represented in the three stages of a man's life: mature satyrs are bearded, and are shown as balding, a humiliating and unbecoming disfigurement in Greek culture.
Don't let the candy-sweet comic illustrations of the pamphlets fool you, there's something here to stick in your craw, alright; it's the cult part that's like too much peanut butter -- sticky & hard to swallow.
Flirty Fishing (FFing) was the use of sex to show God's love and win converts as well as a means of raising financial support. It was practiced by the Family of Love (aka Children of God, the Family, and now the Family International or TFI) from 1974 until it was officially discontinued in 1987; due, in part, to the AIDS scare. The cute euphemism is traced to Matthew 4:19 where Jesus says "Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men."
In the latter part of the '70s and early '80s, [David Berg], responding in part to the sexual liberality of that time period, presented the possibility of trying out a more personal and intimate form of witnessing which became known as 'Flirty Fishing' or 'FFing'. In his Letters at that time, he offered the challenging proposal that since 'God is Love' (1 John 4:8), and His Son, Jesus, is the physical manifestation and embodiment of God's Love for humanity, then we as Christian recipients of that Love are in turn responsible to be living samples to others of God's great all-encompassing Love. Taking the Apostle Paul's writings literally, that saved Christians are 'dead to the Law [of Moses]' (Romans 7:4), through faith in Jesus, [Berg] arrived at the rather shocking conclusion that Christians were therefore free through God's grace to go to great lengths to show the Love of God to others, even as far as meeting their sexual needs.
XFamily.org has more Flirty Fishing ephemera as well as additional writings by Berg or transcriptions of his speeches, called Mo Letters (the name "Mo Letters" derived from David Berg's pseudonym, Moses David).
In Negotiation of African American Identities in Rural America: A Cultural Contracts Approach, Ronald L. Jackson II and James B. Stewart, both of Pennsylvania State University, discuss W. E. B. Du Bois' philosophies:
Du Bois did not view the wholesale assimilation of the culture of the larger society as the ideal developmental path for Black families. In discussing sexual mores, he (1908, 42) argued: “The Negro attitude in these matters is in many respects healthier and more reasonable. Their sexual passions are strong and frank . . .The Negro motherlove and family instinct is strong, and it regards the family as a means, not an end, and although the end in the present Negro mind is usually personal happiness rather than social order, yet even here radical reformers of divorce courts have something to learn.”
1) In New Wives' Tales, Jackie Wullschlager reviews books on the lives of famous wives & lovers, including the kinky relationship between Simone de Beauvoir & Jean-Paul Sartre. (Get ready to put on your Amazon wish lists.)
2)Brenda's Babes won $20,000 for her pin up collection. (I didn't enter because I didn't want to video my home.) Via Dinosaurs & Robots.
5)The New York Times reviews the J, Paul Getty Museum show, Grecian Taste and Roman Spirit: The Society of Dilettanti, "a quirky, fascinating show" which "examines the culture of connoisseurship in a men’s club in 18th-century London, revealing the unlikely origins of both classical archaeology and the Greek Revival style." (Sometimes I hate living in the Midwest; I miss shows like this.)
Pop Tart at KKC sent me these scans, marked pages from 1954's The Family Physician, by Dr. Herman Pomeranz & Dr. Irvin S. Koll. She knew I'd have much to say about them.
The defacement begins with the combating cancer breast exams.
An "X" is placed over each breast -- nude breasts sans nipples, because nipples cannot be seen even in medical books. They must only be found in men's mags and National Geographic; a rule that still applies today, no matter how antiquated and foolish.
The Xs continue throughout the fitness pages too -- but you'll notice that the naked men in exercise diapers are free of inked-x-comments.
This leads me to conclude that the person who inked judgment was a girl, approximately 12 years of age.
This is an age where young girls are rather modest & uncomfortable with nudity and the sexual life of the female form. Even if the photos are not intended to be sexual she feels it -- like the photos of naked pygmies young boys masturbated to in National Geographic magazines, she is painfully aware. The X marks the spot where she is uncomfortable.
It's either that, or the work of a misogynist male. And I don't like to think about that.
Growing up, my dad used to make jokes about luring girls with the offer of nylons. He still does, honestly.
It's a bit creepy -- but less creepy than jokes about little girls and candy, that's for sure; but if you don't know the history of nylons, you wouldn't quite get his jokes. (Admittedly, such knowledge would only help you understand his nylon jokes; Dad's other jokes could still be murky.)
Thankfully, my parents both were not only quite the history lovers but storytellers too, so I knew the score -- both in terms of the "Nylon Mania" & "Stocking Panic" and how my dad joked about hoping to score.
The mocking of women's love of stockings was a prevalent theme in many WWII home front publications, and the use of nylons to lure women was humor oft-used in men's mags -- sadly, none are at my fingertips now (searched-for things rarely appear when desired; I shall post them as I find them).
Luring women at home and abroad with nylons and candy bars was the "come up and see my etchings" of its time, and lived on in memory far longer as a euphemism, even when not fully understood.
Of course, the panic of nylon stockings was more than a joke. As noted in the history piece at SK, the real crimes took place as people tried to exploit the power of "Stocking Panic." OrangeCat at Flickr transcribed this 1945 Readers Digest article on the subject:
Bootleg Nylons Readers Digest, February 1945
Watch out for the fellow who offers to sell you "nylon" hosiery! There isn't any.
No mere man can fully understand the power of nylon stockings over women's minds, hearts, and consciences. But a lot of men are busy exploiting this feminine weakness.
Foremost example: Uncle Sam. The only legitimate purchaser of nylon hosiery in the world is the U.S. Government. No, the stockings aren't "sent to Iceland on lend-lease," as reported in a silly story that was repeated on the floor of Congress. They travel a much more devious route.
Our secret agents overseas discovered that a half dozen pairs of sheer nylons would buy more information from certain mysterious women in Europe and North Africa than a fistful of money. After all, what could the ladies buy with money in the empty shops of the Old World? So several large hosiery mills, which had made no nylons since Pearl Harbor, received substantial orders from Washington; the necessary yarn, they were informed, would be available. Pleasantly surprised, they turned out the merchandise -- the only nylons legitimately manufactured in years.
Nevertheless, enough American women want nylon stockings at any price, in contempt of law, and with callous indifference to our soldiers' needs for other nylon goods, to support a sizable black market. It is some satisfaction to record that the black market operators give the women a merciless stinging.
Thirteen cases of raw nylon en route from the Du Pont factory in Martinsville, Va., to a parachute yarn plant in Winston-Salem, N.C., were stolen from a motor-freight terminal in Greensboro, N.C. Accepting the thin story that the nylon was salvage from a warehouse fire, two manufacturers made it up into hosiery. It was spread as far as possible by making the feet and tops of cotton. But these skimpy makeshift stockings sold readily for $5 a pair to bootleggers, who in turn got $10 a pair from customers, male and female, hexed by the magic word "nylon." The nylon yarn was worth $7800; it was made into $140,000 worth of stockings.
FBI and OPA agents arrested three men. One, a former official of a trucking company, was fined $5,000 and is serving a two-year prison term. The two hosiery mill men were fined $12,000 each and placed on 18 months' probation. The Government agents managed to seize 5,000 pairs of hose before they could be peddled. These, by court order, were sold at the OPA ceiling prime of $ 1.65 a pair in the office of the U.S. Marshal in Greensboro. The sale was to begin at ten o' clock in the morning. At 5 a.m. the queue began to form; when the doors opened, the line of women, four abreast, extended four city blocks. Half of them went away disappointed.
Much more intricate was another scheme for black market nylons. A silk mill in Pennsylvania got a contract to convert raw nylon into thread for glider towropes. Part of the raw nylon was systematically snitched, and accounted for in reports to the WPB as "spoilage." The "spoiled" nylon was transported to three hosiery mills whose owners were in the plot. When the FBI cracked down, it found 10,320 pairs of nylons in one warehouse, 6,500 unfinished pairs in another, enough thread to make 36,000 pairs more. Four men were indicted.
Most patrons of the nylon black market are stung in two ways: they pay fantastic prices and they do not get nylon. Travelers, and even professional merchandise buyers who should know better, have bought "Mexican nylon" in quantities. Sometimes they have misleading names, such as "carbonyl."
Dozens of pairs have turned up for laboratory analysis at the New York headquarters of the National Association of Hosiery Manufacturers. They're just rayon. You can get them at any hosiery counter in the United States; ceiling price, $1.25.
An Omaha store imported 1,680 pairs of these "nylons" in good faith and advertised them at $2.25, plus $1.85 for customs duty. The Better Business Bureau had a pair analyzed and thus convinced the merchant he had been victimized. The stockings were withdrawn from sale.
The lengths to which the gyps will go is indicated by the troubles of the Van Raalte Company. It is getting a stream of complaints about hosiery bought as nylon, stamped with the Van Raalte name and the nylon trademark and, most convincing, made with the patented Van Raalte toe. Some victims bought the counterfeits in Mexico City, some bought them from bootleggers in the U.S.; but it seems plain that the imitations were all made in Mexico.
The small amount of honest nylon wastage or spoilage that does occur in war production is allotted to manufacturers of underwear, brassieres and girdles -- never to hosiery mills. Every retailer should know that there just isn't any nylon hosiery to be had. Still, when George M. Toney wrote to 1,000 stores from a post office box address in Washington, D. C., offering nylons at $7.44 a dozen pairs, he got orders with some $2,000 cash by return mail. There is no guesswork about the money, because postal authorities opened his mail and counted it.
Ruses of the bootleggers show little originality. The driver of a delivery truck, often bearing the name of a well-known shop, stops a woman on the street and tells her that some nylons were put on his truck by mistake. She can have them at $5 (or $10) a pair. Or a peddler drifts into a doctor's office on the pretext of making an appointment. He casually mentions that the parcel in his hand contains nylon stockings -- unfortunately not his wife's size. Could anyone use them? He is typical of the shifty-eyed, furtive nylon bootleggers who canvass office buildings in the big cities.
Perhaps the limit of credulity is reached by the people who buy compounds which, dissolved in water, will "nylonize" rayon stockings. One of the big hosiery manufacturers remarked dryly, "If any chemist has such a formula, he needn't bother with the 25-cent trade. I'll give him $5,000,000 for it in cash."
After the war there will be nylon hosiery, finer, sheerer, stronger, more beautiful than ever before. Designs for the machines to make it are past the blueprint stage. But until the war is over, the Army and Navy need every pound of nylon. There won't be any for stockings except what is stolen. And there won't be much stolen. So, ladies -- don't be suckers.
In researching crimes in the wake of "Stocking Panic", it is also clear that the threat of such power plays created a panic of victimization which rivaled that of the white slave trade.
In fact, I continue to search publications for the proffered opines of "Beware the nylon stocking offered; you'll end up in white slavery!"
If/when I find some, I shall, of course, share.
Along with the joke of wooing at home with nylons, the fear of betrayals & abuses back home was part of World War II psychological operation (PSYOP) strategy. This excellent article details more than the use of nylon stockings as symbol or eroticism and betrayal, but the use of the sex drive and pornography to "motivate" soldiers. Go read it.
You might find such manipulation of the male sex drive horrific (and I do), but beneath it all is still the notion that we women are "so in love" with nylons, that we'd "do anything" to get them.
We women aren't only fools for fashion, willing to prostitute ourselves for material goods, but we are such delicate things that we can be exploited for them even without intending to be.
We are bad girls because we are weak. And we weaken our men because of it. Men know this about us, and lament the horrors which will befall us because they aren't "home" to save us -- from predatory males and ourselves.
Yuck.
Image Credits/Further Reading: Stockings Go To War scan via CQ; "Stocking Panic" article from Business Week August 9, 1941, via Smithsonian; comic mocking women from 1950 Modern Woman Magazine, via KKC; WWII German propaganda leaflets, via Psywarrior.com.
* Founding the the Feminist Anti-Censorship Task Force, known as FACT.
* Starting the Pink Ladies Social Club, a club which supports women (performers, writers, makeup artists, directors etc.) who works in the adult industry and works to fight the stereotype of female sex workers as bimbos &/or victims coerced by men into humiliating themselves.
* Being a member of the Board of Directors for the Woodhull Freedom Foundation, an organization that works to advance sexual freedom as a fundamental human right by protecting and advancing freedom of speech and sexual expression), but with her wisdom in faith and religion.
When I first began collecting smut, I began with texts & materials about sexuality. They were purchased as part of my "feminist" collection; documentation not only of the myths of female sexuality, but how such things perpetuated myths of gender and forced everyone into inaccurate boxes.
Some of the most prolific works in vintage human sexuality were those published by -- and promoting -- Eugenics. Eugenics is all about having sex -- "For the Good of the Race." This, of course, is a controversial subject in and of itself. I shall have to dig about and select some titles and "gems" from my own collection. But meanwhile, check out this 1937 ephemera on The Sexual Side of Marriage.
James Hawes, academic and Kafka expert, reveals some of Kafka's porn stash in Excavating Kafka, to be published this month. Hawes says his book "seeks to explode important myths surrounding the literary icon, a 'quasi-saintly' image which hardly fits with the dark and shocking pictures contained in these banned journals."
Even today, the pornography would be "on the top shelf", Dr Hawes said, noting that his American publisher did not want him to publish it at first. "These are not naughty postcards from the beach. They are undoubtedly porn, pure and simple. Some of it is quite dark, with animals committing fellatio and girl-on-girl action... It's quite unpleasant."
Since I'm all for looking at humans in their full complexity, I can't wait to see/read the book myself -- and will hold off on more comments until then.
(Then again, I've never read Kafka... Must I read him before the bio-outing? I guess that depends upon one's views; reading this to know of the man vs. the myth, risking future reading of his works, or having proper literary framework first.)
The article is excellent -- only out-done in read-worthiness by the comments; here are a few:
Porn is nauseating, no matter who reads it. And in Kafkas time, it was not widely accessible,. It was a more normal, safer world back then, naive as that may sound. Kafka was a disturbed person, and that was the key to his originality. It is a greater achievement to be original, yet a whole person.
Fosse, Oslo, Norway
We have become worse than the Victorians ever were! (And I say that as a scholar of Victorian lit.) The combination of prurient invasion of privacy and hypocritical condemnation is more revolting than any pornography could ever be. Everyone has private fantasies, some are weird. So what?
Carol Siegel, Portland, USA
I love Kafka, and I would definitely pay to read his porn, especially if it's dark and unpleasant. I really hope that this material will be widely released in my lifetime.
Jenna, Tampa,
I don't see what the massive deal here is. As far as some of the material being quite dark, Kafka seemed to be a guy with some pretty dark places anyway. His sexuality wouldn't likely be much different. "Nothing but a pervert" is, I think, inaccurate and unfair.
Laura, Some,
As Coulthart said when he sent me the link, "Can't wait to see the reaction when the book appears."
It's not just the seemingly strangeness of the fishnet being such a common prop throughout the years (I can only surmise such themes in nude art photography are the continuing exploration of the "catch a mermaid" fantasy), but the text itself which made these images memorable enough to warrant me lugging that box & folder out to the couch again for another sorting.
These few pages were torn from Figurette, Figure File For Artists, No.3; so along with the photos there is helpful text for the wanna-be artist -- text which legitimized and protected publications with nude women too. So the text, while you may wish to dismiss it in your quest to see more vintage naked boobies, is key here.
Figurette presents a handy, inexpensive guide to the anatomy and constructions of the female figure. The photographs are designed to aid and encourage the reader in the study of art and photography, being of special advantage to the amateur artist in enabling him to further his study of art through the medium of photography. Because it is impossible to draw, accurately, from memory, the artist is encouraged to work from the photographs. Both artist and photographer, in achieving success, must develop dexterity in depicting the human form. Figurette supplies invaluable, authentic copy on proportions, lighting, posing, composition and other facets of figure art as an aid in this comprehensive study.
On the flip side:
Twisting, turning, ever wending curves are the artistic result of the pose achieved in the study above. The netting used in both of these pictures illustrates the point that such props lose validity unless they serve to highlight contours or mood. In these cases they do neither. Photographs by Glamourarts.
In case you weren't reading for comprehension -- and I suspect that's quite a few here as well as the majority of original owners of Figurette magazine -- let me point out that the (at least) three photos, including the full page one inside the front cover, are published as examples of what not to do.
I would think such exploitative use of nudes as the "bad examples" would, if done often enough, have been enough to undermine the very "artistic guide status" Figurette boasted of and likely used to beat the censors.
However, censors themselves were likely to be distracted by the "twisting, turning, ever wending curves" in the photographs & so mistake the wording of the second line as a "to do". The last line (if read at all), the: "In these cases they do neither," became an irony lost.
If husbands only knew how much they are missing they would not wait another moment to read "Sex Fulfillment In Marriage." Many men (even those who have been married a long time) don't get half the delight because they don't know the knack of sexual intercourse!
The ad boasts of "Sex Charts and Explanations", including the female sex organs, "front and side views... The Internal Sex Organs... The External Sex Organs... Entrance to Female Genital Parts..." (Click to read the large scan.)
So reads this vintage Bakelite trinket box, a dresser piece to hold men's shirt studs. Very pun-ny, yes?
The seller says it measures 3 inches in diameter and 3 is a "fabulous little memento of the days when "Gentlemen" dressed to the nines and used all those lovely gold and onyx studs in their starched shirts!"
Bodies all over the place, everywhere you looked, stumbling over each other trying to be next in line. Where do they all come from?
There was a while, back during the late 1960s and on into the '70s, when I was buying people by the ton. It sure seemed that way, at least. After Greenleaf Classics began buying magazines filled with photos of naked people packaged by outside contractors, I began growing annoyed with the types of people they were using as models. Somehow, they were doing things all wrong, I contended. They should be paying attention to what those people look like at least, and cleaning up some of them considerably ahead of time.
Naturally, I figured I could pick desirable people out as well as the next guy, and hopefully a little bit better while I was at it. I had no sooner begun contacting Los Angeles area modeling agencies when they started barraging me with telephone calls themselves. I had no idea there were so many modeling agencies in the entire state, much less in Hollywood alone. Each one of those agencies had loose leaf notebooks filled with Polaroid photos of naked people for me to look at…lots and lots of loose leaf notebooks. It was much easier that way, flipping the pages, looking at the naked people trying to smile up at me from within those loose leaves.
Earl Kemp also, literally, exposes himself...
And others too...
Occasionally, and just for fun, I would insert photographs of personal friends without their knowledge, in the nude, into some of our various publications. Then, after the publication appeared, give them copies of it and point them out inside the issue. Without exception, every one of them was pleased with the surprise and passed copies of them around among their friends.
In a similar jest, I would also insert close-up photos of myself without showing my face into those books or magazines. At one time, most of the black cork wall on one side of my office was pinned with tear sheets of just me, and not one person working there knew it was me. I recall taking my cue for this from Alfred Hitchcock, who always inserted himself into each of his productions. I figured I could easily outcock Hitchcock, and I did.
Continue reading this issue of Kemp's fanzine for more on Song of the Loon, the work "that started a mini revolution in sleaze book publishing," the film Adultery for Fun and Profit, and the film's aftermath too -- featuring lots of great old ephemera and lurking federal government guys.
Pan Yuliang is a wonderful artist -- but one who is often discussed more for her struggle to become one (having been sold at the age of 14 into prostitution by her only surviving relative) and for her nude works (at a time when such works were scandalous).
I'm delighted to have Jennifer's insight here...
SPS: When/how did you first become aware of Pan Yuliang?
Jennifer: I was actually the Guggenheim with my husband and some relatives—roughly ten years ago. The exhibition—which was amazing--was on Modern Chinese Art, and there was just one image by Pan Yuliang on display. But it drew me over immediately; it was a typical Pan Yuliang in that it was very evocative of Matisse and Cezanne, and the bright, bold colors and distinctly Western setting (as compared to the huge propaganda-style images and much more subtle ink paintings around it) really stood out for me.
SPS: What was it that captured you & compelled you to write the book?
Jennifer: Upon seeing the picture, I went over to study it more closely. And when I read about Pan’s story (prostitute-concubine-Post-Impressionist icon; really?!) it just blew me away. I’d never heard of her before—but I couldn’t, at that moment, understand why---it struck me that everyone should know about her. I suppose writing the book was one way to try to understand her, and to try to imagine what making that sort of an extraordinary journey would be like.
SPS: How long did it take to create the book?
Jennifer: From inception to publication it was almost exactly ten years--so a long time! Granted, throughout that period I quite my job at NBC, finished an MFA at Columbia and also had my two daughters, so there were some side-trips.
SPS: Why write a novel, rather than a biography?
Jennifer: Mainly because I'd made the decision--after ten years in journalism--to try writing fiction, which I'd always wanted to do. But also because Pan's story ended up being one of those where I actually had to use creative license in order to get any sort of a complete sense of her. Even the art historians I spoke to confirmed that there is so little actually factually known about her (even the birthdate on her gravestone in Paris is generally agreed to be inaccurate) that in order to get a full sense of her life, one has to simply imagine.
SPS: You mention there is little documentation or biographical information about her... What do you think that is due to? A lack of respect for her, her art? Did her popularity increase after her death, when it was "too late" for much information? Or was it a general lack of respect for women in general? Or just a problem in general of artists from that time? Something else?
Jennifer: I think the lack of documentation was in part a combination of all these factors. But I also think that Pan herself kept a pretty tight grip on her story and was very careful about the versions of it she allowed out. This isn't surprising, given how wildly controversial both her work and her history were, and also given the fact that people tended to pay more attention to the latter than the former.
SPS: Have you seen Hua hun, and if so, what are your thoughts on the film?
Jennifer: I have. I actually knew about the film fairly early into my research, but held off watching it until I was well grounded in my own book and characters---I didn't want to risk being overly influenced by it. think I finally sat through it after I'd already finished with Shanghai in my book and was moving on to Paris. I certainly appreciated Hua Hun for its beauty--it was very well-done, and I loved the intense aestheticism of it visually. But I did feel that--like the biography it's based on--the movie portrayed Pan Yuliang as somewhat less of a self-determined woman and artist than I came to see her as. The general sense I got from watching it was that she was more or less shaped by the actions of the men around her; e.g., rescued despite herself from the brothel, guided into art and school by her husband, etc. I sensed such a strength of character and will in her paintings, though, that I really wanted to give her more of a role in her evolution as an artist.
It's been noted to me, incidentally, that some readers think i made her too strong--they don't find her particularly likeable. But my sense is (both from my own musings and from what I've heard) that she wasn't an easy person in real life to either know or to like--so I suppose in some ways that just makes me hope that I got something right!
SPS: Did she have any children?
Jennifer: She did not. The biographical info points to at least one pregnancy but (as I write [in the book]) that was terminated. She did adopt her husband's son, however; he's still alive I believe, in Anhui province.
SPS: If you could say in one sentence (of what took a decade to create) -- what you think is the sum of the book... I guess that would be two sentences --
Jennifer: The sum, for me, is really the boundless creativity and ingenuity of the human spirit (though I hope that doesn't make people gag!). The truth is, Pan Yuliang was pretty much damned from the start by so many factors--her gender, her class, her country of origin; the fact that her parents died and her uncle was an opium addict; the fact that she was sold into a brothel. It's a set of circumstances that most women would simply not have survived. And yet thanks to her resilience, talent and the sheer bravery she displayed in painting what she wanted, regardless of cost, she has left other women and artists this extraordinary example and legacy. (I'm sorry, that's four sentences and a lot of semicolons!)
SPS: That's OK -- it took me how many sentence fragments just to get near a question. *wink* Do you have a "one sentence bit" of what you hope the reader walks away with from The Painter From Shanghai?
Jennifer: That even in the most apparently dire of circumstances you still have the power to shape your own dreams, goals, life.
SPS: And, in one sentence, what did you walk away from the experience with?
Jennifer: The thrill of having had Pan Yuliang and China as a job for the past decade (how lucky is that!?), and a renewed faith in myself for actually having published a historical novel with family and sanity (at least somewhat) intact!
Call in questions and comments are welcome at 1 (646) 200-3136. (And rumor has it that a copy of The Painter from Shanghai will be given away to live callers...)
If you miss the show, you can listen to the archived show (or download it) here.
Marked ...A Sockl, Wien, 1. and Collection,, Vlan...Nr.713. I have no idea what that means, but it looks like a game of some sort... Any ideas? I know naughty cards give you "ideas"; but I mean do you have any helpful information? *wink*
Ruan Lingyu: A Decade Of Film & Even More Years Of Tragedy
Ruan Lingyu (also known/billed as Ruan Ling-Yu, Lingyu Ruan, Lily Yuan, & Lily Yuen) is the Chinese silent film star whose works are not very well known here in the US; I myself have TCM to thank for making her acquaintance -- first via The Peach Girl (aka Peach Blossom Weeps Tears of Blood, 1931; I'll be reviewing it soon!) & then The Goddess (1934).
Born Ruan Fenggeng in Shanghai on April 26, 1910, Ruan experienced the difficult life of a child of a poor migrant family from Canton. Her father died by the time she was six, and her mother moved away from Shanghai the following year to work as a housemaid in the home of the wealthy Zhang family. While she sent Ruan to school, by the age of 16 the young girl dropped out -- and moved in with the Zhang's son, Damin.
There was very strong opposition by Zhang's family to this tongiu (the romantic cohabitational love of 'the moderns' who eschewed arranged & even agreed upon marriages). This opposition resulted not only in Zhang not getting any financial support from his family, but in getting Ruan's mother fired as well; she moved in with the young couple. This, along with Damin's gambling & general irresponsibility, meant that Ruan must work to support the household.
In 1926, at the age of 16, Ruan spots an ad for "film actors needed" at Star Movie Studios. With the help of Zhang HuiChong, Damin's elder brother who had starred in swordplay films for the Commercial Press in the early 20's, Ruan went for an interview and audition. (Zhang HuiChong got married to Xu Sue/Wu Suxin, a rather famous actress working at the Great China Film Studios, and together they created the short-lived United Film Studios -- sometimes referred to as the HuiChong Film Company -- from 1924-1927.)
Ruan's diligence & beauty outshone her lack of education and she was cast in 1927's A Couple in Name Only (aka The Nominal Couple), directed by Bu Wancang (aka Wancang Bu &/or Richard Poh).
Prior to 1920, only a few short movies had been made in Shanghai and Hong Kong, and, much like Shakespearean works, all the performers were male, including the female roles.
Public opinion lumped actresses in with prostitutes, actually calling them prostitutes; in their defense, prostitution was one of only two options for women who wanted to work, and as proper modest Chinese women would never boast or promote themselves in public, the willingness to project themselves onto screens for everyone to see put them in the same category as the other indecent women.
She made a few films at MingXing, but it wasn't until she left MingXing and joined Da Zhonghua Baihe Film Company (which quickly merged with other companies to become Lianhua Film Company) that she found real success and Shanghai stardom. That film was A Dream in the Old Capital (aka Reminiscence Of Peking, 1929).
It is said that around this time Ruan adopted her daughter, XiaoYu; yet she and Damin have already parted from each other three times -- and between 1927 and 1928 Ruan is said to have tried to commit suicide. By the end of 1928, their relationship crisis seems to be over, but Damin continues to gamble and live off Ruan's earnings.
Ruan continues to make films for Lianhua and her popularity grows. According to TCM, in Bright Lights Film Journal Gary Morris says that at Lianhua, Ruan "would find her greatest successes in a series of intense female-centered melodramas, many of them engaged with such pressing social issues as poverty, class conflict, prostitution, illegitimacy, women's rights, suicide, and occasionally a political film that grew out of anxieties around Japan's invasion of Shanghai."
In 1932, during the invasion of Japanese towards Shanghai, Ruan & Damin fled to Hong Kong. As soon as the situation became stable Ruan returned to Shanghai and involved in her first leftist inspired film, Three Modern Women, which brought her to another peak of her career, pushing her into second place on the 1933 list of the Top Ten stars in a Movie Queen contest run by local newspaper & magazines.
It was in 1932, while Damin was still in Hong Kong, that Ruan met wealthy merchant Tang Jishan, the "King of the Tea", at a party; by March of 1933 Ruan had moved into Tang's home.
On April 9th, Zhang returned from Hong Kong, prepared to make a fuss with the press regarding his romance with Ruan. A few days later he signed an agreement saying that Ruan would provide him with 100 yuan per month for the next two years -- and in return he would not bother her again. Sort of a common law divorce.
On August 8th of 1933, Tang and Ruan announce their engagement.
Things continue to go well for Ruan. In 1934 she stars in Cai Chusheng's A New Woman, considered by many to be her best film.
However the press takes issue with the film's heroine, who, having been forsaken by her husband & failing to make a living from writing, was forced to become a prostitute to raise her child -- and then to commit suicide. It wasn't so much the ethics or morals of the plot which angered the press, but the film's accusation that the suicide of the woman had been a result of the press' libelous reports. The film was edited to tone down the accusation, but as the film was inspired by the life & death of actress and writer Ai Xia, who took her own life in 1934, the accusation lingered like the taste of bile in a throat... But the film was very well received by audiences and Ruan's fame soared.
Damin, likely either deeply in gambling debt, or just wanting a larger piece of Ruan's popularity (and yuan) pie, returned to extort more money from the actress. This upset Tang who, despite insider suggestion that it made Ruan unhappy, brought Damin into court on December 27, 1934, resulting in a media frenzy.
Despite public adoration of Ruan and the more or less scandalous living arrangements between herself and Damin, the couple is seen to have a common law marriage and Tang -- along with Ruan -- are accused of fanghai hunyin jiating zui, the equivalent of an attack on family values & marriage in general.
Perhaps this was due to some acceptance of Damin & Ruan's common law marriage; but Damin's old & traditional family name with its history of imperial officers also outranked Tang's "new money" and simple "merchant" status. Of course, Tang's history of divorces and affairs probably didn't win him any points either... Not that Damin hadn't been a louse too.
But in this sordid scandal, it is Ruan who looses pubic favor and is put under great scrutiny and stress. She is summoned to appear in court on March 9th, but sometime during the night of March 7th she wrote several letters & then committed suicide.
She was found dead on March 8, 1935.
It was International Women's Day.
More than 100,000 mourners were drawn to the WanGuo funeral parlour, her funeral procession, on March 14, 1935, reached over three miles long -- and three women committed suicide during it. It was estimated that more than three hundred thousand people crowded the streets of Shanghai for her last journey. The front page of the New York Times pronounced it "the most spectacular funeral of the century."
Every magazine in Shanghai ran memorial issues in her honor. Even after her death, Tang was openly insulted and cursed by the press and Star Movie Studios openly declared they'd have no part in any mourning ceremony held by Tang Jishan, saying he was "a criminal who did harm to the whole movie world, being the direct cause of Ruan's suicide."
This even after some Ruan's last letters were published, described as "tender" towards Tang, in which Ruan asks Tang to take care of her mother and daughter. It matters not. In the movie world Tang is not recognized as Ruan's beloved, official husband; he is the man who murdered her with immorality.
Clearly neither of her lovers were very kind to her in many ways, and the press' field day with her choices and status as a woman, therefore less powerful and respected, was more than she could bear.
In one of the letters written before her suicide, she writes in grief-stricken self-defense of her actions, saying that while she's aware that she's taking a risk that some may take her suicide as an evidence of some guilt, she'd rather die than to continue to face the public slander.
In her suicide note, she wrote, "Gossip is a fearful thing."
Lu Xun (Lu Hsün; Zhou Shuren), a prominent writer at the time, took that phrase and made it the title of an article denouncing the media's exploitation of Ruan. Of the media and Xun's article, however, Stefania Stafutti has some pointed things to say. In The Perception of Privacy: The Case of Ruan Lingyu (published in the International Journal of Afro-Asiatic Studies) she writes (link added by SPS):
Only the (male oriented) society control over human beings is questioned together with the dramatic fear of loosing one’s own face, but nothing is said on the individual right of carrying on one’s private life with no external interferences. Even if once more referring in general terms to “the feudal society of old China” the Min bao is the only journal which stigmatizes the backwardness of the film-goers, who simply like twisting the knife in the wound: the perception of privacy is strictly connected with people’s perception on what is to be "hidden" and what is to be "protected". With his article published under the pen name Mu Hui on Tai bai, which title “Gossip is a fearful thing” is picked up from one of Ruan’s letters, left behind after her suicide, Lu Xun goes to the core of the problem. As Eileeen J. Cheng points out in a recent article Lu Xun is fascinated by dead women, especially those who are somehow victimized by the society At the same time their choice of dieing is seen as having a cathartic and rather ambiguous function. The blame put on the wild circulation of details on Ruan’s personal life expresses Lu Xun strong objection against the circulation of exploitative images of women but, at the same time, strips the women of their gender issues, to sit them on a throne of purity which radically prevents them from enjoying or inducing any idea of pleasure As a matter of fact, Lu Xun stigmatizes much more the voyeuristic attitude of the readers and of the film goers than the total lack of scruple of the sensationalistic press. Being Lu Xun perfectly conscious of the enormous power of the press, who would rather expect him being more indulgent with the common readers. He goes much farer than Min bao, almost attributing to the readers a sort of cannibalization of their victims (a topic dear to Lu Xun!): “[Ruan Lingyu and Ai Xia] deaths are like but adding a few grains of salt to the boundless ocean; even though it fills bland mouths with some flavour, after a while everything is still bland, bland, bland”. Lu Xun’s utter repugnance for the mass miserable appetites cannot simply be regarded as an “ascetic” gaze towards the female world.
It is true, however, that the press kept a full-press on Ruan & her death.
Stafutti writes of it as a "voyeuristic attitude, even transgressing into the kitsch," as the media described in great detail her corpse, how it was dressed, how her hair was styled, and "about the hopeless Zhang Damin, who wiping two blood drops from Ruans’s mouth seems to have stated that they have to be considered her last gift to him." The media even missed the irony of reporting on Ruan's mother crying to the press that they were to blame for her daughter's death, saying, “It’s all because of you. You killed her. You will reckon with me.”
It would be easy to follow suit here and, 73 years later, discuss Ruan in terms of public out-cry and media portrayals, comparing them to similar gossip witch hunts of today... But I'd like to let Ruan's life and choices speak for her.
Her acting is brilliant -- and plentiful. In less than 10 years she made nearly three times that many films... 29 films in 9 years. Amazing films too, from the ones I've seen.
In them she explored female advancement & exploitation; a rigid patriarchial & feudal system built on class, which maltreated (if not out-right abused) women and men alike, yet was perpetuated by both genders; and a warm naiveté which, even should innocence be lost -- and find itself punished for its supposed immorality, could outlast & outshine the old & cold hierarchical social structure.
For her suffering heroines, Ruan was compared to Garbo; but I think Ruan Lingyu and her luminous acting stands on its own.
Forty-five autographed love letters from Katina Paxinou to Sir Sydney Waterlow, dated April, 1938, to June, 1939, together with some 30 love letters by Waterlow to Paxinou are to be auctioned off in London on July 17th.
Sir Sydney Waterlow (1878-1944) was British Minister in Athens from 1933 to 1939. According to one of the present letters, he met the actress Katina Paxinou on 12 April 1938, a date which they both viewed as a moment of "rebirth", when they became "fully alive" for the first time. It was evidently a coup de foudre for them both, and the present letters testify not only to the physical passion but the depth of feeling on both sides.
Katina Paxinou (1900-1973) was a member of the Greek National Theatre company, where she was directed by her husband Alexis Minotis. Besides the role of Electra, she was well-known for playing Mrs Alving in Ghosts, and Hedda Gabler.
At the beginning she protests that she is asking for nothing more than to be loved, and that she is content to remain on the sidelines
"...tu dois me connaître déjà assez pour être persuadé que je ne demande rien que ton amour! Tu n'es pas libre j'en conviens! Mais je n'abuserai jamais de ta faiblesse comme tu la nommes et je ne veux qu'être aimée de toi. Je ne veux pas troubler ta vie. Tu le sais..."
Later, however, plans start to be made for when they are "free" and can be together permanently. In one letter she describes a painful scene with her husband, whom she is unable to comfort, assuring Waterlow that this is nothing to do with him and that things would have been the same in any case ("...je ne peux plus le consoler et j'en souffre car il mérite un meilleur sort..."). Elsewhere she relates somewhat pathetically how she has waited for half an hour outside the English church in Athens in the hope of catching a glimpse of him, or walked past his house gazing up at the windows even when she knows he is not there, expresses her maternal affection towards his daughter, asks him somewhat apologetically to get her a big pot of Elizabeth Arden face cream which she uses to counteract the effects of her stage make-up, recounts a number of her dreams (often of an erotic nature) of being alone with him in a little love nest, and recalls the afternoons they were able to spend together
"...oh nos chers après midi où tu m'attendais étendu dans ton lit, et où je venais comme une voleuse par le balcon vite vite toute tremblante me fourrer à tes côtes, me blottir contre ton coeur..."
After a period of nervous collapse from exhaustion she promises to look after her health for his sake, and describes somewhat sheepishly a visit to a fortune teller who described their situation with uncanny accuracy.
(Apparently, The Episcopalian Church counts on Americans not to recall that Henry VIII killed two wives -- even after he broke with Catholicism so that he could get a divorce annulment of the marriage to his first wife. To secure such right to annul, he executed along the way. Forgiveness? My definition must be different... Unless Episcopalians are expecting forgiveness for calculated murders and other crimes; which could be a mighty fine religious selling point for some.)
But going back to history, I have always sustained that through advertising you can tell a lot about a country's psychology.
In that sense, the same goes for the history of advertising. When seeing ads from the past, is easy to realize how our habits, manners and values have changed. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worst.
But as with our own pictures, where most of the time we couldn't believe we were wearing that or using that hair style, old advertising becomes the photo album of us as a society.
The Pre-Raphaelite artists, such as Dante Gabriel Rossetti, were a big influence on Klimt’s brother Ernst. When Ernst died Klimt finished his brother’s Pre-Raphaelite-inspired work. During his long depression he became very interested in these artists, and then painted what is for me the most important picture he did at this time – Portrait of Sonja Knips from 1898. Moll saw this Pre-Raphaelite influence and how Klimt could work with it to create a very particular Viennese art.
Herbert Lachmayer:
Yes, it is important to know that Viennese artists were able to avoid copying the melancholy of the Pre-Raphaelites because of their sense of irony and ambiguity. Depression was the most feared danger for a creative artist – ironical melancholy was the Viennese solution. In Klimt’s case, he transformed the rather boring aspects of the Pre-Raphaelites and injected “pornosophic fantasies” into his work. By pornosophic, I mean the way in which he presented his idea of erotic obsession as a life-long fetishistic love for the porno-details of the female body. Like Egon Schiele, he has been stigmatised as a pornographic artist, but in my understanding his erotic obsession was a pornosophia, just as philosophy is defined as a “love for wisdom”. Using the term “pornographic” regarding Klimt’s oeuvre reveals the petit bourgeois mentality of the person using it. He was a master of voyeuristic erotic stimulation and therefore produced his pornosophic fantasies in the head of the client – maybe encouraging him in an elegant way to have better sex at least. Even the way Klimt dressed was part of a “staging” of stimulation. In his studio he wore a long working dress – resembling a Moroccan jellaba – but he was completely naked underneath. He was a highly auto-erotic exhibitionist, using the ritual of professional distance from the model as a tool of auto-stimulating his erotic fantasies.
ALFRED WEIDINGER We must not forget that Klimt had been used to working with nude models for a long time. Not only at art school, where they did nude studies every day, but also with his colleagues at the Künstlercompagnie. So he had fifteen or twenty years’ practice, and was fully sensitised to the female body and spirit. For me, it was very interesting to realise, in doing my research, that whereas most of the female figures featured in the Künstlercompagnie ceilings are clothed, in the studies they are all nude. You will not find many drawings where the models are dressed. He had to know what happened with the body, and then he dressed it.
HERBERT LACHMAYER So Klimt’s artistic production was almost like a drug – painting the nude increased the voyeuristic appeal.
ALFRED WEIDINGER In this respect the Beethoven Frieze became his masterwork, because it was the fulfillment of everything that he wanted to do at this time in 1902. The 14th Vienna Secessionist exhibition was designed to celebrate the life and philosophy of Beethoven with the theme based on Richard Wagner’s interpretation of the 9th Symphony, and each Secession artist contributed to it. Klimt’s idea was to do a 30ft fresco. You have to wonder why was he doing a fresco – and with such huge dimensions? It was unheard of to be creating such a piece in Europe, for a show that was going to be on for only two months.
HERBERT LACHMAYER It was like a Hollywood production…
ALFRED WEIDINGER Or like a show in Las Vegas. It really was a grand act. In the frieze Klimt knew he could more or less fulfil his wishes. He had the power to do something on this scale, and Moll gave him that power. The Beethoven Frieze didn’t cause a scandal, though. Of course there were always art critics who wrote bad reviews of Klimt, but there were some who wrote good ones. He and the Secession artists knew they needed a reason to put images of nude women on the wall, and in Beethoven they found it.
ALFRED WEIDINGER Another difference is that Klimt uses all kinds of women in his frieze – young girls, old girls, awful women, beautiful women, fat women, thin women. The whole world of women is in the Beethoven Frieze. There are also a lot of penises in the painting, which, because of the distance from the floor level, many people miss. I was there a few weeks ago because we had to do some restoration work and when you are level with it, there they are – lots of penises. He painted them as ornament, but this was also a very brave and risky thing to do. He was gambling with the visitors – he was having fun with them. It is important to know that side of him.
HERBERT LACHMAYER In this respect he was a professional voyeur and knew, of course, what unconscious effects his images would evoke in the minds of his male audience. Klimt had his own erotic theatre in his studio at home.
The whole article is worth reading in it's entirety; so do so.
Those Of Us Old Enough To Remember Ronnie's Presidency
Always knew that he loved the sort of strong women who wore the pants in the family.
(This joke only works if you know that Jane Wyman, seated between Edward G. Robinson & Groucho Marx, was Ronald Reagan's first wife.)
Photo of the three stars in drag at a Hollywood party in 1947; yes, Ronnie and Jane were still married then. Wonder if we can find a photo of him in drag?
From The Mail and Empire, Toronto, dated March 23, 1935, comes this clipping of the story for a renewed search for Maud Gillespie -- 40+ years after she was "kidnapped by Indians".
Leaving definitions & connotations of the word "squaw" to those far more suited to such endeavors (and I highly recommend you read it; regardless of your initial interest), I'm fascinated by such a story...
So many details are missing... Like the age of Maud when she was "kidnapped" or otherwise disappeared... Why her family members aren't listed by names, rather than crediting John Findlay... And, of course, did they find her?
"A few weeks after my return from St. Paul and Aeneas, there was another disappearance. It occurred hundreds of miles from the old home of Aeneas. About five miles from Thessalon, on the shore of Georgian Bay in the district of Manitoulin, lived a family of farmers named Gillespie. There was a pretty thirteen-year-old daughter, Maud Gillespie. Early in August 1888 she went out to pick berries and did not return. She was seen last near a trout stream, and a bully good trout stream it is, as I happen to know. Searching parties went out and hunted for days, but could find no trace of the child. On August 11th I went up to Thessalon and began another search. I organised parties and apportioned the territory, and sent some on foot and others in boats, and for days and nights we scoured the islands and the shores of Georgian Bay. We visited scores of Indian camps, and pushed on into the wilds, but could not find her. I knew she had no life insurance, and was not a county treasurer, and that her disappearance therefore was not suspicious, so far as she was concerned. Her parents were well-nigh distracted, and I determined to make a final effort to find her. With a small party I went far up to remote Indian camps, and in one of them I found an old squaw, who nodded and grunted to me, and I went outside with her.
"'White girl?' she asked.
"I nodded. The old squaw held out her hand.
"'Give,' she grunted. 'Give.'
"I drew out some money. She sniffed. I felt in my pockets. I had a couple of trout flies in some tinfoil; I took them out. The old squaw seized the glittering tinfoil eagerly, taking my last trout flies with it. She tucked it in her jet black hair, coarse as a horse's tail.
"'Me — see — white girl,' she muttered slowly. 'She go — so — so — so ——,' and she waved far north with her long arm.
"'Alone?' I asked. 'She go alone? Indian take white girl?'
"But the old squaw only grunted and played with the tinfoil and trout flies in her hair. We searched farther north, and twice we heard from Indians of a white girl who had passed that way. When further trailing was hopeless we turned back and made our way to Thessalon. It was a long, hard tramp. On the fourth day I came to the trout stream, where the little girl last was seen. I was tired, and I stretched full length on the ground and idly gazed at the blue sky through the trees, and then rolled over and stared at the water. It was a lovely stream. It glided beneath the over- growth into a broad, deep pool, on whose placid surface the reflection of the waving trees rose and fell amid patches of mirrored blue. Farther down the stream narrowed and rippled over rocks, splashing and gurgling as it went. But there must be no drifting aside into a fish story. I lolled by the stream until my men came up, and we moved on. No further trace of little Maud Gillespie was found, and I returned to Toronto. Fifteen years passed. In May 1903 a surveying party was exploring in New Ontario north of Lake Superior, over four hundred miles from the Gillespie home. They came upon a white woman living with the Indians in the wilderness. She was the wife of a big chief. She possessed a rare beauty of the wilds, yet was not wholly like her associates. She lived as an Indian, and exposure had tanned her a deep, dark brown. At first she was unable to talk with the white men, then gradually her power of speech in English returned until she could talk brokenly and remember a few English words. She finally recalled her name, Maud Gillespie, and her mother. They asked her if she wished to go back to her mother. She said she did, and they communicated with her people and she went back to them, a woman almost thirty years old. She had gone away a little girl of thirteen, fond of her mother, and constantly talking or singing in her childish way. She returned a silent, reserved woman, with the habits and manner and speech of an Indian. She had lost her language, she had become an Indian. Gradually her people are winning her back. It is like taming a wild creature, but eventually the inborn instincts will assert themselves, and much of the Indian life will fall away. They have been teaching her to speak her own language again, and she readily learned anew the songs she sang as a little child.
"This loss of language is a singular thing. I met an Englishman in South America who had lost his language, and he was distressed almost to distraction because of it. I have seen other cases, too, passing strange."
While there is a huge difference between the "more than forty years" the newspaper clipping claims and the fifteen years stated in Murry's memoir (memoirs themselves are imperfect recollections, and there is even some confusion regarding the memoir itself *), and this clipping was apparently published some 30 years after Murray's memoir (did she return to her Native American life and they went looking for her again?), there at least seems to be some proof to the story of Maud Gillespie... Or it's a continuing spoof story.
In my research I also discovered that there is another Findlay connection: Ralph Findlay, who did have a brother named John, was murdered and Murray was on the case.
Murray’s effectiveness is demonstrated by the first case in which he was involved after taking up his full-time appointment, an inquiry into the murder of Ralph Findlay, a Lambton County farmer. While local constables scurried about seeking clues to the perpetrator, suspecting that it was a stranger surprised while stealing horses, the county attorney, Julius Poussett Bucke, demanded the assistance of the government detective. It was Murray, it appears, who wrung a confession from the dead man’s wife that she had assisted her lover in the deed.
You can read Murry's recollection of the events in chapter XV of his memoir, in which he dates the murder to September of 1875, and describes a rather noble John Findlay.
* According to the University of Toronto, the first published edition of Memoirs of a Great Detective: Incidents in the Life of John Wilson Murray was published in London in 1904, without a mention of Victor Speer; however Speer is identified (as compiler and editor respectively) in the Toronto and New York editions of the book the following year.
I'm not sure if I have this book or not... (My shelves, they sag & buck like a wild horse; and if it weren't for the boxes full of books in front of them, they'd likely tip over. Yes, organization is on the "to do" list.)
But even if I have a copy (or three) of 1961's Sexual Behavior Of The American Housewife, by W.D. Sprague Ph.D., it likely wouldn't include these marks. (Click image to read them.)
Marks and notations are something I'd never leave in a book; as a tribute to the countless kind and helpful librarians in my youth (and today too), I've never even dog-eared a page. But when I find them, I am fascinated. As is Ann Douglas, poster of these images at Flickr, who says:
My favorite part of this entire book -- the housewife title I just posted -- is this page spread. I think it's hilarious how someone (the not-so-happy wife) marked these passages with huge lines and giant X-es. I wonder if she "accidentally" left the book on bed for hubby to find one night when she was late getting home to make dinner, with the book open to the page with the mysterious markings. It makes you wonder.
The Miracle Mile. These are places that no longer exist, but look/sound like they were a blast back in the 70s/80s:
- The Slot, 575 Folsom - The Stables, 1123 Folsom - Red Star Saloon, 1145 Folsom (15 cent drafts and 15 cent hot dogs! OMG. I would have been there all the time!!) - The Hungry Hole Saloon, 1190 Folsom - Fobos, 11th and Folsom - The Cave, 280 7th - SF Plunge, 11th and Folsom - Folsom Prison - Trench - The Bolt
Geriatric Gays, please confirm/deny. School my generation about times of the past. Thank you for your fealty.
Can you guess the make and the model? The model on the make? *wink* How about a year for this photo which was obviously not taken at a commercial auto show...
The New York Times reported in 1935 that the national speed skating champion had married George Nichols, a boxer from Sandusky, but they had never actually lived together.
In London on July 17th, Sothbey's will auction off a collection of case notes on autopsies, records kept by Sir Bernard Spilsbury in a wooden filing cabinet with four drawers, each labeled 1905-17, 1918-1927, 1928-30, and 1931-32. Who was Sir Spilsbury?
the professional records of the father of professional forensic pathology. Bernard Spilsbury (1877-1947) was the foremost pathologist of his day, with a formidible reputation as an expert witness: "his opinions were so impregnable he could achieve single-handed all the legal consequences of a homicide - arrest, prosecution, conviction, and final post-mortem - requiring only the brief assistance of the hangman" (quoted in Rose, p.xix). The post of Honorary Pathologist to the Home Office was created for Spilsbury, who made his name with some of the most famous English murders of the twentieth century, such as the Crippen case, the "Brides in the Bath" murders, the Voisin case, and the Brighton trunk murders, and who conducted over 20,000 autopsies during a career that lasted over forty years. Spilsbury was a media celebrity - Britain's "living successor to mythical Sherlock Holmes" (Time, 2 July 1934) - and was the original figure of the infallible forensic pathologist that is so familiar in contemporary crime fiction. According to his obituary in The Lancet, Spilsbury "stood alone and unchallenged as our greatest medico-legal expert". Recent research has shown, however, that the awe in which Spilsbury was held, combined with his own inflexible opinions, led to a number of miscarriages of justice, including several wrongful executions.
While Sotheby's won't let us look at what is inside, they will tell us some of the tantalizing details from the nearly 4,000 3x5 index cards:
There are many stories recorded in these terse notes, from horrific examples of neglect and abuse to bizarre cases such as the unfortunate Helen Elphinston-Dalrymple, who died of the effects of a dry shampoo applied at the Harrods salon in 1909. On 12 February 1918 Spilsbury performed an autopsy on 16 year-old Nellie Trew, and also examined her clothing for blood and semen: she had been raped then strangled on Eltham Common. The subsequent trial has recently been described by Rose as "one of the most blatant" miscarriages of British justice of the 20th century. Spilsbury's notes for 16 June 1919 record the autopsy of a 72 year-old widower who had been admitted to hospital two days previously: "He stated that on June 13 he had glass of beer ... Then stopped by 2 men who offered him whiskey. Drank 2 tablespoonfull which burnt his mouth". He had been given hydrochloric acid, which burnt through his stomach wall. In October 1923 Spilsbury examined the remains of a soldier, James Frederick Ellis ("H[anker]Chief & piece of cloth tied over mouth ... limbs had been tied ...when found body was reduced to skeleton except portion of lower limbs which were clothed in tight fitting garments..."), who suffocated as a result of masochistic sexual practices with another member of his regiment ("...he & Ellis proposed playing Cowboys & Indians & he trussed up Ellis who then told him that he was all right...").
Time was that silhouette was a naughty word -- which only goes to prove that we live in a changing world. France, in 1759, had a comptroller general whose name was "Monsieur Silhouette." He introduced a number of taxes so odious that the mere mention of his name in polite society could mean pistols at dawn. Just how this epithet gradually shed its shady meaning and came to connote the outline of an object is lost in the pages of history. We chose the name SILHOUETTE for our magazine as a compliment to you... your clothes, your personality, and the home that is a gracious setting for the special beauty that is yours alone.
The art of silhouette cutting originated in Europe in the early 1700's. Prior to the French revolution, silhouettists were hired as an amusement for the royal class. The featured artist would attend the many extravagant balls and cut out the distinguished profiles of the Lords and Ladies capturing the latest fashions and elaborate wigs.
While the aristocrats were having their silhouettes cut out and eating like kings much of Europe was starving, especially in France. In the 1760's the Finance Minister of France, Etienne de Silhouette, had crippled the French people with his merciless tax polices. Oblivious to his people's plight, Etienne was much more interested in his hobby of cutting out paper profiles, the latest fad. Etienne de Silhouette was so despised by the people of France that in protest the peasant s wore only black mimicking his black paper cutouts. The saying went all over France,"We are dressing a la Silhouette. We are shadows, too poor to wear color. We are Silhouettes!" To this very day the black profile cutouts are called silhouettes. Thankfully, the negative connotation no longer remains.
However, artists like Kara Walker are resurrecting the art, using it to explore negative issues such as racism and feminism.
“I was looking at racist paraphernalia, iconography, and then at these accurate versions of middle-class Americans. I began to associate the silhouette itself, the cutting, with a form of blackface minstrelsy. Here we have these mainly white sitters or a few slaves who were documented in silhouette—but for the most part white sitters whom I identify as middle class because upper class would require a full-fledged oil portrait and that’s what I had already ruled out for myself…’No oil painting here, not going to ape the master that way.’”
“I always think about this work, this history, in terms of the body. And in terms of this act of excavating that’s been such a current and recurring theme, particularly in the histories of feminist artists, feminist writers, African-American people of color, investigating and eviscerating this body of collective experience…sometimes to the point of leaving nothing intact. I entered into this project, this idea of being a black woman artist, from the perspective of a person who has been presented with a pre-dissected body to work from. A pre-dissected body of information.”
Kara Walker's Gone, An Historical Romance of a Civil War as It Occurred Between the Dusky Thighs of One Young Negress and Her Heart (1994) from The New York Times.
Other image credits: Kara Walker silhouette via The Whitney.
I asked for your help with this before, but apparently you don't like to read long posts. :sigh: (What is the world coming to when folks only want to see the dirty pictures?)
Anyway, you have to respond and tell me if I'm imagining things or not... What do you see here?
In the classic eighteenth-century sense, Casanova is a poor example of a libertine in that he had so little interest in conquest or coercion. He was no Valmont or de Sade. He is outclassed ten to one by his fictional alter ego Don Giovanni with his catalogue of 1800 conquests. Casanova's is not a compulsion or sex addiction. Indeed, he might not register at all as having a "Casanova" complex in the sense in which the term is used today. Rather, he enjoyed the game of love and seduction, a sport or art of unsurpassed fashionability in the generation that preceded the French Revolution. He narrates affairs, rather than one-night stands. Romantically, he was indefatigable.
Otto Peltzer Really Ran Cross Country; But Then With The Nazis, So Would You
Otto Peltzer was a German track hero in the Twenties, was vilified and jailed for his sexuality in the Thirties, survived a death camp in the Forties, then found a remarkable new life in the Sixties. Tim Pears tells the unknown story of the world-record holder who stayed true to the amateur ideal in Otto the strange: The champion who defied the Nazis.
Nudes & Sphere, with an estimate of 7,000—10,000 EUR:
signed 'MR' and dated '40' (lower left), ink and wash on paper.
35,2 x 25,4 cm; 13 7/8 x 10 in.
Executed in 1940, probably prior to the artist's departure from Paris to settle in Hollywood as a refugee in his homeland, this drawing and a related oil of the same year entitled Disillusion, are reference to the turmoil and conflict of a war in Europe as events unfolded and Man Ray realised he had to flee. The composition portrays confusion and uncertainty with three nudes clutching a sphere representing the planet in its state of unrest.
Also up for auction is Man Ray's Seated Nude, with an estimate of 8,000—12,000 EUR:
signed 'Man Ray' and dated '1941' (lower right), gouache and brush and ink on paper. Executed in 1941.
35,5 x 25 cm; 13 7/8 x 9 7/8 in.
This is a gouache study of Juliet Browner, who was to become Man Ray's companion and later his wife in 1946. She was a professional dancer who had trained under Martha Graham in the 1930's in New York.
...an ''imaginary portrait'' of the Marquis de Sade in bronze (1971).
To the Surrealists, de Sade (1740-1814), the recorder of kinky sex and the writer of antireligious tracts, was a revered iconoclast. No likeness of him existed, and Man Ray felt free to create several. The bronze bust is a striking image that resembles at once Andre Breton, the founder of Surrealism, and Benjamin Franklin.
Its fat face and shoulders are scored with an irregular grid that simulates the stone facades of the institutions, especially the Bastille, where de Sade spent years imprisoned for scandalous behavior. It's not inappropriate that the artist devoted this much attention to de Sade, because, as the writer Arturo Schwarz notes in his book on Man Ray, a streak of sadism runs through his work.
Some drawings on view were prompted by Man Ray's dreams. They, in turn, inspired poems by the French Surrealist Paul Eluard. The poems and drawings were paired in the book ''Les Mains Libres'' (1937). A hand creeping around the side of a mountain, a naked couple sheltered by a giant rose, a bridge with a nude sprawled across its top: these are better examples of Surrealist fancy than of the draftsman's art. Today they have a hothouse charm that heightens their appeal.
The lot of bronzes has an estimate of 50,000—70,000 EUR; so I can show them to you knowing that I'll not be bidding against you -- nor any one else. Sadly, I'll be doing no bidding at this auction at all.
I grabbed this at a flea market this past weekend for a dollar. Too much, I know, for such a scuffed button; but I had to have it because I have a few items which play upon and exploit the fear of psychiatry, but none so succinctly. (And I did talk him down from $2.)
40-year-old Joseph Fletcher said to 20-year-old Jacob Crawford "All right, you young bugger, we'll have a fuck too'. Crawford said 'Alright, put it up my bloody arse, Joe."
A year later, in 1889, Robert Gant, a photographer resident in the Wairarapa, was taking photographs of himself and his friends dressed in drag enacting women's tea-parties, the Chinese porcelain tea pot forever poised, unpouring, above the cup.
