by Cecil Beaton
It was this composer’s success that was largely responsible for paving the way to Broadway’s appreciation of the brilliant Kurt Weill as well as a host of song writers of lesser talents. Just as, in the realms of more serious music, Stravinsky had broken new ground with his violent dissonances and made it possible for others to follow in his steps, so, too, the brilliance of Porter’s lyrics set a standard that raised the level of all popular song writers. His songs are of such a quality that, if it is true about style being something enduring, the chances are good that Cole Porter’s melodies will still be whistled by butcher boys long after the memory of contemporary kings, presidents, statesmen, or soldiers has gone into oblivion.
In appearance this composer looks rather like a rubber imp. His thinning black hair is sleek and shining; his face is a curious theatrical rubber mask that would seem to lend itself to any sort of expression. In matters of dress he is like a tailor’s window dummy, wearing natty grey flannel suits and outsized carnations in his buttonhole. When he sits, it is with his legs wide apart, trousers hitched up to avoid wrinkling. A gold-headed cane is usually held firmly in one hand, while behind the bony wrist there is always a goodly expanse of shirt cuff visible.
Cole Porter is that unique phenomenon, a one-hundred-percent fashionable person. His sense of smartness seeks out the best that the contemporary world can offer him whether it be poplin shirts or peanut butter. In jargon and argot he is always up to the minute; he reads every gossip column with the assiduity of an Egyptologist translating the Rosetta stone. Even his efficiency is fashionable: cigarette lighters work at the first click, cigarette boxes are always full, headwaiters are charmed by his glib and practised way of talking to them out of the corner of his mouth. He is a perfectionist at ordering everything from brook trout to Vichy water, from candied carrots to claret or burgundy.
Going hand in hand with Cole Porter’s ne plus ultra chic is a rare virtue: he is loyal to his friends, whether they are themselves fashionable or no. Yet he is determined to make them fashionable, just as everything he does himself is comme il faut. In short, he is the quintessence of café society; and from this remarkable personal reservoir he doubtless draws inspiration for his songs.
Musically there can be no doubt that his talent is utterly and absolutely first-rate. More than any other popular composer, he has stamped the whole tone of several decades with his songs. Scarcely a cocktail bar or night club, hardly a dance hall or a juke box, but what his songs are nightly to be heard and hummed throughout the forty-eight states of American, and in England, France, and Italy was well. “What Is This Thing Called Love?”, “Night and Day,” “You Do Something to Me,” “In the Still of the Night,” “You’d Be so Nice to Come Home To”—the list of melodies is endless. He runs the gamut from the sentimental to the cynical and smart with equal ease. Typical of his cleverness are the lyrics to songs such as “It’s Delovely” or “My Heart Belongs to Daddy,” the tune that made Mary Martin a star when she sang wrapped in a mink coat.
Yet for all his cleverness, Cole Porter seems at times oddly ill at ease. He relaxes only with very simple people. There is even something tragic about him, as though behind his rubber mask another face, another personality were waiting to be freed. The task of receiving the fleeting impressions of the age and translating them into music has perhaps prevented him from ever getting to know himself, to discover himself beneath the web of fashion that he has of necessity woven around him. Cole Porter is the paradox of all creators who work in temporal media: he combines the despair and the triumph of the Juggler of Notre Dame himself.
Like all hard-working people, he is a serious professional who still takes piano lessons and studies musical composition. Fame is not the result of ease and facility; he has worked hard throughout the years to maintain a position as one of the few top composers in the contemporary manner. Jazz artists and jitterbugs acclaim his work, together with Park Avenue hostesses, intellectuals, or anybody.
For no one is exempt from the fashionable expressions of his age. No one, indeed, but a fool could fail to be aware, for better or worse, of the picture of life offered through the various popular media. Oddly, the works of popular culture are often even more moving than those serious artistic efforts which will outlast them. That which is eternal, a Michelangelo statue or a Mozart opera, goes far beyond the nostalgia of the moment. Only in Cole Porter songs, in shoes or feathers or films, do we find the whole expression of a moment in time that was a particular moment of our lives and is now gone forever.
In the thirties films, in fact, had kept technical pace with the other dramatic media. New stars were given the opportunity, with the advent of talking pictures, to express themselves more intimately than they could on the stage. Indeed, perhaps the most important contribution to the histrionics of the period was provided by film stars of great personality. And in particular Greta Garbo reached the height of her influence.
In the late thirties Vanity Fair, under the editorship of Frank Crowninshield, published a series of pictures entitled “And Then Came Garbo.” These were comparative studies of perhaps a dozen film and stage actresses of the day, showing their appearance of a year or two previously, and juxtaposing recent photographs of the same stars that clearly showed how they were attempting to base their whole appearance on Garbo. The influence was scarcely limited to other actresses: mannequins in dress shops were made to look like their Swedish prototype, and women with pretences to fashionable beauty modelled themselves along similar lines. Garbo’s face was symbolized by the enigmatic clown paleness, the huge black eyelashes, and the straight blond hair cut like a medieval page’s. These features gave women the discovery of a new pattern of beauty, one that was to be fully exploited for the next twenty years.
Perhaps no other person has had such an influence on the appearance of a whole generation, though in fact the owner of this face possesses other qualities that cannot be improvised or imitated. The whole secret of her appeal seems to lie in an elusive and haunting sensitivity. Refined rippled of feeling appear at the surface, coming from some deep and unknown source. Her extraordinary plastic ability suggest comparison with an undreamed-of seismographic instrument able to register the most delicate range of vibrations. The nose has the pristine sensitivity of some timid creature of the forest; her mouth combines, in a wistful, childlike ambivalence, the Greek masks of tragedy and comedy. Garbo is either very sad or fecklessly gay; and when she laughs, she proves that things metallic have a soul. Her eyes seem to offer a special compassion to each of us. Inexhaustible spiritual assets highlight the sensitivity and delicacy of these features, continually hinting at every nuance of all that she is feeling, and giving the spectator the tenuous and remarkable impression that he is witnessing the remotest depths in a human face. The rare physiognomy and personality have rightly created a legend that goes far beyond those cinematic impressions saved for posterity.
Imitations are always a far cry from the original, and especially in the case of Garbo, the poster of her face that went out to the world is in no way representative of what she was or is. Simulated soulfulness at best created a tiresome, would-be sophistication, and the carbon copies often looked more decadent than sensitive.
After having created the original expression, which to this day is still reflected in women’s appearance, it has been extremely difficult for Garbo herself to sustain what was copied to the point of ridiculousness. She has been forced, out of innate taste and tact, as well as through her own introversion, to simplify her appearance, both in terms of physical characteristics as well as clothes.
Though Garbo has been credited with having little clothes sense and obviously pays no attention whatsoever to the rules of current fashion, she has an innate flair for what is fitting for her and is possessed of a great natural taste, being capable of appraising good clothes as well as of appreciating them. If she is unwilling to devote her time to becoming a well-dressed woman, she has succeeded, nevertheless, by the very simplici
ty of the clothes she wears, in creating a fashion for herself and, though nonconformist, has been an important factor in contributing to the tone of a whole period, innovating low-heeled shoes, hats that hide the face, stevedore jerkins, and cowboy belts.
Her sartorial tastes combine those of the highwayman and Robin Hood with ancient Greece. She wears large pirate hats and romantic cavalier blouses and belts, which are always unadorned and often in off colours: dull greys and browns.
At the time of her Hollywood advent, the filmmakers attempted to make Garbo conform to their pattern, frizzing her hair and dressing her in impossible houri trappings. But by degrees, as she gained more authority, Garbo was able to assert her instinct and bring her real beauty to the fore, which had previously been lost behind the unreal human façade that Hollywood had devised for her as another of its temptresses.
In her great heyday in the films her clothes were made with the utmost ease. She was never one to fuss or to insist upon film tests, believing that if anything looked well to the eye it would appear all right to the camera. Far from finicky about her hair styles, Garbo would proceed with the rough, sure taste of the artist: like Mrs. Vernon Castle before her, she intuitively knew how she wanted to look and had no need of a mirror for approval. Her personality imposed itself on her clothes to such an extent that she could turn a tea gown into a nun’s habit or an evening dress into a monk’s robe. This personality aura explains why Garbo can be so readily spotted in a crowd: few people have so distinctive and recognizable an appearance.
It is one of the paradoxes of fashion that a woman who has not possessed an evening dress for twenty years should emerge as one of the leading influences on the style of her day. And what Garbo achieved in clothes has been reflected also in make-up. Before Garbo, faces were pink and white. But her very simple and sparing use of cosmetics completely altered the face of the fashionable woman. For a number of years she even used no lipstick or powder at all. It had been customary for stage people to use blue paint on their eyelids. But Garbo, by drawing a black line to accentuate the upper eyelashes, brought the line of the lid back into vogue. This form of make-up has been ever more used by women recently. Miss Lynn Fontanne employed it on the stage, and the fashion has now spread to everyday life.
In an extroverted age Garbo’s introspectiveness has naturally led her to be utterly individual. William James mentioned somewhere that the road to discovery leads through private places. By following her only lonely path Garbo has created a style in fashion which is concerned with her individual self. Whatever she may choose, be it a pirate or hobgoblin hat or a monk’s cowl, is based on a deep personal choice, a spiritual need or assessment of the hat or cowl.
In retrospect, the thirties’ fashions were dull, the theatre at a low ebb, and foolishness was widespread: wholesale baroque plasterboard triumphed; Salvador Dalí, on a hot summer’s afternoon, read a lecture on surrealism in a diver’s suit; teacups were made of fur. But brilliant personalities and brilliant artists were not lacking. Even in a low-pressure period they were able to turn water into wine, dross into gold, mutton chops into hats, and meretricious material into art: the moral speaks for itself.
CHAPTER XII
A VOYAGE TO THE INTERIOR
IN THE history of taste the twentieth century will undoubtedly be regarded as the most skittish, changeable, fickle, and uncertain century in both fashion and the arts. This is perhaps to be expected of an unsettled age, perhaps the most unsettled that the civilized world has yet known, for wars and economic crises have become bigger and better with the advent of the industrial revolution and the triumph of science and technology. Since their renaissance, Greco-Romans forms were valid for centuries, while furniture and styles of interior decoration remained fashionable for any number of decades. Yet in the last fifty years forms and styles, in both the major and the minor arts, have been in a constant state of flux. A certain painter, decorator, or colour might be in vogue for little more than a season.
As a result of this unsettled taste interior decorators have come into their own during the past thirty years. Their purpose, like that of the couturier, has been to anticipate taste, to run before it and often create it, adjusting a pelmet of a curtain or installing an ottoman with as much authority as any Parisian dressmaker. But whereas the dressmaker can create a dress that the woman, unless she is unusually skilled, is unlikely to produce herself, the interior decorator has invaded a field that any person of taste should be able to cope with. Yet if few people have the sense of authority or personal predilection to create their own home, it may perhaps be a good thing that there are guides to conduct some of us through the rapids of modern life.
Among the professions that offer women a field for creative endeavour, interior decoration has opened its arms to them ever since suffrage and emancipation. Certainly there are many men in this profession as well, but the women hold their own admirably.
Our century has produced a number of extraordinary feminine talents, both English and American, in the world of interior decoration. Certain names immediately call themselves to one’s attention: Elsie de Wolfe, Syrie Maugham, Sibyl Colefax, Ruby Ross Wood, and Mrs. Draper. All have left their impression on the taste of the last decades.
Throughout her very long life the relish with which Elsie de Wolfe (Lady Mendl) followed fashion and was its slave has been unequalled in our time. She was a religieuse: fashion was her god. A woman of unquenchable vitality, whose interests were linked with fashion in all its forms, Lady Mendl was so successful that she became a living factory of “chic.”
After a career as a well-dressed but unsuccessful actress, the middle-aged Elsie de Wolfe changed horses in midstream and became the first great American interior decorator. It could be said that she was responsible for putting an end to Victorianism in the United States. Her pioneer efforts at decoration—the taffeta ruching, china birds and roses, Chinese wallpapers, flowered cretonnes, occasional tables, and frilled lampshades—may seem today somewhat overcrowded and fussy. But one must remember that Lady Mendl was the first to battle the appallingly low level of bad taste throughout America, with the odds very much against her. Even if, as Robsjohn Gibbings is correct in saying, she earned the dubious honour of making American antique-conscious, thus retarding modern trends and influencing manufacturers to make furniture in the Louis Seize style, yet her interiors must at first have seemed revolutionary. She was always a better decorator for women than for men; and by redecorating the great women’s clubs throughout American during the boom years that preceded the economic crash of 1929, Lady Mendl awakened an appreciation for the styles of Louis Quatorze, Quinze, and Seize. This activity also created the foundation of a very great personal fortune, which she spent, for the most part, on the adornment of her own houses and the entertainments she gave in them.
For a 10 percent commission she advised multimillionaires like the late Henry Frick on the furnishing of their homes, steadfastly rejecting the heavy Italian or Spanish styles in favour of the French taste that she made fashionable.
When judging Lady Mendl’s work in retrospect it must be admitted that she did not bring any particularly original note to her lifework. At most she introduced chintz and comfort to America; later she created beige rooms with Drian screens and white flowers, or green and white rooms. Everything she sold looked as expensive as it undoubtedly was. But apart from these innovations and her introduction of leopard skin as upholstery material (and I am not sure that this did not derive from Cécile Sorel or the Marquesa Casati), lesser decorators than Lady Mendl have left a far more indelible mark.
Elsie de Wolfe passed through a number of fashion periods, yet each phase found her picking the creative vibrations of esoteric people and exploiting them commercially with great flair. This may seem strange, since she was such a very individual personality in her own life and way of living, to which she brought the ruthlessness of a company director, even planning her entertainments with an inspired perfectionism. Her business
like attention to life’s minutiæ created an entirely new standard of technique, and she was seldom without a suave, efficient secretary at her side, taking down notes of any detail, however small, that could be filed for later reference. Thus it was inscribed that Her Ladyship would not allow gladioli to be used in a vase of mixed flowers, just as three, not four, cigarettes were allotted to each place at table. She invented a cross-filing system by which she could check on the specific number of times a guest had been entertained, with full descriptions of the menu, the company invited, and the table decorations. Thus Lady Mendl could vary the pleasures of her guests on each occasion. If a hot cheese biscuit was served with the wrong dish or a cocktail was insufficiently shaken, there would more than likely be a court-martial. When a new sandwich proved to be successful, she would dictate a memorandum that it must be photographed for Vogue. This fetishistic concern for trivialities was to inspire the Duchess of Windsor to organize her entertainments for café society with an equal unction and elaboration.
The way that Elsie de Wolfe’s own houses were run, lit, heated, scented, the manner in which food was presented, were all the result of a genius for taking infinite pains. Nothing was left to chance. Only when the scene was set, the perfumes burnt in the censers, and the last candle lit was the element of spontaneity encouraged.
