Cosmopolitan Magazine, July 1957: A Glimpse into Our Addiction to Wealth, Fame and Scandal

Another vintage magazine I was given in December is a July 1957 issue of Cosmopolitan. I was in kindergarten when this issue came out. Mom did not buy Cosmo, preferring the more homey Women's Day, Family Circle, McCalls and Coronet.

Articles include "Princess Grace: Her Duties, Her Obligations;" "Nobility at Play Around the World;" and "The International Set--Who They Are and What They Do." There are also five stories and a murder mystery novel!

The cover story was on Grace Kelley, the beautiful actress who married Prince Rainier of Monaco.

The article asks, "What's it like to be a princess? Brushing up on her Philadelphia convent French, running a household staffed with 250 servants, playing hostess to foreign dignitaries, and being a mother are all part of Princess Grace's job."

The article includes a summary of typical her activities and photographs of Grace in her glamouros surroundings.

After the reader drooled over Grace, she saw an ad for a "An Affair to Remember." Movies mentioned in the movie guide include "Around the World in 80 Days", which I saw and never forgot; "Designing Women"; "Gun Fight at the O. K. Corral"; "Heaven Knows, Mr. Allison"; "The Ten Commandments"; "Desk Set"; "Twelve Angry Men";  "The Spirit of St. Louis"; "Saint Joan"; "Island in the Sun"; and "Funny Face". What a golden age of cinema!

If Princess Grace did not offer riches enough to lust after, the articles on the International Set and Nobility at Play would certainly fulfill that need. Marlene Dietrich, Aristotle Onassis, opera theaters, yachts, and "ennui escape" all appear in the articles. And fashion and food.

Audrey Hepburn and Mel Ferrer in their farmhouse near Rome. Audrey was the daughter of Dutch Baroness Ella van Heemstra. Later in life Audrey became involved with humanitarian efforts. In this article she is touted as hobnobbing with Roman nobles.

 

 

"Nobility" included Queens, artists, and heiresses as well as Europe's "ancienne noblesse." Gloria Vanderbilt, Queen Soraya of Iran, Aly Khan, Peggy Guggenheim, Elsa Maxwell, Begum the wife of Alga Khan (and one time fashion model) appear with Noel Coward, Brigette Bardot, Claire Bloom (appearing in Charlie Chaplin's "Limelight") and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.



An article on the Dominican diplomat Portfirio Rubirosa, "the darling of the international set and the scandal sheets" includes pages of photos of his five wives, including Barbara Hutton, and of his girl friends. The article states that "he has been hated by some of the best husbands in the world. Twice he has been named co-respondent in divorce suit...twice challenged to duels...once he was nearly killed by a woman who caught him with another woman...he was shot from behind in the streets of Paris." He makes Don Draper sound downright domestic.

His motivation for marriage is questioned. "I am not a millionaire. Most men's ambition is to save money. Mine is to spend it."

"What Makes Rubi Run?" The writer tried a Freudian explanation of the lady-killer as a man unsure of his own masculinity.

Both Grace Kelley and Portfirio Rubirosa died in car crashes.

The Cosmo reader of 1957 also had fictitious love stories to enjoy. "For Better or Worse" by Harriet Pratt is about a gal who marries a 'bad boy'. "Sisters of Divorce" by Stephen Birmingham concerns siblings talking about "what divorce had done to one of them." The warning is that "men swarm around divorcees...but don't marry them." "A Romantic Courtesy" by John MacDonald is about a man who meets the woman who had rejected him, and "The Lucky Strike" by Baird Hall is about a woman out to catch a man.

"Forever" by Harry M. Montgomery was a different kind of story all together. A doctor's life's work seems for naught when he reads that Salk has conquered polio before him. Then it appears his serum has revived dead animals... Sadly the last pages of the magazine are MISSING and I will never know what happened! I can find nothing about the story or the writer, and it appears he never had another story in Cosmo.

I love this ad was for Heritage Books. I always thought the books on one's shelves said a lot about them. And perhaps even one's magazines as well.

 

 



Roots of Understanding: Thomas Wolfe and "Home"

My life has evolved into homesickness.

My homesickness started when my family moved just before I turned eleven. I have still never lived anywhere longer. Moving involves the loss of the known, the certainties we depend on as children. The world becomes foreign and alien. The children have different playground games. You don't understand the things they laugh about because you were not there when it happened.

In the new place, after some years, you carve out a niche for yourself. You are happy, have friends and make new memories. Then you visit your old neighborhood. There is talk about people you don't know and laughter over memories you can't share.

And then it comes to you that you never were at home in the first place, never will be in this world. That the ideal of home is a delusion.

After living in Philadelphia and its suburbs for many years we returned to Michigan. It was a sad good-bye. I struggled with the notion of 'going home' to Michigan,. We would be near family. But also were leaving the home of our young adulthood forged in the city life of the East Coast.

“My Home.”

Heart's warmest flames fan at the breath

of spoken words

whose meaning

we are never quite sure of.

I wrote a series of poems considering the meaning of home, the rootlessness of itineracy, and the costs involved.

I first read Thomas Wolfe when I was sixteen years old. I would stop off at Barney's Drugs on the way home from school. Sometimes I would buy a pen, a notebook for my journal, some makeup or a magazine. Sometimes I bought a paperback book.

 

“You Can't Go Home Again.” Oh, how that title intrigued me. And one day I bought it, and read it, and then I read everything else Wolfe wrote in his short life.

I loved Wolfe's lyrical and poetic language with its Biblical cadences: “All things belonging to earth will never change—the leaf, the blade, the flower, the wind that cries and sleeps and wakes again...Only the earth endures, but it endures for ever.” 

 

And his storytelling! I never forgot scenes from this novel. "The Promise of America” chapter where Wolfe describes men 'burning in the night' for their chance at fame and success. The story of a New York society party interrupted by a fire, exploring the class differences between the party goers and the elevator men who die, trapped in the elevators and on their way to rescue the partyers. The description of a suicide jumper's remains on a New York City sidewalk with gawkers gathered around. And the Fox, based on Wolfe's first editor, the legendary Maxwell Perkins, whose philosophy was based on the Book of Ecclesiastes. (Which I then read.)

Wolfe wrote that men were wanderers throughout the earth, in search for a place to belong. He wrote about a world changing too fast. He wrote about people trying to get rich quick in the stock market, the real estate boom, and about the crash. He wrote about how fame was a disappointment, about people who lionized him, misquoted him, used him. He wrote about a Germany changed because of Hitler's Nazism and warned America.

“You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man's dreams of glory and fame, back home to exile...back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time—back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.

Nazi Germany, Mussolini, and Stalin were to Wolfe the rise of an old barbarism that could also be seen in America.

“Its racial nonsense and cruelty, its naked worship of brute force, its suppression of truth and resort to lies and myths, its ruthless contempt for the individual, its anti-intellectual and anti-moral dogma that to one man alone belongs the right of judgment and decision, and that for all others virtue lies in blind, unquestioning obedience—each of these fundamental elements of Hitlerism was a throwback to that fierce and ancient tribalism which had sent waves of hairy Teutons swopping down out of the north to destroy the vast edifice of Roman civilization. That primitive spirit of greed and lust and force that had always been the true enemy of mankind.”

Prophetic! Nearly a hundred years later we still face the same threats from other tribal entities. There is nothing new under the sun, Ecclesiastes warns.

Aswell ended the book with lines that are both beautiful and eerie.

“Something has spoken to me in the night, burning the tapers of the waning year; something has spoken in the night, and told me I shall die, I know not where. Saying:

“To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing; to lose the life you have, for greater life; to leave the friends you loved, for greater loving; to find a land more kind than home, more large than earth--

“--Whereupon the pillars of this earth are founded, toward which the conscience of the world is tending—a wind is rising, and the rivers flow.”

 

Several years ago I reread Look Homeward, Angel. When I was a teenager the theme of loneliness and isolation was so reflective of youth's struggling need to connect. I always remembered the theme of the book:

“a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know our mother's face; from the prison of her flesh we have come into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known our brother? Which of us has looked into his father's heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

O waste of lost, in the hot mazes, lost, among bright stars on this weary, unbright cinder, lost! Remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language, the lost land-end into heaven, a stone, a leaf, an unfound door. Where? When?

O lost, and by the wind most grieved, ghost, come back again.”

When I made a quilt based on photographs of doors, I bordered the blocks with some fabrics with a print of leaves. I scanned stones and printed the images on fabric, and appliqued them onto the quilt. I added artificial leaves. And printed some of the lines "a stone, a leaf a door" and "remembering speechlessly we seek the great forgotten language." 

There are many reasons we do not feel at home. Relocation, change, death and birth. A world that seems to have gone spinning off into some alternate universe. Political strife, social turmoil. The loss of certainties, the loss of love. We are constantly reinventing and reevaluating what “home” means. Perhaps it is only in losing one's life that one will find a perfect home.

Roots of Understanding: Stephen Crane's Poetry and Truth

"When the prophet, a complacent fat man,
Arrived at the mountain-top,
He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!
I intended to see good white lands
And bad black lands,
But the scene is grey."

I read through all the poetry books in my high school library-- all two or three shelves of them. I found here Catullus, modern American poets, Langston Hughes, and the children's poetry of Lillian Morrison. But it was Stephen Crane's poems that most impacted me.

They are not poems of feeling. They have no lush beautiful words. They are direct and sparse with an intellectual punch. They are poems that comment on human frailty, both institutional and personal.

A learned man came to me once.

He said, "I know the way, -- come."
And I was overjoyed at this.
Together we hastened.
Soon, too soon, we were
Where my eyes were useless,
And I knew not the ways of my feet.
I clung to the hand of my friend;
But at last he cried, "I am lost."

I learned that we should question those who claim to be on the inside track, who claim to know the truth. Don't just follow the crowd. Mom used to ask me, "If all the girls were jumping off the roof, would you want to do it too?" 

"Think as I think," said a man,

"Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad."

And after I had thought of it,
I said, "I will, then, be a toad."

Thinking for oneself is not popular. Some governments and churches don't even allow it. Galileo, Copernicus, and Darwin each suffered for promoting scientific evidence that conflicted with prevailing thought.

There was crimson clash of war.

Lands turned black and bare;
Women wept;
Babes ran, wondering.
There came one who understood not these things.
He said, "Why is this?"
Whereupon a million strove to answer him.
There was such intricate clamour of tongues,
That still the reason was not.

After all, what is TRUTH? Who knows the truth? Is it not subjective, changed by one's culture, one's faith, one's experience? Can we ever really know The Truth?

"Truth," said a traveler,
"Is a rock, a mighty fortress;
Often have I been to it,
Even to its highest tower,
From whence the world looks black."

"Truth," said a traveller,
"Is a breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom;
Long have I pursued it,
But never have I touched
The hem of its garment."

And I believed the second traveller;
For truth was to me
A breath, a wind,
A shadow, a phantom,
And never had I touched
The hem of its garment.

And yet we humans relentless pursue the elusive butterfly of truth, sure we will demonstrate the only, the one, the ultimate certainty.

I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
"It is futile," I said,
"You can never -- "

"You lie," he cried,
And ran on.

Ever notice how people do not change their views no matter what? We hold on our opinions to the bitter end.

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter-bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart." 

Well, that is one way of looking at the human experience.

Crane's poems taught to think for oneself,  but at the same time warns not to cling unthinkingly to one's own opinions. We live in a complicated world.

The Royal Oak Flea Market

I returned to the Royal Oak Flea Market today. I did not buy any fleas but I did buy from vendors who are also here on Saturday for the Royal Oak Farmer's Market.

I bought some local honey. I have been buying local honey for years, but with the news about the problems and concerns with commercial honey I am more committed to buying local. I bought some loose tea with coconut in it! I am drinking it now having used the floating tea bell I bought at The Rust Belt some weeks ago.

And I brought home a loaf of Cinnamon bread and two spinach pies ($3.00!) from Vic the Breadman.

Vic has been at the market for more than a dozen years, both on Saturday and Sunday. He offers great breads of all kinds, including frosted breakfast breads, whole grain breads, rolls, Brioche, spinach pies, cornmeal pizza crust, and foccacia.

Today Vic and I chatted. He grew up in Detroit where in the mid 1950s his school had over 9,000 students so they had to attend school in shifts. School started at 7:30 am and ended at 5:30 pm.

I saw some sweetheart pillows, souvenirs that soldiers sent home to their mothers, sisters, and sweethearts during WWI and WWII. You can learn more about them in Pat Cumming's book Sweetheart and Mother Pillows.

Last year ago I bought some great barkcloth here. Today there were several offerings of vintage barkcloth and chintz drapes.

More Mid-Century Modern items are showing up at flea markets now.

Handmade soaps, lotions and other items are offered at Dirty Girl Farm. Other booths have spices, teas, honey, and baked goods.

Although today it was not even 20 degrees out, the market's outdoor booths were occupied again. In a few weeks they will offer flowers and plants at the Saturday Farmer's market.

Rescuing the Unlovable

Yesterday I went to Berkley, Michigan to visit Guildcrafters Quilt Shop and the Oddfellows Antique Mall.

At the mall I found a sweet appliqued coverlet for $28. It featured a center medallion and a border.

 

 It had two stains which I decided I would be able to remove. I was told that people had passed it up many times because of the stains. The price had been reduced over time.

 

The applique in pink on a white ground has remarkable small stitches.

 

 

 

 

Over the years I have brought home numerous unlovable quilts. Last month I found the Double Wedding Ring on a blue ground that I am repairing by appliqueing vintage fabrics over the fabrics that have decayed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Many years ago I was given a quilt which needed a new binding, and I used vintage fabric for the binding and to repair decayed fabrics.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I found a quilt made of matching fabrics in three color ways, repaired with a house dress so the button holes show. It was badly stained, as if it had been used as a mattress pan. Three washings and the stains were out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I finished a quilt top circa 1900 by repairing the decayed fabrics and layering and quilting it.

This wonderful one patch quilt also needed a few squares replaced. I used reproduction fabric, appliqued over the original square. The fabrics seem to date to the early 1900s.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know that today finding beauty in decay is quite mainstream. Upcycling, repurposeing, and Shabby Chic in decorating is very prevalent. At The Rust Belt in Ferndale, Michigan you can find industrial repurposing in furnishings and décor, such as Hudson Industrial's reclaimed wood and metal furnishings. I wrote a few months ago about a book on Detroit's abandoned buildings. Urban decay is another contemporary fascination.

 

One of my brother's creations; his cabin chandelier

I think in my case it is genetic. I cried when I saw good things in the trash when I walked to elementary school.

 

My brother hauls things from the canal behind his house and turns them into décor. He has repurposed for years before it had a name.

 

Our grandmother worked at the Goodwill store, and I think she wanted first crack at the good stuff coming in! She once found and gave me a winking eyeball ring! She had a sense of humor!

Best of all, rescuing unwanted animals is now mainstream! Our Suki was in a puppy mill for seven years, and so unsocialized that even after a year in foster care her first 'forever' family returned her! It took several years, but she is a Real Dog now. It just took a lot of loving.

And I am really glad there are many of us ready to take on the unlovable.

Happy Birthday, Barbie

I remember when I first met Barbie.

I was visiting my grandparents in Michigan. I always played with the girl next door. It was 1959, and she had a marvelous new doll, a Barbie doll. I wanted, I needed a Barbie. She had all those great clothes!


I had no love for my Tiny Tears, baby dolls left me uninterested, and the Madame Alexander dolls were not to be played with. I liked the cheap dolls Mom got at the supermarket, but they were brittle plastic and broke, and you could not change their dresses.

Some months passed, but Mom did buy me that first Barbie, a dark ponytailed gal with heavy eye makeup. I always thought she looked snobbish. Why not, when she had all those wonderful CLOTHES!

I loved those dresses. I amassed enough to fill a large wardrobe case. Then Mom bought me a Bubble Cut Barbie. Mom and I had Bubble Cuts. (and those cat-eyed glasses that looked so silly later). Then came Ken, and my beloved Midge (who became a boy from Mars, lol), Allen and Skipper.

And then I decided I was too old to play with dolls. Rather, the girls in seventh grade said we were way over dolls. Mom put them away in the attic, and several years later I came home to find she had given them away to the girls down the street.

I was horrified, offended, outraged. But who could break those little girl's hearts? I dealt with change.

Over the years I missed my Barbies. I missed the 60s and the elegant clothes, the sophistication. Mini skirts, polyester, jeans and Ts took the place of New Look frocks and picture hats and pearls.

When I was forty years old I decided I was old enough to play with dolls. I bought some reproduction Barbies that looked like mine. And I made some quilts to celebrate her.

I also was given a Tyler Wentworth doll by Robert Tonner, and for some years my hubby and son gave me a doll for special gifts.

And sometimes I let little girls play with my dolls, just so the dolls know the joy of a girl's imagination and the power of make-believe.

Barbie Portraits by Nancy A Bekofske

Venice scenes by Alberto DiVIty, 20th Century Impressionism

Two small paintings of Venice by DiVity hang in my bedroom. Alberto DiVity was born in 1900 in Italy and painted impressionistic scenes from Venice, Paris, and rainy city scenes. He was quite prolific.

The paintings came to me through strange circumstances.

My grandfather Lynne O. Ramer passed in 1971. Grandma was only 52 when my grandfather died. In 1972 I was married and my grandmother was cajoled into joining in to try to catch my bouquet. She caught it! Before a year had passed she had met Milo, who had been a widower for 25 years, and they married a few days before my first anniversary.

Milo had built a home for his wife and daughter, both who died young. Afterwards he kept his home well decorated, calling upon interior decorators from the finest stores.

When my grandparents felt the need to move into a condominium, these paintings left Milo's walls for my family's wall.

I always loved the texture of the thickly applied paint, likely with a palette knife, the deft brush strokes, and the impressionistic style. The colors are wonderful, those hazy blue grays with a hint of green, the warm yellows and reds of the buildings, and the splash of bright red    on the gondolas. The dark buildings on the right side have a nice architectural detail and frame the water 'street' scene nicely. DiVity used pure white paint to highlight the water and ropes and boat outlines.

 

Five years ago my father passed and I inherited my family home. The original frames were dated and ugly: a yellowed cream frame with gold flecks. I did not think they set off the art well. I had them reframed in dark wood with copper highlights, with a scalloped effect that mirrors the building's silhouettes.

 

After reading about Venice in Vivaldi's Virgins, I am noticing these paintings all over again.