99% Invisible - A Fantasy of Fashion: Articles of Interest #7

Episode Date: May 12, 2020

In the wake of World War II, the government of France commissioned its most prominent designers to create a collection of miniature fashion dolls. It might seem like an odd thing to fund, but the fantasy of high fashion inspired hope in postwar Paris. These dolls also forever changed the curator who discovered them almost 40 years later, in a strange museum perched on a cliff in rural Washington state. Articles of Interest is a limited-run podcast series about fashion, housed inside the design and architecture podcast 99% Invisible. Launched in 2018 by Avery Trufelman, the show encourages people to rethink the way we look at what we wear and what it says about us.

This is 99% invisible. I'm Roman Mars. Man is a perpetually wanting animal. These are the words of Abraham Maslow, the psychologist, who in 1943 identified that humans have five basic needs. On the first and most basic level is the physiological need for food and water. The second need is shelter, a sense of safety and security. That's producer Avery Truffman. The third level is the need for love and belonging. Then the need for self-esteem and respect.

And then the last final stage of Maslow's hierarchy is the need for self-actualization, the desire for fulfillment and being all one can be. But it's not like Maslow's hierarchy is a video game. You know, just neatly complete each level as Maslow wrote. Most members of our society, who are normal, are partially satisfied in all their basic needs, and partially unsatisfied in all their basic needs at the same time. Which is to say, a complete gratification hardly ever exists for the wanting animal. Maslow said,

A more realistic description of the hierarchy would be in terms of decreasing percentages of satisfaction as we go up the hierarchy. We will always have some hunger or another, and everything we want and desire in this world is a manifestation of one of these five basic needs. In Maslow's words, A desire for an ice cream cone might actually be an indirect expression of a desire for love. If it is, then this desire for the ice cream cone becomes extremely important motivation. Every day conscious desires are to be regarded as symptoms,

as surface indicators of more basic needs. Although sometimes the symptoms of our desires can be so much more complicated, so much more elaborate than an ice cream cone, and what we need manifests in strange and seemingly frivolous ways. Articles of interest, our pop-up show about fashion and what we wear is back. We'll be releasing episodes over the next four weeks

on Tuesdays and the occasional Friday is kind of Tuesday, Friday, Tuesday, Tuesday, Friday, Tuesday. It'll be like the flag of Nepal, but upside down. Oh my God, so unbranded. It's hosted by Avery. And you don't need to listen to season one to understand season two. You can just dive right in. But either way, you're already listening to it now.

Articles of interest. A show about what we wear. Season two. People don't realize it's fantasy. It's always this thing that you have to work extra hard to get. Mmm, that's so good. No one dresses like a king anymore. How do you make money?

That's how I make money, love. There are lots of things that we take for granted that would once have been considered luxuries. Linda Tessner wanted out. I did not love living in the middle west, the Midwest, and I really wanted to move. Linda went to Ohio State University for her master's in art history.

And when she graduated in the early 80s, she was ready to high-tail it out to New York or Boston. I wanted a museum job, but institution after institution, Linda was striking out. Then, one day, Linda was flipping through a newsletter for museum professionals, and she saw a job listing to be the director at a place in Washington State called the Maryhill Museum of Art. And I thought, what the heck is this?

And at the time, there was no internet in 1983, there was no way to kind of check it up or look at their website. I had no idea what this museum was about. But I sent them my materials anyway. Even though Linda was 26 years old and had never worked in museum management and didn't know this place at all, she got the job. And it was only then that Linda learned exactly where she was moving. Mary Hall Museum is in the middle of nowhere.

The closest town is Goldendale, Washington, which is 13 miles away. The Mary Hill Museum of Art is a stately mansion perched on top of a cliff by the Columbia River Gorge. It's stunning, but it looks like it was just cut and pasted onto the Lewis and Clark Trail. It has absolutely no other buildings around it. It's a very curious place because you drive to it, and the museum just unfolds like a castle on the banks of the river surrounded by basically nothing but hills.

This is not what Linda was picturing when she got into the arts. She grew up reading fashion magazines, getting up on culture. Glamour was kind of my Bible for a long time. I mean, as a teenager, I read every single issue of 17 magazine, and then jump cut to Linda at 26 years old looking out over a vast expanse of the Columbia River. A friend of mine said that she gave me a year because I couldn't live with among cowboys. The Maryhill Museum of Art is surrounded by acres and acres of ranch land. Visitors usually found the museum by accident as they were driving back from ski trips.

The closest thing to a restaurant was the nearest gas station. The closest building at all was two miles away. A small cottage owned by the museum. That's where Linda lived, mostly alone. Why were you alone? You moved with your husband. My husband was a research glaciologist, and he was on expeditions about nine months out of every year. So even before our marriage fell apart, I was living alone mostly.

So it was mostly just me living there with a big dog. Linda's big dog was her protector, barking at the rattlesnakes that appeared in her yard, and sometimes in her basement. I don't know, I was a brave person when I was 26 and stupid. As for the collection, what was actually inside the Maryhill Museum of Art, it was all over the place, as random and fascinating as its location. Because the whole museum was created as a lark, by four random, fascinating friends. The main founder was businessman Sam Hill. He's friend number one.

He began construction on this beautiful mansion in 1914 and named it Mary Hill. And there's some debate about whether he named it for his wife or his daughter because they were both named Mary Hill. Sam Hill roped in friend number two, Loey Fuller, a famous modern dancer, performance artist, and friend to the sculptor Roda. She helped bring in a collection of Roda's original casts to Mary Hill. The third friend was Queen Marie of Romania. She had met Sam Hill in his world travels,

and she is why the atrium of the Maryhill Museum of Art is full of beautiful Romanian furniture. And the fourth and most important friend, at least for Linda, was Alma DeBretville Spreckles. She was the wife of Adolf Spreckles, head of these Spreckles sugar company. When I was a little girl, the boxes of sugar in our kitchen

were always Spreckles sugar. Alma became one of the museum's first trustees and foremost benefactors. Her donation to the museum collection would have the biggest impact on Linda's life. And it was a bunch of creepy dolls. I shouldn't say this, but it was, I thought they were the most macabre objects I'd ever seen.

When Linda got to Maryhill, she stumbled on a glass case full of these dolls. And they weren't like baby dolls. They were clearly supposed to be adults, but they were thin and skeletal and looked like they were out of the nightmare before Christmas. Some of them were taken apart, so you'd see the American, a wire American with a disembodied head. You'd see these parts, little shoes, little purses, these wire bodies, these very

blank ghost-like faces. The dolls were 27 inches tall, about double the length of your forearm, and they all wore strange, dirty dresses and mismatched jackets, all bedraggled from years of volunteers playing with them and switching up their outfits. There were around 50 of these dolls displayed in the glass case, all just bunched up close together

like they were on crowded bleachers. A bright fluorescent light flickered above them, accentuating their creepiness. Apparently there were about 100 more of these dolls in storage. Linda did not know what was up with these dolls, but she couldn't really dwell on it. Frankly, there were so many things that had to be done at Mary Hall. I mean, absolutely everything was in some sort of disrepair or dysfunction, everything. I mean, from the bathrooms to signage. So among the Rodas sculptures, the Romanian furniture, a large collection of indigenous art and a display of chess sets, there were the dirty dolls, hiling up against the glass showcase in the hall, collecting dust.

Until one day, when Linda got a call from a curator at the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco, she asked Linda if she could come to Maryhill because she wanted to see these dolls. And that was when Linda learned what she had on her hands. These dolls weren't supposed to be so macabre. Actually, they were kind of heroes in a way, because these dolls had saved French fashion. This is the end of German pride and power in Paris. It began with the fall of France, and now amid the cheers of the people,

the Nazi has fallen. After four devastating years of Nazi occupation, Paris was liberated on August 25th, 1944. Feast of liberation, at the Paris Opera of Long-Rinaun and all through the city, the same sights and sounds. Estatic.

Peresians rejoiced in the streets. Some of them gathered up the ration tickets that had governed their lives and tore them into confetti. And this turned out to be a very bad idea, because the war was not over. They'd still need those ration tickets. In the aftermath of the occupation, more than 5 million French adults and children didn't have adequate shelter or food. Perreesions dressed in ratty, worn clothes walked and bicycleed through their dark city. The capital of light, of art, of culture was a shell of itself. If rated by its own people, then by a French division.

If rated by a French division. During the course of World War II, Paris lost its position as the epicenter of contemporary fine art. That moved to New York City, the literary world also resented around New York. But Paris was determined not to lose its soul, or at least not to lose everything to New York Somehow even though they didn't have electricity

Paris had to remain a capital of beauty and ideas It had to retain its title as the capital of fashion Look at it this way France has been relying on The couture industry and all of the other industries it involves, the textile industry, the industry that makes all of the zippers, the buttons, the hooks, the feather workers, the embroiderers. This is Melissa Levinton, an independent curator, fashion historian, and appraiser. That's been a big part of not only France's economy, but France's national identity since

the 17th century. They're not just going to let that go because of four-year occupation by Germany. They were not going to let it die without a really tough fight. Before the war, in 1939, the French-fashioned industry employed more than 900,000 people. It was the second largest industry in France. And then by the end of the occupation, Paris fashion houses were just gasping for breath. They had no customers, and no materials. At all, everything had gone to the war effort.

Shreds of leather and buttons were rare. Even spools of thread were few and far between. And this was really hard for France. I mean, the country has a department of its government devoted to regulating high fashion. It's called the Shambharsindra Kaldelakatur, and even in that post-occupation scarcity, the Shambharsindra Kaldelakatur wanted a send of message to the world. We are still here. We were not destroyed by the war, and we kept our skills. And we might not have much in the way of materials, but we're just going to figure it out. We survived, and we want you to know that we survived, but in order to keep going, we need our customers back.

And the Shambharsandicol came up with an idea. They would gather all the famous French fashion designers together to do a joint fall collection. They would use real fur, real leather, real silk, no compromises. Well, except that everything would have to be in miniature. That way they could scrape together just enough to make tiny outfits, tiny shoes, little purses and gloves and belts, and still use real materials. So they revived an old, old French practice.

Fashion dolls. So let's talk about fashion dolls. The way dress makers and women who were called milleners marchandemod, kind of like fashion stylists of today, they sent around dolls. Dressed in the latest fashion, dolls were, in effect, the first catalogs. Clotheers were sending out dolls to wealthy families and royal circles way before the first fashion magazine came out in the late 1700s. So the Chambresondicaul decided to use dolls again.

They reached out to fashion houses like Balenciaga and Nina Ricci and Hermes, and they each volunteered to create an outfit or two. The project was organized as a fundraiser for war refugees and victims, but it was also an advertising campaign, marketing the concept of French chic. The collection of 228 fashion dolls would be called the Tiattre d'Alemmeud, the theater of fashion, and they would be sent to the major cities across Europe and eventually America, and each showing would announce to the world that the Couture houses in France were still

in business. That Paris was still the capital of glamour and luxury, even though the city barely had power. And okay, so I keep calling them dolls, but I'm wrong, they are not technically dolls. We have dolls enthusiasts who are like, we want to see the dolls, you can see the mannequins. This is collection's manager Anna Goodwin, showing me some of the Teatro de la Mode mannequins.

We definitely, at least I definitely cringe any time someone calls them dolls. These mannequins were sculpted by the artist, Elian Bonabelle, and they are works of art in and of themselves. They were intentionally made with wire limbs on those blank plaster faces, so that they would have no personality of their own. Absolutely. That was their goal was to create a mannequin that just disappeared. They look like sketchbook drawings brought to life.

The wire limbs look like 3D brush marks. sketchbook drawings brought to life. The wire limbs look like 3D brush marks. The focus is obviously supposed to be on the impeccable clothes. Like this dress Anna showed me in storage. It sort of has a bodice with buttons and a collar and then it comes down to the waist where there's a belt which you can see is actually a functional belt. It's like a teeny tiny belt. It's about the buckles about half an inch by quarter inch. These are not doll clothes.

There's no velcro, no fake snap-on attachments. These are real outfits. With little clasps and right-proper lining. I mean they look like runway or red carpet looks put into a shrinking machine. It kind of feels like when you look at a freshly born baby and you're like, oh my god, the little fingernails. Like everything is there. All in proportion. But so careful and tiny. Tiny little buttons there. Oh my god god those tiny buttons on the sleeves and let me tell you these fashions from 1945 and 46 are not what you're imagining like when I think 1940s fashion I think broad shoulders pencil skirts muted colors practical low-heeled wartime attire no these are rich full-skirted affairs with sumptuous overcoats

and gowns intricately beaded with thousands of tiny sequins and hair resplendent with exotic bird feathers. There are tiny, radiant sun dresses that hint at the 1950s to come, and dramatic pleated trousers that I would wear now. And the shoes do not get me started on the shoes. These are like white leather platform oxfirts, I guess, with a tiny buckle. Oh my God. And like just the stitching is minute. The Tiača Dela Mode premiered in March of 1945,

in the West Wing of the Louvre. It was a massive success. Supposedly, the installation in Paris raised something like a million French francs, which was a lot of money given the total economic disaster that was France after World War II. As the Tiatradella Maud opened, in March of 1945, Allied armies were pushing deeper into Germany, liberating French war prisoners. In April of 1945, France discovered the existential

horror of the concentration camps. Bleakness was enveloping Europe, and the Tattardella mode was a tiny shred of pleasure. The show was extended for weeks and weeks. This miniature beacon of glamour attracted a hundred thousand visitors who paid what little money they had to witness this luxurious vision of what Paris still was in their imaginations, and maybe could be again. The Louvre's exhibit of the Teatro de la Mode ended around the same time that the Warded, in May of 1945. And so, the Teatro de la Mode went on to the next phase of its mission. The show, rebranded in English as a fantasy of fashion, was packed up and shipped to London,

then leads Barcelona, Copenhagen, Stockholm, and Vienna, all to rave reviews. And then, the little mannequins went to show off to the old rival, New York City, The little mannequins went to show off to the old rival, New York City, to more rapturous crowds. Garing did his best to strip the French style capital of its finest treasure, but there seems to be some things he missed. Certainly pretty snazzy. It looks like it was really worthwhile, freeing Paris. In 1946, the Tiatradella mud made its final stop, the D'Young Museum in San Francisco.

And everyone agreed this would be the exhibit's final resting place. France didn't want the mannequins anymore. They didn't need them back. So the de Young had not earmarked funds to return them, like there was no spare cash in the system. The Tiazzadella mode was sent to a department store in downtown San Francisco that was named confusingly the city of Paris. I remember talking to a woman who used to work in the city of Paris, saying she remembered seeing them in the basement. And the mannequins just stayed in the basement in the city of Paris, saying she remembered seeing them in the basement.

And the mannequins just stayed in the basement of the city of Paris department store for years. Until they were found by a wealthy San Francisco named Alma DeBretville Sprinkles. In 1952, she shipped them off to her pet project, a museum in rural Washington state. They were sent without any accompanying documents or explanation as to their origin. Perhaps Alma thought these mannequins needed no introduction, that everyone would, of course,

remember this worldwide sensation, even though, of course, they didn't. In a lot of ways it seems to be the fate of this exhibition to get forgotten about, from time to time. France pretty much forgot about the Tiazzadella mode too. The mannequins were generally assumed to be lost or destroyed. But as you know, they weren't. The Tattadella mode was perched on a mountain top overlooking the Columbia River Gorge, with Linda.

Really soon, after I started at Mary Hall, I got this call from a woman named Anna Bennett, who was the textile and costume curator in San Francisco. And she wanted to know if she could drive out to Mary Hall Museum and take a look at the Tattledella mode. It was like somebody walked into the museum and provided information that had been missing for a very long time. When this curator rediscovered the mannequins in the 80s, word traveled around academic fashion circles. A slow trickle of curators and professors and editors made pilgrimages to Maryhill,

each one adding a little more to the pool of knowledge. But then finally, the news got to Susan Train, the Paris Bureau Chief for Condé Nast. She was a woman that wielded a lot of power. She was very interested in fashion. She'd been in the fashion industry for her entire life. At the time, I met her, she must have been in her 50s, late 50s, maybe. Of course, Susan trained new all about the Tiatradella mod.

And she knew it's important, and she couldn't believe that it was, like, there was this time capsule, there was this collection sitting in where, like, Goldendale Washington, what? Susan flew from Paris to the Pacific Northwest to see the mannequins. And was she wearing heels when she touched down at the Portland Airport? Yeah, F***. She always wore heels and always wore purls with her blonde hair chopped in a chic bob. Oh, and she always carried a pure, red, long-haired American Kennel Club doxened with her. Linda remembers she had one named Naphofia, which is a flower I had to look at. She was, uh, she was very intimidating because she was a very tall, thin, elegant, very

elegant woman. Linda tried to roll out the red carpet as best she could. She took Susan to the only place you could eat out for dinner, which was a truck stop across the river called Jack's Fine Foods. This was a woman that, I mean, I'm sure, that a French fry rarely crossed her lips. And when Linda took Susan to the Maryhill Museum to see the Tiatra de la Mode, Susan adored it. She could see past the grime and the mismatched outfits

and recognize what it once had been. And she looked at the Tiatra de la Mode and she fell in love. It was kind of love at first sight. And there was another love blossoming between Linda and Susan. Not in a romantic way. Maybe it was an older sister, younger sister relationship.

Listen, you can hear it in Linda's voice. She wore these big earrings that were cut glass, but was like a big chunk of rock on her ear. And they were so shockingly beautiful to me. I'd really never seen anything like that. I remember once at lunchtime, I was saying, oh, Susan, I really, those earrings, I just, I just love them. And she immediately popped them off her ears and handed to the incident. I want them to, I want you to have them. She was generous like that. She was extremely generous. I mean, how could you not be completely taken with this glamorous person?

It's the same thing that drew a hundred thousand starving French people to stare at the Tiatradella Maud. Glamour and luxury are powerful. Susan knew she had to bring these mannequins back to Paris. To revive the Tiatradella Maud back to its former glory. Sheins back to Paris to revive the theater de la mode back to its former glory. She went back to Paris and got busy. Susan did her Paris condy-naspir-achief thing and pulled together an elite team to refurbish the theater de la mode. There were moth holes and the mannequins themselves, some of them had to be resoldered and somethings

had to be recreated. And then maybe the most vexing thing was that well well, meaning volunteers over the years had changed all the clothes. So they were in no way, were they in their original ensembles. This was a team effort from a crew of set designers, clotheers and historians. Experts and artists referenced the black and white photographs from the original show and talked with the fashion houses to make sure the outfits were perfectly restored. Leather was polished, silk was dry cleaned, diamond jewelry was reconstructed, real hair

replaced and combed, and once again, the Shambhasa Inda Caldelecatur was footing the bill. The cool thing was that many of the original artists and designers who worked on the project in the 40s were still alive to oversee the revival in the 80s. This labor of love they all thought they had lost. And if the mannequins were going to Paris, Linda had to go with them. She had to ensure they were safe because they were still in the Maryhill collection. But also, there were many parties and celebrations to attend. Well, I remember I had bought outfits for all of these events that were taking place in Paris.

And I thought I knew what I was doing, but the minute I got to Paris, the minute I got to Paris, Susan wanted to, like, what did you bring? So I took all of the clothes that I brought from home to her apartment one Saturday, and she was like, no, no, no. There was nothing wrong with Linda's look. The Susan was just on a whole other level. I ended up because she did so disapproved of what I had brought from Oregon. I ended up wearing a lot of her clothes to these events.

I think it was important to her that I looked a certain way and I certainly did not want to disappoint her. For the next two years, as the mannequins were being fixed up, Linda went back and forth, from Paris to Goldendale, from Champagne Toast to Rattlesnakes, and back again. Little by little, she was becoming more glamorous under the tutelage of Susan Train. Whenever I came to Paris, Susan always made sure there were flowers in my hotel room when I arrived. The most astonishing bouquets, like a profusion of pink lilies,

she arranged for me to have my hair done. She arranged for me to have my makeup done. She arranged for me to have a pearl choker made. Made? Made. She actually marched me, like, she just put me in the car with her driver and she would come along with her little dog And there was a jewelry story so I just know I know just where I need to take you for a pearl choker

It was a real classic makeover montage. I actually have a scrapbook. I could pull out and show you. Could you? Yeah, Linda has kept nearly every party invitation every every dinner menu. And in her scrapbook, there are lots and lots of photos. And Linda looks like a supermodel. She's tall and thin with blonde, bobbed hair, and her three strand pearl choker. Always with a drink in hand, flushed with laughter. The Tiatra de la Mode was reopened in Paris in May of 1990 at the Musee de Aute de la Mode.

It was a smash success. There were parties and photoshoots and press interviews and it was like Linda had gone through the looking glass. She was living the very fantasy that the Tiatradella mud represented. Case in point, back in Washington State, Linda had cut out an article from Vogue about the up-and-coming dress designer, Ervella J. And in Paris, Susan brought Linda to Ervella J's studio to get a dress fitted for her. It's simple, black and white with a drop waist.

In her blonde bob and her Ervella Jress, Linda looked like a 90s flapper. It was like a fairy tale, especially because this her veille de la gredress was for an actual ball. After France, the Tiatr d'Ella mode was exhibited at the costume institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and it was on display during the MED Gala that year. And the MED Gala is just the fashion party. In 1990, Linda received an invitation. I was kind of be dazzled with the opportunity

of going to this incredibly glamorous dinner party at the Met. Like, who would ever think that was gonna happen when I moved to Maryhill Museum in 1983? And I can't help but notice as the pictures in her scrapbook progress. Linda starts to look more and more like Susan. Somebody once laughed like,

oh Linda, you're Susan's little mannequin. Like, she's dressing you. She had opinions about how I looked. She did. And Eliza, do it a little way. Like, I can teach you how to be chic. Susan wanted to teach, and Linda wanted to learn. They were getting closer.

We did love each other. We really did. We did love each other. We were very, very good friends. But Linda started imitating Susan in other ways too, less healthy ones. I'm sure she was naturally thin. So staying in that body that I had in Paris and New York

was really hard and took a lot of time. Linda was eating less and as she put it, exercising like a crazy person. And then you'd get back to Goldendale and you'd still be like running and dieting and... Yes, definitely. Really? Yeah. I didn't want to disappoint Susan.

I know exactly what Linda is talking about. I think a lot of people do. There were years in my life where I tried to starve myself, and definitely a big part of it was I wanted to fit into beautiful clothing. And when you are intentionally starving yourself, that is a task that takes over your whole brain. I didn't think about anything else. It's not sustainable.

And it's not even very fun. Because you're constantly thinking, all the goddamn time about what you're gonna eat or not eat so your entire world Like it kind of pains me to think of those years like not thinking about other things but thinking about Acidously writing down every calorie in a little notebook in this condition You feel like you're not human like you can't eat meals and just enjoy life the way other people can. But I did it in pursuit of glamour, of something that ascends to a higher plane than normal life.

Something that's impossible. You can't stay this thin for that long. You can't. I mean, I couldn't. And it was, it created a real crisis of confidence. Even Susan could see that Linda wasn't doing well. She was a little worried about me at how thin I had become. And I remember at one lunch we were having lunch together and she insisted on getting a bowl of strawberries and whipped cream for dessert. And I

remember her sitting there saying Linda eat. her sitting there saying, Linda, eat. After New York, the Tiatra Della mode went to Tokyo, and so did Linda. But in the pictures in her scrapbook, all the glamour appears to be taking a toll on her. She actually gained a lot of weight in only a few months from all the stress and traveling. And she was spending a lot of money.

Oh, I put myself into debt by chasing, like having to have the air veil, I don't regret it. It was really exciting to wear that dress for one night at the Costume Institute Gala. I would do it again. But it had major repercussions in my life that lasted for a long time. Financial repercussions. Financial repercussions?

Financial repercussions? Body dysmorphia? Linda started to wonder exactly why she was doing all this. Like, how much did I want to be like Susan Train? I mean, Susan was in many ways a very lonely person. I didn't want to depend on anyone for anything. Susan Train told a Vogue journalist in 2007. I never wanted to be identified with one click.

The profile adds that Susan Train knew every designer, but kept a professional distance, and that she intentionally did not spend time with Americans. Linda, apparently, was an exception. Well, I learned that what appears to be very glamorous could be very lonely. In watching Susan Linda realize that she didn't want to be quite so addicted to her work or quite so lonely or quite so thin. And then the best possible thing happened.

The show ended. The Teatro della Mode went back to Mary Hill and so did Linda, back to her little house on the cliff. But this whirlwind experience made Linda ready to move on. She went to live in New York for a spell and then eventually went back west. And she lives in Portland now, and she spent much of her career working in museums and collections there. She can drive to the Mary Hill Museum of Art in two hours. And she does, every so often, to remember this beacon of hope for post-war France and this evidence of a parallel life she once had. Because the other witnesses

to her story are mostly gone. My husband John met Susan and went to France for honeymoon. If I went to Paris and it was so great to see Susan, we had meals together and it was the last time I saw her. Most of the artisans and experts and historians who were involved with the mannequins in both of their incarnations have passed away. In a lot of ways this story has become lindas. I'm kind of sick of people talking about like I, you know, I did this or I had this and it changed my life, it changed my life, changing experience.

This actually changed my life. It taught me lessons that I think about today. After our weekend together, Linda sent me a quote that she had heard a long time ago which had stayed with her. It was attributed to Ben Brantley, the theater critic for the New York Times. Glamour is whatever you can't have. It is best perceived at a distance, either literally or emotionally. Knowledge kills Glamour. This just seemed so utterly true to Linda. She experienced the shadow side of her jet-set life with Susan. She knew about the suffering and deep trauma behind the tiny mannequins.

And yet, I personally don't know if knowledge kills Glamour entirely. Wounds it severely, for sure. But it's hard to completely destroy the illusion. The aspirational pull of fashion carves out a space in our imagination. It's why we dream of Paris, why we want to see Cardi B on the red carpet and vintage couture.

Glamour involves so much delicate placement of smoking mirrors for the people who occupy that rarefied air. So much so that the pleasure in it is really ours. We, the viewing public, the audience. Linda knows this, and I think that's why she enjoys the show. I don't want to go anyplace else on the night of the Oscars.

I want to be in front of my TV with absolute silence, and I just want to watch, but I don't want to be that. And I don't even want to be in that world. Not again. That once was enough. From the vantage point of Linda's living room, the beautiful people on TV seem so small and innocuous. They almost look like little dolls. The pockets are so beautiful. and innocuous. They almost look like little dolls. The pocket, the piece of paper, words from yesterday. There's a portrait painted on the things we love.

Articles of Interest was written and performed by Avery Truffleman, edited by Chris Baroube, scored by Ray Royal and Sean Raal. Fact checked by Tom Colligan with additional fact checking by Graham Haysha. Mix and Tech production by Sheree Fusef with additional mixing by Catherine Ray Mondo. Our opening and closing songs are by Sassami. Insight support and edits from the whole 99PI team, including Joe Rosenberg, Emmett Fitzgerald, Vivian Leigh,

Abby Medallon, Kurt Colstead, Delaney Hall, and Katie Mingle. And Roman Mars is the true fantasy of this whole series. In the first half of the 20th century, French high fashion was incredibly lucrative, but it's not as though Paris was making all that profit from the couple thousand women who could afford looks fresh off the runway. The big money maker was that department stores all over the world copied these looks and paid money to copy them. There was actually something to refer to as a licensed copy.

So that was if you were a French couturier, you could sell a license to a design. Retailers like barnies or orbox or wool warts, big stores all over the world would buy sketches or patterns from French designers and recreate the outfits to sell in their shops. And the label would say like, do you buy Bergerff's? So there's various labels.

Ariel Alaya curated an exhibit about counterfeits at the Fashion Institute of Technology. And she showed me a label from one of these licensed copies. So in here it says, Bergerff Goodman on the Plaza, New York, and it has the customer's name, the date, which is 1949, and the serial number to this, because they were only able to do a certain amount of copies

that was in the licensing agreement. These licensed copies were nowhere near as expensive and rare as the original runway designs, but they were still to a lesser degree, expensive and rare. So a Couture like Dior, he made sure that there was only maybe five or ten of that piece reproduced, because you want to maintain the exclusivity. This system of licensed copies more or less ended by the 1970s.

People didn't really care about wearing an entire designer outfit anymore, but they did still care about the clout of designers. You all of a sudden have it switched to more accessories. You have handbags and things like that. If you look at the 1980s with Logomania, that's where you start to see all of the monograms on the bags. Your next articles of interest are knockoffs.