I recently started a relatively free subscription to Vogue. (I used some extra air miles.) Two days ago the September issue arrived – a bit late, but that’s probably because the mail carrier could have developed a hernia carrying it. The darn thing is one and a half inches thick, runs to over 900 pages, and reeks of perfume samples, about 90% advertising content, and a lot of ugly clothing.
Oh, there are some clothes I just love. Trust Oscar de la Renta and Valentino, among others, to come up with some stunning creations. The magazine goes next to my daughter-in-law, so I dog-eared several pages of my favorites for her to note.
The issue marks the 120th anniversary of Vogue. I subscribed to it way-back-when. Years (eons) ago I joshed that I went from Seventeen magazine to Vogue. There is no further step up. There is no fashion magazine for us almost-seventy types living in fixed-income territory and wearing what is most comfortable, most presentable, suited to many occasions, and classic enough to span the seasons as well as the years.
But I digress. The impetus for this blog entry was the lack in the anniversary issue of any pictures of my favorite super model from “my era”, namely Veruschka. Oh they had Twiggy and Jean Shrimpton, Iman and even Jerry Hall. But no Veruschka. Well, I was mildly miffed – I suppose perhaps the 70’s Vogue-Veruschka feud goes on – so I googled for some pictures of her. Even at the age of 73 she is still striking. And there, down among all the images, was one I’d cut out and still have in my own special scrapbook. I just adored this coat-of-many-colors. I once bought a rainbow striped caftan that was the closest I could get to the real thing.
Franco Rubartelli’s 60’s – photo from the blog Pleasurephoto This one will find its way into my electronic "Eye Candy" file. It is a pleasure photo.
[See that! Frank just strolled by behind my desk and saw the picture. “I remember – didn’t you have something like that? Where is it?” Or words to that effect. Well as things do go, it went. It had some strange unremovable stains down the side, and so I tossed it, donated it, whatever. It’s gone, alas, but he remembers, and I remember, and I still do have that page from Vogue.]