Comp & Detail

Mom was a privileged 30’s baby and daddy’s girl. Chicago duplex, gloves and hats. Flirty, lipsticked, hair did, and a stream of young callers. She raised us to be pressed and combed.

Her horseback riding accident and TBI led to divorce and we were officially in free fall. She spent our alimony on pretty things. I don’t blame her. She was putting her best foot forward in the wake. She did what she was taught.

I recently came across my mother’s sketches and the many swatches she laid out on the dining table to discuss show clothes with the boys. I reckon that was my first design meeting. You can spot Sibyl’s shiny, stripy lewks in old, classic Van Halen photos.

I spent my latch key hours drawing and making doll clothes till the sun went down. I learned to sew on an ancient Singer and styled my early roles. For Alice, I free-handed a pinafore out of a sheet, paired it with a blue dirndl and squoze into some outgrown Mary Janes. It was a solid interpretation. I walked my $11 to the Disabled Veterans and built a complete wardrobe for my turn as Anne Frank. And survived walking the dregs alone. My estranged parents battled so much about money, I thought we were broke. I figured out how to get shit done.

My siblings lived with my dad. I trailed my brother like a puppy and he didn’t seem to mind. Helmut Newton shot at the house and Neil Zlozower was a fixture. Masters. Slide shows were held in the study where they made their selects. An unruly fly zone was a point of discussion. I won’t name the worst offender on that tip. Those meetings were lively.

I had more autonomy than I knew what to do with, but an education money can’t buy. As my dad would say, it’s never a clean getaway, but I still made off with the good. The rest I’ll work out in therapy.