Essay: Memories of my stylish mother and my grandmother who wore it best
My mother believed in two things: the grace of Jackie Kennedy and the power of a fabulous gown. Measuring in at 5 feet 2 and weighing less than 100 pounds, she had to be particular as not to be swallowed whole by fabric.
Her favorite piece from her wardrobe was a black, burgundy and gold Mary McFadden floor-length number. Pleated like a classic Issey Miyake, it hugged her delicate figure. She often topped the look with a snug Chloé beaver jacket.
When I was a child, I remember the clink of her heels on the hardwood floor and the smell of Lauren perfume as she made her way on my father’s tuxedo-wearing arm to the door. Leaning down, she’d tell me I should finish my homework, and before my parents left our house in Encino for the evening, she’d plant a kiss of burgundy lipstick on my cheek.
I loved to shop with my mother. Often she’d bring me along on impromptu evening trips to Neiman Marcus or Saks Fifth Avenue. At 11, I’d remark with legs crossed, “It looks like Escada,” which was the kiss of death, or “It’s perfect, very Jackie,” when something looked good on her.
Talking fashion with her felt intimate and special.
“You know exactly what to say,” she’d tell me, which was the ultimate validation.
I’d earned my fashion education eschewing cartoons for “Style With Elsa Klensch” on CNN on lazy Sunday mornings with the Los Angeles Times and New York Times style sections to follow over breakfast.
Talking about fashion with her felt intimate and special.
I didn’t realize at the time that our shopping trips were her version of what we now like to call “self-care.” They usually followed an argument with my father or negative news from a doctor.
Sitting in my school uniform on the padded dressing room bench, my only thought was, “Would I ever be as chic?” It just didn’t seem possible. She was, in a word, fabulous.
Her closet, a dark wood, Carrie Bradshaw dream, was filled with pieces that reflected her eclectic taste. Some days she was in head-to-toe black; others she would throw on a vibrant purple Claude Montana asymmetrical jacket or an orange patterned Byblos number.
She loved a shoulder pad, a piece of statement jewelry and very high heels. An Yves Saint Laurent suit with jeweled buttons was a go-to for black tie events. A navy Christian Lacroix shirt dress with its vibrant white pocket square was a favorite day look. An Elsa Peretti scorpion necklace looked like a piece of art hanging from her neck, and a red, vintage bolero sweater was one of my favorite pieces simply because it was so unbelievably soft.
My mother kept pieces from my earliest years alongside hers. It amused me years later, finding a winter coat from my toddler years, a green wool, Nordic-looking piece hanging alongside her wool
In her T-shirt drawer, she kept a tiny black floral bikini bottom that I had worn as a baby. It was no larger than a folded table napkin. She once told me she had bought it in France for me, and that it was, indeed, very chic to go topless, even for a baby.
Even her pajamas were on point.
When my mother was ultimately diagnosed with bone cancer in 1997, she managed against great odds to make her final hospital stay somehow look fashion-forward.
Sitting in bed in her pastel Fernando Sanchez silk robe with oval gold reading glasses perched on her nose, she’d visit with her girlfriends, one more fabulous than the next. They came bearing Barneys New York bags filled with printed silk Natori caftans, issues of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar tucked under their arms and tiny tins of chocolate-covered espresso beans.
My mother came by her stylishness naturally. Her mother, an even smaller woman who had an immense personality, never left the house without being unquestionably pulled together. “Midge,” who earned the non-politically-correct nickname because of her 4-foot-11 frame, was rarely, if ever, seen without her oversized
Midge, a tried-and-true Angeleno, loved a scarf belt and would tell me, matter of factly, “It’s what I’m known for, doll,” when I complimented her on whatever silk number she had tied around her minuscule waist.
Midge, even in her 80s, believed in “dressing” and had strong opinions about everyone else’s style, always unsolicited and always shared.
In 2005, a few years before she passed away, I paid her a surprise visit at her West Hollywood home. Midge had been tidying up and was in her “cleaning outfit,” navy-blue capri pants and a red gingham oxford, knotted at the waist. The look was straight out of “Green Acres,” totally Eva Gabor-inspired, appropriately.
My own style has been harder to unearth. Most days I keep it simple: black skinny jeans, a J. Crew T-shirt and my reliable Isabel Marant Étoile “Dicker” boots.
I wear very little jewelry but always slip on at least one piece that belonged to either my mother or Midge to hold them close. Now a stainless steel, gold and diamond Paloma Picasso ring that was made for my mother in the early ’80s lives on my right hand.
I also keep pieces of theirs in my closet. The current rotation includes a black wool dress with a fur hem that belonged to Midge and a purple bouclé Jean Muir bubble coat that belonged to my mother. They hang with my jeans and T-shirts.
I’ll never wear either of them, but I love seeing them when I start my day. I like to think about who my mother and Midge were and what they wore, and how they were fearless, fabulous and totally, unapologetically themselves.
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