Elegance

"Do anything you want in life. But do it with some goddamn elegance. Be a marching band. Be a priest. Be a clown. But do it with grace." -- Vivienne Satienne

Vivienne had it all in perspective. She knew even the trashiest bordello could be looked upon with admiration if the ladies held some respect for the work. Forgiving of course that many things in life we are forced to do and therefore we are less likely to project the much needed oomph and ahh that our tasks require to resonate with the otherworld, she knew what she was talking about. Essentially, without elegance --as she referred to it; she may've just as well said "class" or "dignity" or even simply "honesty"-- we were all desperately close to appearing like the very pimps and whores we often are.

She came from a time where you smile and nod. Or sometimes simply nod--smiling made no difference; it was and it was--you don't decide and whether you enjoy it is hardly the point of it all. Her parents raised her with a work ethic that she transferred into fierce dedication towards presentation. On her first interview with a would-be Hollywood producer (the grabby hands from behind lot 4) she knew to be taken seriously, he would ignore the torn stocking and the amateur lipstick job if she kept her shoulders back, made no care towards the absolute sin that was her fur (darling, the line between chinchilla and opossum is bolder than you'd once believed), and spoke with authoritative sweetness.

It was a bit part, but a snowball into better bit parts. I would sit wide-eyed as she'd tell me celluloid scraps inappropriate enough for my six-year-old ears to be wildly frightening and alluring all the same. In my eyes, no greater star... to the world, a never-was.

If I am to be a never-was, I shall at least allow myself a strong shot of confidence, some impractical shoes, and the hunger that comes from eating too often to then very well starve.

A toast.

Ode to a One Night

Stand.
Or don't.
Do anything but stay.

Discovering Vivienne (Part 1)

I'm finding myself obsessing about the men in my grandmother's life.

I am well aware that she kept secrets from her children, one of which ended up being my naive but loving mother. Vivienne, in her tenure as employable if not memorable actress of the golden age of theatre and screen, met several callers around the studios and (if letters serve as any indication) back alleys.

Whether I have more in common with Vivienne than I initialized could have realized, I know that she laughed off all decadence with a wave of Sally Bowles' hand gestures. "Oh, Viktor, mah deah, it waaaaaas wonderfullll... but I dearn't tell you too much. You'll get ideas."

I had lots of ideas. And when Vivienne died, I felt it only fitting that I completely discard her request for discretion and privacy and instead pore over volumes of her journals, scrap books, and notebooks marked "Viktor, you naughty boy."

She knew me too well.

But she didn't exactly hide it that well.


"VIKTOR... One must never apologize for curioisty. I am certain you waited a proper time after my burial (good heavens, if I'm on that fucking mantle!) to open these.

I suggest you move past the childhood years. They are lean and uncomfortable. You're after glamour. That comes--briefly--in my New York years. Los Angeles... more lean. The fattest and happiest times is in London. You can live longer than you'd suspect on the mash you find there. It helps that you have a swallow and then never want for it again.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

I love you, Viktor. You were the best thing my daughter ever managed to do.

Idolize me as I you,
Vivienne"

I moved Vivienne from the mantle that night, to the porch.

The chimes sang me to sleep.