![]() Rich, one of the co-owners, led the girls (and one specially invited boy) step by step through the painting process. They provide invitations (although I did Evite instead), tablecloths, plates/napkins, balloons, and all the painting supplies. I then sent in a deposit and showed up day of with cupcakes/water and they did the rest. She picked a snowman which I think will be great for years to come. They suggested several paintings based on the age of the guests and Isabelle got to pick the final painting. So I knew (well, anticipated) the party would be a slam dunk - and it was! The party was easy peasy to plan with the studio. Although she can jump the day away with the best of them at a bouncy house party, it's not really who she is. He kept me running with his requests for chicken noodle soup, Georgetown Cupcakes, chocolate milk and turkey chili.When I went to a paint night over the summer at The Parched Painterin Walpole, MA I knew right away that it would be the perfect spot to have Isabelle's 7th birthday party. He missed his own tiger-stenciled sheets and he called me Bad Nurse. He glowered at the closet that was too stuffed to close and barked at me to remove a hat from the wall, a broad-brim, pink-ribbon number that I’d worn to Easter Mass when I was little. I cleared out of my bedroom and gave him my queen-size bed. When André was spending the night with me for that inaugural, he got the flu and ended up staying for five days. He loved Jackie Kennedy’s style but turned on her when he learned that she had snubbed Ann Lowe, the Black designer of her wedding dress, calling Lowe simply “a colored dressmaker.” “They are for going to Starbucks.”Īs André said about his advice, “I AM NEVER WRONG!” He advised all women to moisturize their skin as well as Melania Trump, although, increasingly appalled with the racism he saw in the Trump White House, he instructed me: “We are never to talk about her again. “Rag & Bone bootees are not for going to the White House,” he instructed me when we were out of the receiving line. “ This is your date?” President Obama asked André, raising an eyebrow. “Blanche DuBois.”Īnother time, he took me to a White House brunch celebrating Barack Obama’s second inauguration. When André would see me getting ready to go out in a wrinkled cocktail dress, he would fold his arms over his chest and order me to go change, or risk looking like “a roadshow Rita Hayworth.” Although that sounded good to me. In fact, back in the ’70s, I threw out the family ironing board my mom had given me, in some sort of misguided feminist protest. ![]() Indeed, it was one of the wrinkles in our relationship. Later, after Diana Vreeland plucked the tall, skinny Black kid with the master’s in French literature from Brown University to be her unpaid assistant at the Metropolitan Museum Costume Institute, André understood completely when Vreeland ironed her dollar bills and tissues. His grandmother taught him that poverty is not an impediment to panache she boiled his sheets white and ironed his boxer shorts and towels. “So sad I got fat and had to resort to Scarlett curtains and portieres, disguised as caftans and djellabas!” he said. He did not want to be the size of a “manatee,” he told me, but “the smell of a biscuit in butter and molasses” was his “opioid,” evoking his grandmother’s love. His grandmother sparked some Proustian connections that would cause him problems later in life. ![]()
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