The establishment's own stylesâwell, for one thing they were too dull. And those understated clothes, dark woods, high ceilings, silversmithery, respectable nannies, and so forth and so on. For centuries their kind of power created stylesâPalladian buildings, starched cravatsâbut with the thickening democratic façade of American life, it has degenerated to various esoteric understatements, often crypticâTopsiders instead of tennis sneakers, calling cards with “Mr.” preceding the name, the right fork.
The magazines and newspapers began looking for heroines to symbolize the Other Society, Café Society, or whatever it should be called. At first, in the twenties, they chose the more flamboyant debutantes, girls with social credentials who also moved in Café Society. But the Other Society's styles began to shift and change at a madder and madder rate, and the Flaming Deb idea no longer worked. The last of the Flaming Debs, the kind of Deb who made The Cover of
Life
, was Brenda Frazier, and Brenda Frazier and Brenda Frazierism went out with the thirties. More recently the Girl of the Year has had to be more and more exotic ⦠and extraordinary. Christina Paolozzi! Her exploits! Christina Paolozzi threw a twenty-first birthday party for herself at a Puerto Rican pachanga palace, the Palladium, and after that the spinning got faster and faster until with one last grand centripetal gesture she appeared in the nude, face on, in
Harper's Bazaar
. Some became Girls of the Year because their fame suddenly shed a light on their style of life, and their style of life could be easily exhibited, such as Jackie Kennedy and Barbra Streisand.
But Baby Jane Holzer is a purer manifestation. Her style of life has created her fameârock and roll, underground movies, decaying lofts, models, photographers, Living Pop Art, the twist, the frug, the mashed potatoes, stretch pants, pre-Raphaelite hair, Le Style Camp. All of it has a common denominator. Once it was power that created high style. But now high styles come from low places, from people who
have no power, who slink away from it, in fact, who are marginal, who carve out worlds for themselves in the nether depths, in tainted “undergrounds.” The Rolling Stones, like rock and roll itself and the twistâthey come out of the netherworld of modern teen-age life, out of what was for years the marginal outcast corner of the world of art, photography, populated by poor boys, pretenders. “Underground” moviesâa mixture of camp and Artistic Alienation, with Jonas Mekas crying out like some foggy echo from Harold Stearn's last boat for Le Havre in 1921: “You filthy bourgeois pseudo-culturati! You say you love artâthen why don't you give us money to buy the films to make our masterpieces and stop blubbering about the naked asses we show?âyou mucky pseuds.” Teen-agers, bohos, camp culturati, photographersâthey have won by default, because, after all, they
do
create styles. And now the Other Society goes to them for styles, like the decadenti of another age going down to the wharves in Rio to find those raw-vital devils, damn their potent hides, those proles, doing the tango. Yes! Oh my God, those raw-vital proles!
The ice floe is breaking, and can't one see, as Jane Holzer sees, that all these peopleâwell, they
feel
, they are alive, and what does it mean simply to be sitting up in her Park Avenue apartment in the room with two Rubenses on the wall, worth half a million dollars, if they are firmly authenticated? It means almost nothing. One doesn't feel it.
Jane has on a “Poor” sweater, clinging to the ribs, a new fashion, with short sleeves. Her hair is up in rollers. She is wearing tight slacks. Her hips are very small. She has a boyish body. She has thin arms and long, long fingers. She sits twisted about on a couch, up in her apartment on Park Avenue, talking on the telephone.
“Oh, I know what you mean,” she says, “but, I mean, couldn't you wait just two weeks? I'm expecting something to jell, it's a movie, and then you'd have a real story. You know what I mean? I mean you would have something to write about and not just Baby Jane sitting up in her Park Avenue apartment with her gotrocks. You know what I mean? ⦠well, all right, but I think you'll have more of a storyâ ⦠well, all right ⦠bye, pussycat.”
Then she hangs up and swings around and says, “That makes me mad. That wasâââ. He wants to do a story about me and do you know what he told me? âWe want to do a story about you,' he told me, âbecause you're very big this year.' Do you know what that made me feel like? That made me feel like, All right, Baby Jane, we'll let you play this year, so get out there and dance, but next year, well, it's all over for you next year, Baby Jane. I mean,â! You know? I mean, I felt like telling him, âWell, pussycat, you're the Editor of the Minute, and you know what? Your minute's up.'”
The thought leaves Jane looking excited but worried. Usually she
looks excited about things but open, happy, her eyes wide open and taking it all in. Now she looks worried, as if the world could be such a simple and exhilarating place if there weren't so many old and arteriosclerotic people around to muck it up. There are two dogs on the floor at her feet, a toy poodle and a Yorkshire terrier, who rise up from time to time in some kind of secret needle-toothed fury, barking coloratura.
“Oh,âââ,” says Jane, and then, “You know, if you have anything at all, there are so many bitchy people just
waiting
to carve you up. I mean, I went to the opening of the Met and I wore a white mink coat, and do you know what a woman did? A woman called up a columnist and said, âHa, ha, Baby Jane rented that coat she went to the Met in. Baby Jane rents her clothes.' That's how bitchy they are. Well, that coat happens to be a coat my mother gave me two years ago when I was married. I mean, I don't care if somebody thinks I rent clothes. O.K.ââââ! Who cares?”
Inez, the maid, brings in lunch on a tray, one rare hamburger, one cheeseburger and a glass of tomato juice. Jane tastes the tomato juice.
“Oh,âââ!” she says. “It's diet.”
The Girl of the Year. It is as though nobody wants to give anyone credit for anything. They're only a
phenomenon
. Well, Jane Holzer did a great deal of modeling before she got married and still models, for that matter, and now some very wonderful things may be about to happen in the movies. Some of it, well, she cannot go into it exactly, because it is at that precarious stageâyou know? But she has one of the best managers, a woman who manages the McGuire Sisters. And there has been talk about Baby Jane for
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf,
the movie, and
Candy
â
“Well, I haven't heard anything about itâbut I'd
love
to play Candy.”
And this afternoon, later on, she is going over to see Sam Spiegel, the producer.
“He's wonderful. He's, you know, sort of advising me on things at this point.”
And somewhere out there in the apartment the dogs are loose in a midget coloratura rage amid patina-green walls and paintings by old Lowland masters. There is a great atmosphere in the apartment, an atmosphere of patina-green, faded plush and the ashy light of Park Avenue reflecting on the great black and umber slicks of the paintings. All that stretches on for twelve rooms. The apartment belongs to the Holzers, who have built a lot of New York's new apartment houses. Jane's husband, Leonard, is a slim, good-looking young man. He went to Princeton. He and Jane were married two years ago. Jane came from Florida, where her father, Carl Brookenfeld, also made a lot of
money in real estate. But in a way they were from New York, too, because they were always coming to New York and her father had a place here. There was something so stimulating, so flamboyant, about New York, you know? Fine men with anointed blue jowls combed their hair straight back and had their shirts made at Sulka's or Nica-Rattner's, and their wives had copper-gold hair, real chignons and things, and heavy apricot voices that said the funniest thingsâ“Honey, I've got news for you, you're crazy!”âthings like that, and they went to El Morocco. Jane went to Cherry Lawn School in Darien, Connecticut. It was a progressive school.
And then she went to Finch Junior College:
“Oh, that was just ghastly. I wanted to flunk out and go to work. If you miss too many classes, they campus you, if you have a messy room, they campus you, they were always campusing me, and I always sneaked out. The last spring term I didn't spend one night there. I was supposed to be campused and I'd be out dancing at El Morocco. I didn't take my exams because I wanted to flunk out, but do you know what they did? They just said I was out, period. I didn't care about that, because I wanted to flunk out and go to work anywayâbut the way they did it. I have a lot of good paintings to give away, and it's too bad, they're not getting any. They were not
educators.
They could have at least kept the door open. They could have said, âYou're not ready to be a serious student, but when you decide to settle down and be a serious student, the door will be open.' I mean, I had already paid for the whole term, they
had
the money. I always wanted to go there and tell them, well, ha ha, too bad, you're not getting any of the paintings. So henceforth, Princeton, which was super-marvelous, will get all the paintings.”
Jane's spirits pick up over that. Princeton! Well, Jane left Finch and then she did quite a bit of modeling. Then she married Lennie, and she still did some modeling, but the real breakâwell the whole
thing
started in summer in London, the summer of 1963.
“Bailey is fantastic,” says Jane. “Bailey created four girls that summer. He created Jean Shrimpton, he created me, he created Angela Howard and Susan Murray. There's no photographer like that in America. Avedon hasn't done that for a girl, Penn hasn't, and Bailey created four girls in one summer. He did some pictures of me for the English
Vogue
, and that was all it took.”
But how does one really explain about the Stones, about Bailey, Shrimp and Mickâwell, it's not so much what they
do
, that's such an old idea, what people
do
âit's what they
are,
it's a revolution, and it's the kids from the East End, Cockneys, if you want, who are making it.
“I mean today Drexel Duke sits next to Weinstein, and why shouldn't
he? They both made their money the same way, you know? The furniture king sits next to the catsup king, and why shouldn't he-sort-of-thing. I mean, that's the way it was at the opening of the Met. A friend of mine was going to write an article about it.
“I mean, we don't lie to ourselves. Our mothers taught us to be pure and you'll fall in love and get married and stay in love with one man all your life. O.K. But we know it doesn't happen that way and we don't lie to ourselves about it. Maybe you won't ever find anybody you love. Or maybe you find somebody you love four minutes, maybe ten minutes. But I mean, why lie to yourself? We know we're not going to love one man all our lives. Maybe it's the Bombâwe know it could all be over tomorrow, so why try to fool yourself today. Shrimp was talking about that last night. She's here now, she'll be at the party tonightâ”
The two dogs, the toy poodle and the Yorkshire terrier, are yapping, in the patina-green. Inez is looking for something besides diet. The two Rubenses hang up on the walls. A couple of horns come up through the ashy light of Park Avenue. The high wind of East End London is in the airâwhhhooooooooo
Â
ooooooooooooosh! Baby Jane blows out all the candles. It is her twenty-fourth birthday. She and everybody, Shrimp, Nicky, Jerry, everybody but Bailey, who is off in Egypt or something, they are all up in Jerry Schatzberg's â¦
pad
⦠his lavish apartment at 333 Park Avenue South, up above his studio. There is a skylight. The cook brings out the cake and Jane blows out the candles. Twenty-four! Jerry and Nicky are giving a huge party, a dance, in honor of the Stones, and already the people are coming into the studio downstairs. But it is also Jane's birthday. She is wearing a black velvet jump suit by Luis Estevez, the designer. It has huge bell-bottom pants. She puts her legs together ⦠it looks like an evening dress. But she can also spread them apart, like so, and strike very Jane-like poses. This is like the Upper Room or something. Downstairs, they'll all coming in for the party, all those people one sees at parties, everybody who goes to the parties in New York, but up here it is like a tableau, like a tableau of ⦠Us. Shrimp is sitting there with her glorious pout and her textured white stockings, Barbara Steele, who was so terrific in 8½, with thin black lips and wrought-iron eyelashes. Nicky Haslam is there with his Byron shirt on and his tiger skin vest and blue jeans and boots. Jerry is there with his hair flowing back in curls. Lennie, Jane's husband, is there in a British suit and a dark blue shirt he bought on 42nd Street for this party, because this is a party for the Rolling Stones. The Stones are not here yet, but here in the upper room are Goldie and the Gingerbreads, four girls
in gold lame tights who will play the rock and roll for the party. Nicky discovered them at the Wagon Wheel. Gold lame, can you imagine? Goldie, the leader, is a young girl with a husky voice and nice kind of slightly thickâyou knowâglorious sort of
East End
features, only she is from New Yorkâah, the delicacy of mirror grossness, unabashed. The Stones' music is playing over the hi-fi.