Reading that the owners of the Bill Blass fashion label were once again going to try to resuscitate it reminded me of the time I spent with Mr. Blass in the late 90s. I was an editor at Travel + Leisure (actually, that was still in the ampersand years), and the magazine had a tradition of running stories about a designer's favorite spots in a given destination: Miuccia Prada's Milan, Jil Sander's Hamburg, Tom Ford's Santa Fe. Because Blass was considered the quintessential all-American designer, the editor in chief and Blass decided that his story would be about places all over America. In fact, he had already been photographed at Lake Tahoe, and it was only when he was about to be shot in Kansas City that the powers that be realized that perhaps a writer should tag along.
I was never that interested in fashion, though when I was at Town & Country, before my T+L years, I did write a lot of fashion copy ("A Calvin Klein coat that's as black as midnight but so much warmer") and attend a bunch of runway shows, which were amazing theater. I knew who Blass was, but not much more other than that he had come from small-town Indiana, was welcomed in the higher parts of New York society, had over-licensed his name, and was presumably gay.
I don't recall the first time I met him, though I'm pretty sure it was at the airport, when I introduced myself. It wasn't long before he noted the length of my feet—yes, in a somewhat leering way—and began calling me Junior. (I had forgotten that detail until just this moment, even when, two weeks ago, I watched Me and Orson Welles and the main character gets referred to as "Junior" by Welles.) He liked teasing me: While we were at dinner in Kansas City, he asked if I had ever been an actor, because I reminded him of Jimmy Stewart, and when I said no, he said something along the lines of "Not even in college? Not even in porn?" A month or so later, when we flew to Boston, he greeted me at the airport by goosing me with his briefcase. I didn't hold any of it against him, because he was such a genuinely likable guy. And he clearly enjoyed hanging out with the photographer (Daniela Stallinger), her assistant (Tony, whose name I can't remember), and me. I think it was Tony who began calling him Bill—the rest of the world knew him as Mr. Blass—and my guess is that he found it refreshing to be around people who didn't kowtow.
I think we went to Kansas City first, and then Boston, but it could be the other way around. All I remember now are vignettes: Blass having to have his martini at lunch; complaining that the meatloaf wasn't as good as his ("My meatloaf is famous"); palling around with the guys who work the pit at a Kansas City barbecue joint; and so on. One morning, in Kansas City, Blass came down to the lobby and greeted us by saying, "There was a gift basket from my friend so-and-so. I took a bite of a cookie and then realized it was for DOGS!" Maybe you had to be there.
The story was a grab-bag, with images of Blass in Tahoe, Boston, and Kansas City, and text that was supposed to cover those places and many others. The only way to make it work was to have it be many little bits: his favorite fancy lunches, his favorite pies, restaurants his friends loved, and so on. The problem was, he often didn't want to be interviewed about any of that. He wanted to tell stories about "Johnny Stompamato fucking Lana Turner in Acapulco right on the beach" or how "everyone was shocked by Frank Sinatra screwing Mia Farrow" because he had been involved with Maureen O'Sullivan years before and was presumed to be her father. Those two anecdotes make him seem coarse, I suppose, but he was far from it; he simply knew how to be entertaining.
He was much more circumspect about his own life, although I did get to see two of his residences. I rented a car and drove to New Preston, Conn., one morning, interviewing him before he asked if I wouldn't rather take a walk around the property. Then his butler served us a cheese soufflé, salad, and wine, and I was sent back to the city. I think I got an hour, max, in his apartment on Sutton Place. He had the most gorgeous stuff. I was tempted to ask for an antiquity, as a keepsake, just to see what he'd say.
I never tried to ingratiate myself more than necessary, because I didn't want to be one of those people; I think that's why he found me strange. I regretted it later, when I read that he was writing a memoir, Bare Blass, with help from someone at The New York Times. The book was nice enough, but it didn't do him justice—not that I would have been able to do better, and not that he would have ever fully revealed himself. That wouldn't be Blass.
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