May 1980Tara Matise Two pieces written - by Babs Conant. Published in May, 1980. Taung you can easily read from the attached photo image. Twilight may not be readable as an image, so I pasted the text here.
I remember the dress clearly; it was the only dress I'd ever heard of that had a name. Whenever my father referred to it, he would put on his "French look"-- tipped head, arched eyebrows, crimped mouth--and with a stiff bow, say, "Crepuscule, Madame.” My mother took it more seriously. "Its name means twilight,” she would say.
And Twilight was a perfect designation. The dress was floor-length and double-layered. The silk underskirt was a deep azure at the hemline and shaded to a lighter, almost wisteria blue at the shoulders. The outer layer of crepe was tacked in soft folds across the bodice so it fell in an easy cascade like river rapids, and then lay loosely over the skirting. Its color was of the sea, --almost aquamarine. The swishing interplay of the two textures and the shifting shades of blue gave an early evening translucence to the dress, and a strange feeling of great peace.
My parents often talked of their month in Paris. It was 1926, a much- delayed wedding trip given by my grandfather. It was truly France in the Grand Style, complete with ocean liner to Le Havre,first class coach to Paris, in the Grand Hotel, a room which fronted on the Eiffel Tower, tickets to the Opera, and tours to Ste. Chapelle. Indeed, the Paris they describe was idyllic; memory would not have allowed it otherwise. I don't even know how much was actually true and how much a collage of other experiences or Hollywood images. It was May (that much I know), and they spoke of tulips in the Tuilleries and of hearing disembodied echoes of the city from the level of cathedral gargoyles. One evening in a restaurant they ordered what they thought was shrimp, and were served snails, arranged in disconcerting naturalness on a lettuce leaf. Not knowing how to handle the little cupped tongs, they had to wait furtively until a couple at the neighboring table worked their way through an entire bottle of wine before eating their snails. When it came to describing the book stalls by the Seine, it was my mother who did the take-off, whispering the invitation to lurid pages. They were young, spring was benign, the War was over with my father safely home, and they had no way of knowing all the pain that lay ahead. I never asked them, but I believe it was
the happiest time in their lives.
It could have been by impulse or design, but one afternoon as they walked up the Champs Elysees, my father steered my astonished mother into the showroom of Balenciaga. After several hours of judicious pampering and the slow escalation of desire, they decided on not one, but two, items. One, on my father's insistence, was a nightgown. I never saw it and never wanted to; what child dares imagine her now middle-aged mother in sexy lingerie? The other was Twilight. We were told that when my mother walked from the dressing room to the long mirrors, everyone in the store drew in a breath. "Eet was made for you, Madame.” They looked at other models and tested a variety of styles, but they knew all along that the choice had been made. As my father paid the bill, he leaned towards the saleswoman and said in mock reproof, "You Devil, you." "Ah, Monsieur," she countered, "you are too kind.”
So...Twilight came to Brooklyn. The dress always signaled a special evening out: a reception at the Medical School, perhaps, or the Symphony, or a formal dinner. My mother always seemed transformed on those occasions: younger, light-hearted, energized.Standing next to my father in his black tux, she was stunning. As a little girl, I would think, "If only I could be a grown-up…". But I know now as an adult that she was clothed, in those moments, in memory.
As fashions changed and the nation clenched in austerity, Twilight was put away. It hung in the upstairs closet in a crinkly transparent bag, next to a fox stole and a Spanish cape of embroidered black twill lined with crimson silk. When we moved to New Jersey, the contents of that closet moved, too. As far as I know, Twilight was never worn again, but my mother seemed unable to give it away. She laughingly told of forcing herself to take it to a White Elephant sale--and then buying it back in the first hour. I used to wonder if she would ever take it out of its bag when she was depressed, to be healed in some way by its magic. It was as if it alone was a golden link to a golden, irretrievable past.
Then, in the early sixties, when my generation had all scattered and my parents were to move to a smaller house, my mother announced that the time had come to CULL. It was a monthlong family effort. We found homes for the excess furniture, recipients for the unwanted books, even a museum or two for the more valuable items. And for anything not otherwise accounted for, part of the living room and half of the hall closet were designated "Rummage Pile". The St. John's Spring Sale was the largest and most successful event of its kind in the country. For three days it took over the gymnasium of the elementary school, netting close to $10,000.00, year after year. Volunteers logged hundreds of hours sorting and pricing and selling; the floor space would be crowded with saw-horse tables, pipe hanger-bars, and cardboard bins of children's clothes and ice skates and toys. St. John's Spring Sale was a boon to families in transition.
Twilight went into the pile that year. I was not at home at the time, but I have a tiny sense of how it must have felt to bring it to the collection center. After some discussion, they hung a $4.00 price tag on the hanger. For the sale itself, my mother volunteered at the book table all day, and she tells of looking across the long room and seeing a swatch of shimmering blue hung alongside once-used bridesmaid dresses, long skirts, and the rejects from a hundred closets. The crowd pressed in; three check-out lines could barely keep up with it. In the clean-up after Opening Day, Twilight was still there. They dropped the price to $2.00.
On the second day of the sale, some tables were virtually emptied, and other areas well picked over, and a sense of space came back to the gym. When book sales slackened, my mother volunteered at other tables, and from time to time she checked the dress rack. Twilight was still there when they closed up shop that day.
The crowd always returned for the last day of Spring Sale. At noon, prices were automatically halved, and an hour before closing time, everything was dropped to give-away levels. The old pros would hover near the item they wanted and wait for the bell to ring. Then there was a scramble. Books were going for a dime apiece, ties six for a dollar. Twilight and its unsold companions were pegged at 40 each. My mother made a decision: at closing time she would buy it back rather than see it scrapped.
About fifteen minutes before the end of the sale, a short, broad-shouldered woman strode in. She was sweaty, and the hair stuck to her forehead. A blue work shirt was tucked loosely into khakis, and there was dried mud on her ankle boots. She walked purposefully to the dress rack and one by one picked off every dress there, piling them high on her muscular left arm. She could be heard arguing with the volunteer at the cash register, demanding the bulk price, "like last year." As she moved toward the door, the azure blue hem of Twilight dragged along the floor.
An ominous curiosity impelled an answer. My mother followed her out to her truck and said, "Might I ask what you will be doing with those dresses?”
The answer was unexpected. "We raise puppies, you know. This here's cheaper than cedar.”
She drove off, leaving motes of dust glistening in the sunlight.
