The Asylum Read Online Free PDF Page A

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    BACK IN THE LAST CENTURY, back before the notion of empowerment gathered steam, back before we all turned against authority figures and began “doing our own thing,” the fashion world was governed by an elite group of dictatorial maniacs. These tyrants felt duty bound to machine-gun the rest of the population with inspirational commands and bossy edicts. They told women to “think pink!” and to never picnic without a candelabra, to always use a coral ciggie holder, and to “banish the beige!”
    Yes, Polly Mellen, I am talking about you.
    Editor and visionary, La Mellen displayed no interest in prosaic dos and don’ts or prissy suburban etiquette. Fashion, for Polly, is, and has always been, a majestic, magical, mysterious galleon in full sail, and you would be INSANE not to hurl convention to the wind and jump on board.
    While her reputation within the fashion world is the stuff of legend—in her decades-long career as a fashion editor, she collaborated with the greatest photographers of the twentieth century—she is perhaps best known for upstaging Isaac Mizrahi in what might be the most intriguing fashion movie of all time, namely
Unzipped.
    â€œFussy finished,” intones Mellen, silencing all further debate on the issue of simplicity versus ornamentation for the rest of eternity.
    â€œBe careful of makeup. Be careful,” says Mellen, sending a shiver of regret down the spine of anyone who has ever not been sufficiently wary of mascara or foundation and lived to tell the tale.
    As her collaborations with Avedon and Bruce Weber et al can attest, Polly was always explosively hyperbolic and provocative. However, her creative flights of fancy are underpinned with a can-do practicality. Posture-perfect Polly is from the never-complain-never-explain school of life, advising women to “walk like a winner . . . do your crying at home.”
    Polly’s enthusiasm for style is unbridled and unparalleled. I was present at shows where she excitedly clutched handfuls of skirt fabric as gals trotted down the runway, bringing the proceedings to a screeching halt. Sometimes Polly was so bowled over by a particular garment or model that she would be able to utter only one word, and that word was “chills.”
    I first encountered Polly in the mid-eighties. She blasted into the mayhem of a busy sportswear wholesale showroom. I had stopped by to visit a pal whose job was flogging these
schmattas
to the big department stores.
    â€œPolly’s here!” hissed the fashion pack, and it hid behind its collective lacquered Ming Dynasty fan. Chills.
    Polly and her gaggle of assistants caused an immediate frisson of excitement. It was like a scene from William Klein’s genius surrealist fashion fantasy,
Qui Êtes-Vous, Polly Maggoo?
with Lady Mellen in the role of the editor, the lady who declares,
“Vous avez recréer la femme!”
to the stunned designer.
    Upon sighting the racks of sporty commercial samples, Ms. Mellen froze in the doorway. Her eyebrows shot up in the air and she gasped audibly. All eyes swiveled toward Polly. We waited for her to speak.
    â€œSomething is happening!” she said, sniffing the air like a panther seeking out a gazelle for lunch.
    â€œ
Something
is definitely happening . . . right here!”
    We all knew Polly was intuitive, but who knew she could suss out genius without even coming within twenty feet of the clothing in question?
    She turned and addressed her posse.
    â€œSomething
is
happening here. Mark my words. And you, and you, and you must stay here until you find out exactly what it is,” she said, pivoting on her heels and abandoning her bewildered assistants.
    â€œDO NOT LEAVE!”
    The assistants looked at one another like a bunch of startled ferrets for about five minutes. When they were sure Madam Polly was in the elevator, they slowly began