Bill Blass chose a heck of a way to start his memoir, “Bare Blass,” completed shortly before his death in June.
“Childhood bores the hell out of me,” he begins. A devil-may-care line. Just the way he talked.
“I think it bored me even as a child, although I am certainly aware that had it not been for the joylessness, colorlessness, and fatherlessness of my small-town Indiana childhood, I might not have gone anywhere.”
Who would guess that this hunk with the perfect quip for any occasion, this very American designer with the cultivated British accent who had society women and worldly-wise men vying for his attention — had had a “miserable childhood”?
Who would assume that his craving for a father figure initiated Blass’ long list of successes?
Blass bares much, but not all, in his memoir, begun before he was diagnosed with throat cancer.
Blass’ signature had long been the cigarette casually dangling from the side of his mouth or, in photos, held just-so, between his two fingers, with its smoke lazily rising as he creased his forehead in a studied pose.
His book is a fascinating read, even to this reporter who knew about him from his early days when he designed for Maurice Rentner, then knew him directly as his own name went on the labels of his sleek, all-American, sporty women’s clothes, then appeared on his very masculine men’s clothing collections, on cars, chocolates, sheets, et al.
In the opinion of a reporter who occasionally reminded Blass of his Indiana roots but only now realizes why he chose not to dwell on his birthplace, “Bare Blass” is a well-told, revealing read. Indiana was, of course, synonymous with the emptiness caused by his father’s suicide when Blass was 5 and, subsequently, his mother’s lifelong refusal to discuss his death.
It was all that, however, that made him want out. For those reasons, he wanted out. Early on, New York obsessed him; he had to be part of it.
Blass was a private person. Not that he would dream of shrinking from an audience or a social occasion. He loved parties, making an entrance with a grande dame, hobnobbing with a few celebrities here, a little royalty there, the creme de la creme of New York’s affluent scions and socialites.
But he never forgot his ladies west of the Hudson. He traveled thousands of miles each year for trunk showings (previews of his collections for the upcoming season) to meet the women who bought his clothes. In the mid-’70s, he writes, he racked up an average of 30,000 miles a year — a rarity for someone of his stature — with stops in Nashville, Detroit, Seattle, San Francisco, Phoenix, Dallas, Chicago.
He welcomed and entertained his “gals” and pals — the Oscar de la Rentas, the Bill Buckleys, the Henry Kissingers — at his homes, homes that were always his and only his. He never lived with anyone. Early in the book, he says it was lack of communication within his family that made him avoid “any kind of conflict or emotional entanglement.”
Blass had very good male friends — among them, fashion maven Niki de Gunsburg, author John Richardson, an assistant/associate/life-saver-in-a-cris is named Tom Fallon. But if there was anything beyond friendship, the world — not even his intime circle of Manhattanites — didn’t know it. Nowhere in his book does he share the identity of a male partner. He does write: “I’ve had one or two love affairs in my life. I’m 80 years old for God’s sake — don’t you imagine something might have happened?”
Never concealed sexuality
Elsewhere, he writes: “Although I have never made any attempt to conceal my sexuality, neither have I ever wanted to flaunt it.” He called a “hetero relationship” the most “natural way . . . to live one’s life.”
Women in general “pursued him,” according to Cathy Horyn, the New York Times’ fashion critic and the editor of “Bare Blass.”
Well-known women, such as Pat Buckley, Nancy Kissinger, Annette de la Renta, Barbara Walters, Nancy Reagan and Brooke Astor relished his friendship, his wicked sense of humor, his elegance. However, Lady Slim Keith — a friend of more than 20 years and divorced from Howard Hawks, Leland Hayward and Sir Kenneth Keith — thought it would simply take “a good woman,” in this case, Lady Slim Keith, to change their friendship into a marriage partnership. When Blass realized what she was plotting, he took off with his customary “I’m-outta-here,” much the same way he disappeared from parties when they turned boring. “There’s nobody that could get his coat on faster,” Horyn said.
In Blass’ words: “I never wanted marriage to a woman any more than I wanted an openly gay relationship with a man. . . . I knew I could be easily dominated by a partner.”
ButBill Blass was wholesomely down-to-earth when he wasn’t “on.” He loved chowing down — cheeseburgers, meatloaf, lemon meringue pie — with the same passion he had for the perfect martini (or two).
So, why a revealing book from a man whose life had been so private for so long?
He wanted the world — his friends, in particular — to know what he had not talked about, for example: The joy of coming into his own during his World War II Army days when he was part of an elite division of men who planned war strategy, who were part of the Battle of the Bulge.
“For me,” he writes, “the three and [a] half years that I spent in the army represented absolute freedom. I was truly on my own for the first time in my life.”
He adds: “After the war, there was no choice. I would always feel more comfortable in a heterosexual world than a homosexual one.”
In the chapter titled “Men,” Blass writes: “I’ve always preferred men who are men.” He calls Clark Gable “the sexiest man alive” and Sean Connery “the most magnetic man. . . . But it was [Gary] Cooper who really stood out. Believe me, he was the best-looking son of a bitch who ever lived.”
Horyn spent most weekends at Blass’ Connecticut home during the last two years of his life. Horyn interviewed, Blass reminisced; their conversations were recorded, then transcribed for Horyn to organize, edit, fill in the blanks.
Horyn has had a distinguished career as a writer of fashion and lifestyle stories for publications, including The Washington Post and Vanity Fair. The book shows her to be a deft, insightful editor as well.
Surprisingly forthright
Blass was “relentless” in getting all parts of his experiences down in written form, said his editor. She thought he would flinch at things she asked, but she was surprised by some of his revelations.
“No one knew he had maintained a friendship with his war buddy, Bob Tompkins, and his wife, Bunny,” Horyn said. It was a tight, loving friendship — not physical relationship — that began when Blass and Tompkins bonded in the Army.
Though “Bare Blass” has many photos, — the most touching andrevealing is Tompkins’ drawing of “Barnaby and Bill.”
An aging yellow Lab, Barnaby is alert, sitting beside his ailing best friend. Seeing Blass, with phone to his ear and minus a cigarette, still casually elegant but obviously ill, is touching, but quite wrenching.
Blass writes tenderly about his beloved Barnaby, increasingly filling his life and taking over his bed.
“Bill had never had a real understanding of family,” Horyn said. “He had not had that feeling of having someone in your life, someone to talk with, at any hour of the day or night. He was still looking for that person.”
Horyn said it was during those weekends in Connecticut and through the myriad interviews she conducted with his friends and others that Blass emerged, to her, as very “humane, very generous.”
“There was this sense of masculinity in Bill, immense dignity,” she said. “Make sure they say critical things!” he told Horyn relative to her interviews, which are bold-face inserts throughout the book, rather than woven into the text.
It is clearly Blass’ book, and it’s hard not to hear his voice while reading it, whether he talks about the ruthlessness of the industry he did not respect, the disappointment in failings of friends, the shock of having one friend, designer Jacques Tiffeau, attempt to take over his Blassport business.
Blass and Horyn finalized their book proposal with HarperCollins in January 2000; that spring his cancer was diagnosed. They lost six months after radiation robbed him of his voice and strength.
“The illness was his blessing in disguise,” Horyn said. “It made him want to talk.”
In his words: “This has been the strange, unexpected blessing of a disease that would have killed me if I had not, for once, let my friends into my life. It has made me more open.”
Then he started getting better, was at his best during the first half of 2001; she says he was robust and mentally sharp. They finished their book in March 2002; they read the final galleys three weeks before he died, a few days before he turned 80.
Well before then, they had talked about how they’d end the book. To nudge his thoughts, she asked him how he wanted to be remembered.
“He’d think about it and sometimes say, `I think I could be remembered for this . . . or this. . . . ‘” Horyn said.
In the book’s last chapter–just one page, titled “Bedazzled Boy” — Blass writes that perhaps he was, “after all, the typical American success story.” Small town, Depression, war, New York — with clothes his focus rather than oil or banking.
The chapter closes with, “So this is how I think I will be remembered. . . . “
On the next page is the recipe for “Bill Blass Meat Loaf.”
