When I was a kid I played with dolls. I was an only child and (maybe
consequently) I had a lot of dolls. These were not mushy baby dolls;
they were “fashion dolls.” This was the 1950s, folks, pre-Barbie.
My favorite dolls were Madame Alexander dolls (they came in two
sizes: 12-inch and 8-inch) and what were called Ginny dolls, which were
only eight inches tall. That’s what I asked for at F.A.O. Schwarz at
Christmas and birthdays, by size and hair color. I think I had about 10
by the time I outgrew them in sixth grade or so.
My mother could never understand why my dolls didn’t have names. She
encouraged me to name them but I never did. I referred to the dolls as
the 12-inch dolls and the 8-inch dolls when requesting a present of a
new doll or clothing for the dolls I already had. Happily for me, my
grandmother was a superior sewer, and she would come up with fabulous
outfits for them (and me). Her creations featured lace, tiny buttons and
dimity prints, old-fashioned puffed sleeves, and pantaloons.
Occasionally something satin would show up, or sometimes a bit of fur.
My grandmother went to the theater a lot, and she was very
sophisticated.
My dolls were clotheshorses. Their job was to put on clothes. My job
was to decide what they would put on. I was a fashion editor in
training.
An activity that kept me busy for hours was to put all of my
custom-made and store-bought dolls clothes in a pile on the floor. Then
each 12-inch doll and each 8-inch doll could “pick” one dress. After
each one picked a dress she would wear it and then each got to pick
another until all the clothes were sorted evenly. I can’t remember what
happened after that. Maybe I would have lunch.
I never messed with their hair the way some kids did. I treated them
like princesses. They were models and they got to be admired.
One of my friends, with whom I spent many rainy girly afternoons,
would not play this doll clothes sorting game with me. I would let her
pick a doll from my lineup and let her doll pick out clothes but she
declared that her doll was poor and lived in a tenement and could only
have one dress. I just could not understand this. It frustrated the hell
out of me. Why wouldn’t her doll want to play dress-up?! Her doll would
sit on an upside-down chair (read: tenement) and watch my doll. It was
never fun to have it so inequitable, and eventually we would play
checkers or draw. Having a doll who was poor was just not a concept I
could grasp. Years later my mother mentioned that her parents were both
social workers and I suppose that explained some of it. (Or maybe she
just didn’t want to play that game.) I do not know what happened to her,
but I grew up to be a clotheshorse.
According to Google, “clotheshorse” is considered a derogatory term. I
do not have a problem with the title. For me, it’s clothes-play, not so
much the buying of an outfit as the assembling of a look. That’s the
fun part. Shopping my own closet, I really play dress-up every day.
And when the seasons change I re-acquaint myself with clothes I
haven’t seen for months by trying everything on. Warm weather to cold
and back. Two times a year I go through that ritual. In between I do
things with other people’s clothes: I volunteer at the Ladies Village
Improvement Society thrift shop in East Hampton.
One of the things we clothes-loving volunteers do is sort and
categorize all the clothes that are donated week to week and season to
season. Does this sound like all my doll clothes in a pile with the
dolls picking? Yes indeedy. We are grown-ups and we have fun like little
girls.
We ask aloud: “What was she thinking? How could she give this up? Did
she retire and not need office clothes anymore?” Hence the Armani suits
and stiletto heels, the mink coat, or the Oscar de la Renta ball gown.
We also wonder why people donate gym clothes straight from their gym
bags, but that’s another matter entirely.
When we have finished sorting — summer, winter, designer, and
specialty collections like bathing suits and leopard-printed things —
the clothes that are season-appropriate hit the floor, priced to sell.
And then my real fun begins. I dress the thrift shop mannequins every
Monday. While the shop is closed for weekly restocking you will find me
with three mannequins, bald and naked (them, not me), and a rolling
rack of curated outfits for my “girls.” I want them to look great when
the doors open each Tuesday.
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| Oh you beautiful dolls |
Some might think you just put clothes on the bodies, but I am here to
tell you that it’s more complicated and intimate than that. The
mannequins have faces and their faces have real character and their
postures give them attitude. Like real people, some clothes actually
look better on one than on another. I often change their outfits even
after I have gotten them all dressed. I take into consideration that the
athletic looking one should not be wearing something ruffly; I have
tried and that stuff just looks wrong on her. I know that sounds silly,
but in truth it’s merchandising. How can you make someone want to buy
something if it looks crappy on the model?
There is a fourth model, and while I refer to her as one of “the
girls” she is really just a torso (no face, arms, or legs). I don’t feel
I need to cater to her attitude as far as outfits go. She does wear
jewelry well, however, and often gets something with a deep V neckline. The other dames I dress have removable arms and hands. To get them
into clothing means that the floor gets littered with random hands and
arms and wigs.
Interestingly, the L.V.I.S. gets many donations of wigs. Some of the
wigs are very beautiful and were no doubt very expensive. We can’t
really sell them. Consequently I have a bin of wigs I sort through each
week for the girls. One wig might look good with one outfit and wrong
with another. One wig will suit one mannequin, while the same wig will
make another look slutty. There is a wig I call Meg Ryan hair, which
looks good on all three of the girls. There is a gray wig with bangs
that I am partial to, but it does not look good with every outfit.
Sometimes the girls are all blondes, sometimes brunettes. I love doing
this.
To some of you readers this may sound like the dumbest waste of
imagination, but for others of you this is a dream job. Admit it.
Each week I pick a fashion theme. For Easter the girls were in bright
pastel colors. The week before everyone was wearing flowered dresses
for spring. Sometimes they are in black-and-white stripes, and they have
been known to all wear denim jackets. Once they all wore gingham
shirts, but accessorized to give them entirely different looks. My aim
is to educate and inspire, much like the editorial pages of a fashion
magazine. Yes, you can wear this with that, and have you considered a
yellow pashmina with that red shift?
Well, you could say (loudly) that I do get carried away choosing the
right scarf or bag or earrings for each dame, but for me it is fun. I
want the outfits to get sold: The aim is to have the girls look so good
that people want to buy what they are wearing. Some outfits only last a
day or two and are replaced quickly by the sales staff. Come in Tuesday
mornings to see the girls in their fullest fashion glory.
The mannequins are really my own very big fashion dolls. Unlike my
childhood dolls, these dames will soon have names! In May, there will be
an opportunity for everyone in town to name each mannequin. After the
hunt for names is over, the dames will be called by their names forever.
(I know what I call one of them behind her back, but I am not sharing
that yet.)
Here’s how it will work: There will be ballots at the cashier that
people can fill in and place in a jar for the whole month. There will be
space for four names in the order of how they are standing in display.
The ballots can be filled again and again. Kids are encouraged to
participate. The ballots will be put into a container and behind closed doors each mannequin will magically pick her own name.
So unlike my childhood dolls who remained nameless, soon I will be
dressing Clara or Monique or Jemima, Carmen, Prunella, or Daisy,
Murgatroyd, Melania, Ivanka, Sophia, Emma, Gabriela, Isabella, Zoe,
Clementine, or Betty. Stay tuned.
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| Durell Godfrey says this picture explains why she's partial to the gray wig with bangs |
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