Prudence Farrow modeling for Biba.
Just like Theodore Twombly in “Her.”
(Wrote about a weird job I once had, for The Awl)
Good, strange things happen when you get a group of women together with no itinerary and no pressure. Man Repeller-type fashions flourished — from weird cat T-shirts to a baggy nightgown my friend referred to as “the boner-killer.” Other women wore their sexiest bathing suits and brightest lipstick. I saw a lot of body hair, and I’m talking less about on-trend bush than I am about furry calves. The kitchens, bathrooms, and other common areas were always clean and tidy because every woman pulled her own weight. (Anyone who has taken a mixed-gender ski trip with knows who’s most likely to be found cleaning up after dinner and who’s already in the hot tub with a cocktail.) We could do all of these things without wondering if we’d be perceived as sexless matrons or attention whores, without worrying if we were succumbing to stereotype, without harping on others to pitch in and do their part for the group.
We were never tragedies.
We were emergencies.
You call 9 – 1 – 1.
Tell them I’m having a fantastic time.
An early Tomorrowland attraction was Monsanto’s House of the Future, made entirely of plastic. It had the requisite picture phone and other Jetsonsonian appliances, but the most-talked-about feature was the microwave oven. “Nobody believed you could bake a potato in three minutes,” Years later, when Disneyland tried to tear down the plastic house, the wrecking ball just bounced off.
Scenes, I note, seldom illustrate my relation with Vanessa; it has been too deep for ‘scenes’. Vanessa and I were both what we call tomboys; that is, we played cricket, scrambled over rocks, climbed trees, were said not to care for clothes and so on.
Until she was fifteen indeed, she was outwardly sober and austere, the most trustworthy, and always the eldest; sometimes she would lament her “responsibilities”. But beneath the serious surface … there burnt also the…passion for art. …Once I saw her scrawl on a black door a great maze of lines, with white chalk. “When I am a famous painter-” she began, and then turned shy and rubbed it out in her capable way…She was awkward as a long-legged colt.
Woolf, of course, was more than a tomboy.