T Magazine: Editor's Letter

From top: Cedric Buchet; William Abranowicz (2).In this issue of T, Halle Berry shows off this season’s jackets and jeans (top right) and the jewelry designer Gabriella Kiss (bottom right) lets readers see her workshop (left).

As the editors of T were sending this issue to press, we found ourselves thinking about the idea of women’s beauty that runs through its pages. Could there be a more pervasive, and loaded, topic? At a recent dinner party, as the talk turned to politics, in no time did Michelle Obama’s fingernail color at the Democratic National Convention enter the conversation. The substance of her speech seemed only to be amplified by the notion that she told her manicurist, What the heck, let’s go with gray.

Nail polish is, of course, less on our minds than the fascination with how a person chooses to display herself. Though make no mistake: with the help of T’s indefatigable beauty and style director, Sandra Ballentine, you’ll find plenty of information here about how women are deciding to make themselves look lovely — from how they part their hair (in the center) to how they treat their skin (just please don’t overpeel) — and to feel like self-determined participants in our quickly changing culture.

Isn’t that what we really talk about when we talk about beauty: keeping up with the pace of change? Not just deciding when to jump on the color wheel — electric pink glitter eye shadow? Why not — but also retaining some measure of grace and poise as wrinkles come, relationships go, and time, in its messy, wisdom-bestowing way, marches on. One day you might be one of “The In Crowd,” figuring out your style and forming fast friendships in Tyrone Lebon and Sara Moonves’s playful fashion shoot; the next you may be the jewelry designer Gabriella Kiss, who’s created her own incredibly stylish universe out of a lifetime of work, family and gorgeous things.

There are few women in the public eye who have more elegantly embraced the passing of the years than Halle Berry. Some of those years, by her own account, haven’t been easy. But as Joyce Maynard’s thoughtful profile of the actress shows, Berry has turned obstacles into the building blocks of a remarkable life as a movie star and as a mother. And if Berry has her way (is there any doubt?), her 4-year-old daughter will grow up knowing what truly makes her beautiful, no what matter what color nail polish she chooses.

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Neighborhood Joint: Yummy Mummy

Brands with faintly ridiculous names are ubiquitous in the breast-feeding world. At the Upper East Side’s breast-feeding resource Yummy Mummy, you’ll find Bamboobies breast pads, Mama Mio’s OMG Feel Good skin care kit, and as shown here, a stylish Boob nursing top.

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Remembering Mary McCarthy’s Style

Among those who spoke or sent contributions memorializing the literary rapier whom Time once called “quite possibly the cleverest woman America has ever produced” were the novelist Diane Johnson; Robert B. Silvers, the editor of The New York Review of Books; a McCarthy biographer, Frances Kiernan; an executor of her literary estate, Margo Viscusi; the author Laura Furman; and a granddaughter, Sophie Wilson.

A small exhibition of Ms. McCarthy’s articles and books accompanied the Paris celebration. Seattle-born and arguably Partisan Review-bred, she spent most of her later years in Paris and donated many articles and books to the library.

Those among us who do not remember our first time with “The Group” (now somehow mixed up with our crush on “Mad Men”), raise a hand.

“Any female critic writing today owes something to her,” said Sarah Weinman, a publishing columnist. “And she’s been held up as comparison for so much big women’s fiction. She was a sharp critic, a great champion of underappreciated writers. She was caustic, and she spoke her mind.”

Ms. McCarthy, who died in 1989 at age 77, also created an aura, trading up from her scruffy image at Vassar to an elegant look all her own.

“If you were to make a movie of Mary McCarthy’s life,” the editor William Abrahams told Ms. Kiernan in the early 1990s, “Grace Kelly could have played the part.”

Could we possibly be having a McCarthy Moment in fashion? This season’s little black cutaway dress from Balenciaga? Or that pretty tie-neck blouse from Lanvin (just look at the author’s portrait-sitting with Cecil Beaton)? She visited both design houses and shopped for leather goods at Mark Cross, cashmere at Brooks Brothers, suits at Bonwit Teller and gloves and scarves at Hermès. All last summer we had espadrilles (hers came from Lanvin); this fall features 1940s-ish cropped jackets, and Williamsburg, Brooklyn, is grooving on Peter Pan collars.

“She combined sexy and tailored,” Ms. Kiernan said. “It’s cool now.”

Many female writers whom Ms. McCarthy inspired intellectually reflect her style as well. A. M. Homes’s new McCarthy-ish novel, “May We Be Forgiven,” earned her an austere, short-waisted photo straight out of the McCarthy playbook. The cover art of Susanna Moore’s latest, a World War II novel called “The Life of Objects,” elicits a McCarthy double-take: a woman’s photograph from the ’30s, in profile, naturally, hair in a bun.

Mentioning her name evokes not only the extraordinary number of images of the writer published over the years, but “a literary figure, a political figure, an urbane figure, a very witty figure who had honesty and wasn’t shy about expressing her opinions,” said Ronald Patkus, who organized the Vassar show. “It’s time for people to think about the role she played in the early and mid-20th century.”

Claire Messud, a novelist and critic, refers to the intertwining of Ms. McCarthy’s appearance and pointed intellect as a stance inherited from Edith Wharton and “the glamorous Europeans, like Louise de Vilmorin or the Mitfords or Elizabeth Bowen.”

She added, “McCarthy was probably one of the first female intellectuals I was aware of, and there was this sense of the presentation of yourself as not so much distinctive as elegant, of presenting yourself with respect — self-respect was manifest.”

This packs a particular relevance for young female writers today, said Elissa Schappell, a novelist and a founding editor of the literary magazine Tin House.

“The way she looked had the mark of someone who knows herself,” she said. “Like with her inner life and writing: she could be zingy and ruthless but never sloppy. There was a certain precision and candor, very incisive and sharp. I didn’t know she wore designer clothing, but it doesn’t surprise me. There’s always something very clean, thought-out. The look was very curated.”

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On the Runway Blog: Reliving the Glamour of the Supremes

Bettmann/CorbisMary Wilson, left, and Cindy Birdsong of the Supremes with Princess Margaret in 1971.

MEMBERS may have come and gone during the original two-decade reign of the Supremes, but the sequins and bugle beads always remained the same.

“Glamour was our signature,” said Mary Wilson, a founding member of the group and, as its longest-running participant, the unofficial historian of the Supremes. “Even when we were 15 years old and auditioning for Motown Records, we were wearing pearls we bought from Woolworth. We were totally into dressing up.”

On Wednesday, the African American Museum in Philadelphia announced that it will present a collection of Supremes fashion and memorabilia beginning in January in an exhibition called “Come See About Me: The Mary Wilson Supremes Collection.” The show includes many gowns that Ms. Wilson has maintained or collected since the beginning of the group in 1959.

Ms. Wilson has long sought to protect the legacy of the group and to remind audiences of the significance of their breakthrough in music and on television. Fashion was an important part of that story. Dressing in glamorous gowns was a conscious decision, Ms. Wilson said, to portray themselves as women who had raised themselves from poor backgrounds and succeeded.

While many of their costumes were lost over the years, Ms. Wilson maintained a personal collection and said she acquired several pieces when they became available on eBay. The gowns, including the famous Bob Mackie designs and many by the costume designer Michael Travis, belonged to the group, so whenever a member (Florence Ballard, Diana Ross or Jean Terrell) would leave, she had to leave behind her dresses.

“Eventually I was the only one left, and that’s basically how I had the Supremes’ gowns,” Ms. Wilson said. “I put the old ones in a box.”

Some of them, beaded from head to toe with pearls and rhinestones, weighed around 30 pounds apiece. There was one set of pink dresses that members called their Queen Mother gowns after a performance in London, when, as Ms. Wilson recalled, they were introduced to Princess Margaret.

“She said, ‘Ooh, is that a wig you’re wearing?’ ” Ms. Wilson said. “And I recall that on the next day, there was a photograph on the cover of one of the newspapers where I was looking at Princess Margaret like I could kill her. It wasn’t what she said, it was the way she said it.”

As noted in her legal battles with Motown Records over the years, Ms. Wilson is very protective of the image of the Supremes. She believes many of their important costumes were lost when the company moved from Detroit to Los Angeles. But she holds out hope that she and those dresses someday will be together. Say, say, say it again, Ms. Wilson.

“And you should put this in bold print,” she said. “If anyone knows where they are, I want my gowns back.”

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Motherlode Blog: Why Aren't Working Fathers Called 'Working Dads'?

I’m a dad — two children, 9 and 7 — and I work. Hard. I fall out of bed at about 5 a.m. and stumble back there at about 10 p.m., and it seems like I haven’t caught my breath or cleared my to-do lists since my first child was born on July 22, 2002.

Yet in spite of all this unremitting labor, no one, not a single person, has ever called me a “working dad.” I’ve never called myself this.

The question on the docket is, “Why not?”

For one, “Working dad” is a weird term. An odd idea. Working dads simply don’t count as a recognized demographic in our society — a dad is a dad, and he works, of course, and to suggest otherwise is, well, strange.

But oddity isn’t necessarily a good objection. We can get used to all kinds of words. (Think “webinar”! Think “cantaloupe”!) In fact, the more I consider it, the more appropriate it seems to call me and the millions of the other dads out there schlepping around in a way that would have puzzled our cigar-chewing grandfathers “working dads.” We take working and dadding with equal seriousness and we deserve our share of the W-word.

A working mom, after all, is a term of approval. She is a master of multitasking. A mistress of multitasking. She is capable and competent on numerous fronts, and while her carpool-board-meeting-spaghetti-dinner-toothbrushing-book-bedtime lifestyle may mean that she sometimes forgets an orthodontist appointment or misses the annoying 2 p.m. staff confab, it also means that she is a kind of real-life superhero. The whole bring-home-the-bacon-and-fry-it-up-in-a-pan shtick commands our respect and admiration. The adjective “working”  means  that whatever else she’s doing, she’s also on the job.

My fellow dads and I deserve the same kind of respect, no?

We dudes get up every day and make breakfast. We feed the cat, take out the trash, wash the dishes, if any are left over from the night before. We can do an occasional emergency load of laundry — even if we sometimes mix lights and darks — drop the kids off, and commute to work. And then put in a full workingman’s day of labor. After which we rush home, bolt down dinner (that our wives have perhaps very kindly cooked or ordered) and shuttle our kids to soccer, guitar lessons and the rest. Then it’s overseeing homework, playing with the kids, helping them into jammies, and finally a good-night story or two. At the end of all this, we do maybe an hour of work and then collapse next to our wives.

And so on.

That’s enough to earn a “working dad” merit badge, no?

If not, if we’re encroaching on sacred woman-only territory… I have another, more modest proposal. I suggest that we give “working,” that poor, exhausted adjective, a vacation. Perhaps we can replace it with one that fits contemporary moms — and dads — better. What about “overworked”? This adjective suggests that every good contemporary parent is employed on many levels, domestic and professional, and that all our nonstop busy-ness, the unremitting demands on our energy and time and patience, means that we’re chronically wiped out.

Works for me.

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Star Spotting at the Beverly Hills Hotel

The Beverly Hills Hotel, shown here in 1995, just turned 100 and remains the heart of moviedom’s schmoozing scene in part because of its history. Elizabeth Taylor honeymooned with six of her eight husbands in the bungalows. The pool alone is as close to sacred ground as it gets in show business. It’s where Raquel Welch was discovered, where Esther Williams swam every morning (a permanent guest pass was written into her MGM contract) and where the Beatles once took an after-hours dip.

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A Taste of Honey From Azzedine Alaïa

But backstage after his private show in Paris for friends and family last week, Azzedine Alaïa gave a different explanation of the honey bee dresses.

“I remembered a table designed by Marc Newson,” said the designer, reaching for his phone to display a photo of a red honeycomb table that had inspired the knit dresses.

Although Monica Bellucci, in a shiny black crocodile trench, cut a striking front row figure — and despite brassiere tops, harnesses and a few pieces partly fashioned out of leather — the bulk of the Alaïa summer 2013 collection was in knit.

But the combined skills of the French designer and the Italian ready-to-wear factory he works with produced work so fine that it looked like lace on a tunic with a fringed hem and further fringing at the ankles of pants.

“Relaxez-vous,” was the message on the soundtrack as the show opened, the dogs accompanying clients pricked up their ears and Mr. Alaïa began a game of proportions. Cropped tops, leaving a space of bared flesh, or ribbing creating a midriff focus, allowed the designer to change hemline lengths and silhouettes.

The beehive skirts were short and curvy, as the models walked the studio runway in high heels, while other dresses were straight, elongated and, indeed, relaxed, as decorative flat sandals peeped out.

Another curvy effect was created with godets — a way to build shape into the torso. Meanwhile, colors ranged from the Parisian women’s favored black to shades of pink from watermelon to vin rosé and fuchsia.

So long was the clapping that the dogs burst into barks and the models, smiling happily, did a second round. But Mr. Alaïa remained backstage in the studio where his wonders are created with such intense love of craft and sensitivity to modernity.

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Modern Love: First the Proposal, Then the Remodeling - Modern Love

When I found Jim, I was playing Judge Beth Bornstein on the TV series “Murder One.” He was 44 and a former Marine Corps tank officer who sold I.B.M. midrange computers. I had just turned 50 and was blissfully content in my post-divorce home in the Hollywood Hills.

Seven years earlier, with the death of my marriage, I had been racked with loneliness. Then I slowly came to appreciate my own company. I could stay up all night and eat cake for breakfast. I could sing Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me” at the top of my lungs while hunched over a tumbler of bourbon. I could see people if I wanted or be by myself.

Jim was living in his sister’s house in the Valley. He owned a place in Oceanside, Calif., but his sister and her husband and son had decamped for the East Coast when the earthquakes of Los Angeles became too much for them. Jim was their designated house sitter until the place was sold.

So with him to love, but happily living across town in Sherman Oaks, Calif., I had it all.

Then one night, a year after we met, Jim said, “What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

I was expecting the question. We spent Christmas that year with his family. All the women decided he should propose.

“Yes,” I replied. “I’d say yes.”

“Good,” he said. “I just wanted to know what you’d say if I asked.”

“Are you kidding?” I said. “You can’t pre-ask me to marry you. I revoke my ‘yes.’ ”

He laughed and gave me a look that said: You are so adorable.

I buried my rancor and we went along our merry, uncommitted way for another month. But on Valentine’s Day, after the in-home massages he ordered as my gift, Jim leaned across the steak dinner I made and took my hand.

“Will you marry me?” he asked again.

“Are you serious?” I replied.

“Sorry about last time,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

It would have been nice if he had made a reservation at a restaurant and bought a bauble chosen with me in mind. As it was, we were in our bathrobes and more than a little greasy. There was no ring.

All that seemed nothing compared with the joy of having Jim sitting across from me for the rest of my life. I said yes.

That night I woke out of a deep sleep, thinking, “Oh, my God, I’ll never be alone again.”

To many this would be good news, but not to me. My first marriage failed after 17 years. Our relationship had been kind but unfulfilling. I didn’t have the courage to end it on my own, but on the day he left, I felt as if someone unlocked a door and set me free. Living alone, I’d never risk getting lost in a man again.

The next morning I told Jim we didn’t have to marry. I just needed to know he wanted to.

“Oh, yes, we do,” he said. “I want everybody to know we love each other. I want it to be public.”

Backed into a corner, I asked if he would wait.

“As long as it takes,” he said, “but I’d like to move in.”

There it was, the man I loved asking me to give up my solitude and choose him over fear.

When I first dated Jim, the sweetness of his character caught me off guard. I had a list, like a lot of women do, of the attributes I wanted in a man. “Sweet” was not on it. I find that sometimes the thing I need most I don’t know about until it shows up. Then it’s: “Oh, yeah: that.” I knew I’d grieve if I lost him, so I swallowed my trepidation and we made a plan.

He would find a sitter for his sister’s place and sell his house in Oceanside. It was February, and we were going to New York in June. We decided he could move in after we returned in July. We agreed it would be a long engagement.

To absorb some of my angst, I decided to do some remodeling. I was using a small bedroom for my office, and Jim was happy to take it over for his man cave.

Linda Carlson, an actress who lives in New York and Connecticut, is working on a memoir about her life onstage and in therapy.

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