The Blue Gardenia learns to sow her blossoms

The book closet: Chandler's stylish, colorful descriptions

As you doubtless recall, dear readers, I am besotted with the writing of Raymond Chandler. He knew how to turn a phrase. Asolutely. He described women — and their clothes — like nobody's business. His descriptions were nonpareil, IMHO.

Here's one I came across yesterday while rereading — yet again — The High Window, published in 1946:

A long-limbed languorous type of showgirl blond lay at her ease in one of the chairs, with her feet raised on a padded rest and a tall misted glass at her elbow, near a silver ice bucket and a Scotch bottle. She looked at us lazily as we came over the grass. From thirty feet away, she looked like a lot of class. From ten feet away, she looked like something made up to be seen from thirty feet away. Her mouth was too wide, her eyes were too blue, her makeup was too vivid, the thin arch of her eyebrows was almost too fantastic in its curve and spread, and the mascara was so thick on her eyelashes that they looked like miniature iron railings.

She wore white duck slacks, blue and white open-toed sandals over bare feet and crimson lake toenails, a white silk blouse and a necklace of green stones that that were not square cut emeralds. Her hair was as artificial as a night club lobby. 

So. You get the picture. You do. So loud. So clear. What do you think?

Wanna know what I think? Of course you do. You do, right? Otherwise, I might have to reach for the Puffs. You don't want that. Do you?

I think this showgirl blond might have been wearing McCall 5319 — such marvelous slacks — copyright 1943. She might have topped them with McCall 5910, copyright 1944, View B. And for the shoes, may I suggest this terrific pair of shoes from Remix? (Santa, baby, remember these at Christmas. Please. I'll be a very good girl. I promise.)

And, of course,  these ever-so-stylish vintage patterns can be yours. They can. Just click over to The Blue Gardenia, where the patterns are counted, the jewelry is sparkling, and domestic shipping is free. (And we happily ship abroad  — Global Priority or Global Express, your choice  — for a fee, generally even less than the USPO charges us. Are we special? Well, yes. Yes, we are.)

 

The book closet: This Chandler vixen's worth a stare on page . . .

Or on screen, where she's played by Lauren Bacall, and her name is Vivian Sternwood Rutledge, rather than Vivian Sternwood Regan. 

Raymond Chandler, as you recall, dearest readers, is my favorite writer. He knew how to tell a story. He knew how to turn a phrase. And his descriptions? Well. Second to none. 

He describes Vivian of The Big Sleep as worth a stare. And here is his picture of Vivian when she visits Philip Marlowe's office:

She wore brownish speckled tweeds, a mannish shirt and tie, hand-carved walking shoes. Her stockings were just as sheer as the day before, but she wasn't showing as much of her legs. Her black hair was glossy under a brown Robin Hood hat that might have cost fifty dollars and looked as if you could have made it with one hand out of a desk blotter.

Oh, I can't stop there.  I can't. Let me share more of this passage. OK? Please?

"Well, you do get up," wrinkling her nose at the faded red settee, the two odd semi-easy chairs, the net curtains that needed laundering and the boy's size library table with the venerable magazines on it to give the place a professional touch. "I was beginning to think you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust."

"Who's he?" I put a cigarette in my mouth and stared at her. She looked a little pale and strained,  but she looked like a girl who could function under a strain.

"A French writer, a connoisseur in degenerates. You wouldn't know him."

"Tut, tut," I said. "Come into my boudoir."

You can see, the movie heroine doesn't exactly look like Bacall. She's no blonde. (Not that there is anything wrong with being a blonde. I, after all, sport that particular shade.) And her wardrobe is different as well. If you want to duplicate either look, may I recommend Vogue 6047, from the 1940s. (The book was published in 1939; the movie released in 1946.) And for the blouse, McCall 7238 would work ever-so-nicely. For the hat, you might choose Simplicity 1076. The beret, of course.

I love this look. I do. I do. I do. Absolutely. And may I suggest this mannish linen-wool check fabric from Michael's for the suit? It's perfect. Truly.

And, of course,  this smashing ensemble of vintage patterns can be yours. Just click over to The Blue Gardenia, where the patterns are counted, the jewelry is sparkling, and domestic shipping is free. (And we happily ship abroad for a fee, generally even less than the USPO charges us. Are we special? Well, yes. Yes, we are.)

The book closet: A huckster blonde in a green knit suit.

A former co-worker (read Michael Dickson's excellent ex-pat blog, The Zapata Tales) recently raved about John D. MacDonald. Naturally, I was skeptical. So very. But because I am so open-minded (keep those snarky comments to yourself, please) I checked a few of his books out at the library. While my heart still belongs to Raymond Chandler, I find that I like John D. In fact, I think I'll toy with him for a bit. Cheat on Chandler for a brief affair. I especially love MacDonald's descriptions.

Of course, I dress the characters when I read. I do. Surprised, dear readers? Of course you aren't.

I see Alma/Almah, a companion to a shady millionaire, a woman whose intentions are perhaps less than honorable, in Butterick 3621, circa 1960s, View A. This passage is from A Deadly Shade of Gold, published in 1965:

She was walking slowly, barefoot, fastening the side of a green knit skirt, her head angled down so that a heavy sheaf of shining blonde hair obscured her face. She wore a white bra covering small breasts. Her upper torso was golden tan, with the narrrow and supple look of youth. She fixed the skirt as she reached the foot of the chaise. She threw her hair back with a toss of her head, and stood and looked at the man with a cool, unpleasant expression. It was a very lovely face. I could guess that her earliest memories were of being told how pretty she was. It was a cool and sensuous face. The springing blonde hair, with a few tousled strands across her forehead, fell in a glossy heaviness in two wings which framed the sensitive and bad tempered face. I had seen her before, and I groped for the memory, and finally had it. She had stared very earnestly at me many times, looked deeply into my eyes, held up a little squeeze bottle and told me it would keep me dainty all day long. Despite all rumors to the contrary, these huckster blondes are not interchangeable. I knew this one because her eyes were set strangely, one more tilted than the other.

She said something to the man. The curl of her mouth looked unpleasant. He lowered the book, said something, lifted it again. She shrugged and turned away, and walked out of my field of vision . . . When she appeared again she was fastening the top half of the green knit two piece suit and she wore shoes. She had that contrived walk of the model . . . the business of putting each foot down in direct line with the previous step, toeing outward slightly, to impart a graceful sway to the body from the waist down. She was not tall. Perhaps five-four. She made herself look tall.

She stopped on the right side of the chaise and perched one hip on it, facing the man. She spoke to him. I could hear the very faint cadence of her voice. She was intent, persuasive, half-smiling. It was like a commercial with the volume turned down. As she talked, he put two cigarettes between his lips, lit them, handed one to her. She stopped talking and looked expectantly at him. He reached and caught her wrist. She sprang up and wrenched her wrist away, her face ugly with sudden fury. She called him a ten letter word, loud enough for me to hear it through the doors. She was no lady. She strode out of range in the opposite direction, and I heard a door slam.

She left with the look of somebody who was not coming back immediately. There was no profit in watching a hairy man read a book.

Love it, love it, love it. The passage. The pattern. The book. The writing. Absolutely. 

And, yes, this pattern is available at The Blue Gardenia. But you knew that. You did. The details: It's complete. Uncut. $22. Rush over. Buy it. Have a John D. MacDonald moment. Or two. Or three. To quote Carl Hiaasen: He was the first modern writer to nail Florida dead-center, to capture all its languid sleaze, racy sense of promise, and breath-grabbing beauty.

So. There ya go. Buy the pattern. Buy the book.