Cornelia “Corny” Von Aston LeClaire Peabody was the patron saint of our fledgling institute, The National Museum of Fashion. We weren’t losers, exactly, but compared to the Met’s Costume Institute or the Fashion Institute of Technology Museum, we weren’t as well funded or as highly regarded. Tanya Johnson, my boss, was determined to change all that. I liked to think of us as the little fashion museum that could.
Corny, our founder, had been a glittering and dependable fixture at the Paris and New York shows, a wearer and collector of all things couture, and a muse for some of the world’s most accomplished designers. She had bequeathed twenty million dollars, her entire collection, and her magnificent white limestone mansion to create this valentine to her life’s passion. Tanya, who was a fund-raising genius, continually courted the city’s wealthiest benefactors in hopes of raising another hundred million to ensure that the museum endured in perpetuity. She fantasized about having it named in her honor. No one was supposed to know that, but as her assistant, I saw her doodle “The Tanya Johnson Institute of Fashion” on more than one scrap of paper.
The stately mansion was perfect for us. It had ceiling frescoes of angels and nymphs, finely carved paneling that glittered with gold leaf, and a lavish ballroom on the top floor that easily accommodated six hundred, a vestige of Manhattan’s gilded age when the Vanderbilts and the Astors ruled. Corny’s sumptuous home also boasted multiple galleries and an imposing walnut-paneled banquet hall that was ideal for charity lunches. It was an elegant showcase for special exhibits curated by the museum staff, along with Corny’s own priceless ensembles, which comprised a significant part of our permanent collection.
The vault was three thousand square feet of cedar-lined heaven, filled with scores of handmade creations by the most talented designers of their time. Corny’s wardrobe was stored in its own private room, where each piece was photographed, hung on fiberglass hangers molded in the shape of Corny’s torso, placed in a white garment bag, and hung in alphabetical and chronological order by couturier and year it was created. Beaded dresses were laid out on special shallow drawers after being carefully covered in acid-free tissue paper.
Corny’s collection was enormous even by wealthy socialite standards. And though the Cornelia Peabody Gallery was the grandest room in the mansion (besides the ballroom), only a fraction of her iconic outfits could be displayed at any one time. Tanya spun this limitation into an advantage by creating special mini exhibits from the enormous selection—Givenchy in the Fifties, Twenty Designers Interpret the Little Black Dress, The Suits of Schiaparelli, The Fashions of 1980s Hedonism (that was my idea).
Our staff meeting was about to start, so I headed for the “Y”s—Yves Saint Laurent—and pulled a 1940s-inspired pale yellow silk tailored trouser suit from his 1966 collection, the year he first introduced masculine elements into women’s wear (his greatest contribution to twentieth-century fashion history, if you ask me). I knew it would fit, having dressed the mannequins in the Cornelia Peabody Gallery more than a few times. The two of us had been close enough to the same size: She—five nine and one hundred fifteen pounds. Me—five eight and one hundred ten pounds. Corny had worked hard to maintain her stick-insect figure. Not me. I eat well, rarely exercise, and never put on weight. Alessandro says my metabolism is one of my best features.
Too Marvelous for Words
STUFFING MY DIRTY WET suit inside the black Hefty bag, I hid it in a corner, and headed for the conference room, giving Gus a wink as I zipped by in Corny’s proud vintage suit. As a kid who grew up wearing homemade creations, couture gave me a feeling of worthiness that I rarely experienced, and I enjoyed it more than I cared to admit. My heart raced at the thought of my promotion being announced. Tanya promised she would do it today.
Speaking of which, Tanya floated in behind me, the picture of executive chic with her size-two charcoal Oscar de la Renta suit, geometric blunt-cut black hair, pale complexion, and lips so vehemently red they looked like a fresh wound. She had recently taken time off to have “work” done. Nigel was sure she’d had her ass tightened, but she claimed it was her eyelids. Naturally, she wore Chanel sunglasses. Tanya said her corneas couldn’t take the light after surgery, but we all saw it for what it was—a convenient medical excuse to imitate Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue and Tanya’s personal goddess. Designers fought to lend Tanya their clothes, as she was so often photographed in the society pages at museum events and charity balls. They arranged for celebrity hairdressers and makeup artists to style her so she would look even more striking in their creations.
“Nigel, how was your trip?” Tanya asked, her chin raised high.
As the museum’s conservator, Nigel’s job was to repair and stabilize garments that were damaged. If we lent clothing for a show, he would first examine it, with every irregularity and impairment noted. He would repeat the inspection when the costume was returned to be sure it had not been harmed while it was out of our care. We often exported shows to other museums, and whenever we did, Nigel made the arrangements. Then he would travel to the exhibit to dress the mannequins. Believe it or not, you have to be specially trained to fit delicate garments over fiberglass forms. As a reward for his excellent work this year, Tanya allowed him to speak as a fashion expert on a luxurious Mediterranean cruise, a privilege usually reserved for curators.
“It was très magnifique,” he said. “I sailed the French Riviera on the Silver Whisper. We started in Paris, where I led a tour of the Musée de la Mode et du Textile; that’s in the Palais du Louvre. They had a special shoe exhibition featuring all
