Izzy likes to imagine that in some alternative universe, it was Rhett Butler, not Scarlett O’Hara, who had to have an outfit made out of drapes.Â Presumably, he needed it for a vacation at New York’s Fire Island.
Provoked by these cheeky artist’s models, Izzy bids you to savor this poem from Robert Graves:
The Naked and the Nude
For me, the naked and the nude
(By lexicographers construed
As synonyms that should express
The same deficiency of dress
Or shelter) stand as wide apart
As love from lies, or truth from art.
Lovers without reproach will gaze
On bodies naked and ablaze;
The Hippocratic eye will see
In nakedness, anatomy;
And naked shines the Goddess when
She mounts her lion among men.
The nude are bold, the nude are sly
To hold each treasonable eye.
While draping by a showman’s trick
Their dishabille in rhetoric,
They grin a mock-religious grin
Of scorn at those of naked skin.
The naked, therefore, who compete
Against the nude may know defeat;
Yet when they both together tread
The briary pastures of the dead,
By Gorgons with long whips pursued,
How naked go the sometime nude!
Friends of Rupert Murdoch, take note: The next time you need to get him a gift, buy him some long socks or even sock garters, for “shin cleavage” is unbecoming on a billionaire.
Jack Valenti, the big macher who for 38 years headed the Motion Picture Association of America, was Napoleonic (or, more positively, Churchillian) in stature, but, like many diminutive but ultimately powerful men, he skillfully used his attire to make the most of what nature gave him. Sartorialists everywhere will miss him.