I understand accessories. Necklaces, bracelets, hoop and chandelier earrings, anklets, toe rings, pinkie rings, neckties, bow ties, cummerbunds, suspenders, cravats, ascots, concha belts, headbands, scarves–they all bring me happiness. Hell, I won’t even rule out a well-placed dickey. But I’ll admit it: I fear the hat. Hats just freak me out.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
The room was filled with hundreds of concoctions made by six milliners, including cloches, berets, fedoras, modified derbies, grand church hats, and saucy little cocktail hats. Some were sculptural, some were soft–even collapsible–and all were decorated with some combination of fur, feathers, crushed velvet, felt, gaudy pins, dainty brooches, little bits of vintage celluloid, fake flowers, embroidery, old brocades, hand-sewn leather cording, twine, and grosgrain ribbon.
Just for fun I tried on Marthe Young’s “Just Peachy,” as she calls it, a giant peach-colored straw spectacle with fuzzy plastic peaches nestled in bunches of plastic pearl-finish berries and tufts of feathers, topped with an antique lace doily. I felt like Yankee Doodle Dandy in a retirement home.
The room was furnished with stuff donated by the church–floppy vinyl couches, outdated office chairs. African masks and bad art hung on the walls, my favorite of which was a painting of a red guitar with a twisted neck and real guitar strings boinging out, an alien baby busting through the sound hole, crying a single tear-drop in the shape of a music note.
“Oh, you were into that?” she said casually. The room got sort of quiet.
