Friday, July 6, 2012

Pretend you're a picnic table

 There are a few bloggers tackling the topic of "vintage" pin-ups, and I have fallen prey to the same fodder. Only this time, the feast is elegant, dignified in its own jus of uncompromising fortuity, and honest. You have been invited to dine with me in class and relish the moments when the water of the 1950s becomes the wine of today. Colonel Sanders may have invented the thigh, the breast, and the leg to 1930s American stomachs, but it was Eve Meyer who brought the menu up a few feet to the eyes and dribbling lips of American males twenty years after. And a further half-century later the best tendons stick yet to my teeth, and that trough in my brain where all the hungry synapses come to spark a conversation stays filled to the brim.
Some of the best pin-up photography of the middle 20th century was contributed by two individuals, Eve and her husband, Russ. Most who know Russ and his work are aware of his interests, almost religiously so, but how many venture to investigate and share in those interests? How many hope to gain a similar vantage point, beyond a short viewing and a mere hand shake below the belt? Russ was a lucky man. He was also brilliant. As the greatest artists find the greatest influence so close to home, he need only roll over and throw a meaty, hairy forearm over the smoldering pinup queen (for my money) that was his wife, and the visual feast you see before you, Eve Meyer.
These are a few of my favorite images of the gal, a meeting with whom I might give my left leg. Have the Colonel fry it up for you first.
These photographs of the great model/countesse were taken from a classy short-live periodical, "Monsieur," which featured pin-up photography, short fiction, fashion for the business class/blue-collar/sporting male, and recipes for cocktails. Imagine what Mad Men could have been had they even approached the topic of rollicking masturbatory practices of the decades slobbering youth! I'm sure a certain miss Page would have beaten Eve to the slot for celebrity name-dropping in MM, but she is slow to get to the testing center of my heart, and Eve smokes a cheap Lucky Strike, gold hair snapping in the side winds of her Robin's Egg blue chevy, passing a thumbs-out Bettie on the side of the I digress, I can't help but wonder how big Bettie's suitcase was, and if she had to flash leg to get you to pull over. Eve would have just started walking to the nearest gas station to chug a classic Coca-Cola and eat a hot dog, and then ask for a tire iron. The look of allure in the image to the left speaks in echoing Death Valley/too hot volumes.

This is why these models still exist, however in the printed form: because of the way they talk with more than their mouths. We know what Beyonce has to say, we know what the fucking Kardashians have to say, and we know what Kate Upton (more perhaps on her later) has to say because the latest GQ's, People's, Us's, and Vanity Fair's have their interviews in them. Monsieur the magazine is no modern/information-laden rag; there are stories about women in aprons, fashion tips for men on how to cock their hats, and recipes for cocktails like the September Morn, the Pousse Cafe, and the Baltimore Bracer. The only ads selling anything are the verso of the front wrapper, and the recto of the rear wrapper; that's the way they made 'em, and smack in the middle or throughout, there is Eve. There is Bettie, there is Dawn Richards and Betty Brosmer, Iris Bristol and June Wilkinson, and on and on.