The Sixth Esquire Symposium, a Benefit for the Seven Sisters
The Sixth Esquire Literary Symposium, held at the Ford Auditorium in Detroit on April 29th, marked the first time that this magazine for men has presented a symposium, directly or indirectly, under the auspices of a college for women. But this previous gap in our collegiate coverage was remedied sevenfold by the Detroit Committee for Seven Eastern Women’s Colleges, formally known collectively as The Seven College Conference, but much more familiar, colloquially, as The Seven Sisters—Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Mt. Holyoke, Radcliffe, Smith, Vassar and Wellesley—to whom we were grateful for providing the occasion for this latest in our series.
Your unusual dual May cover seems to suggest the old adage that one man’s dish is another’s poisson. G.D. BRYARS Toronto, Ontario Canada Is it possible you actually consider the cover you chose for your May issue more attractive than that first planned?
It is long since I read a book with such absorption as I did The Hiroshima Pilot (Putnam, $5.95) by William Bradford Huie. This is not because it is a literary masterpiece. The writing is decidedly ordinary, though workmanlike. Nor is its subject matter, in itself, exciting.
Some men collect old cars, others young girls—but my peculiar hobby these days is poking around airline rate schedules. And sometimes it pays off. I’ve discovered, for instance, that if you’re flying between New York and Los Angeles, you could take a swing down to Mexico City for just $67.64 more.
There has been some talk that golfers are pampered athletes, playing a social game and getting well paid for a day in the country. Some critics have gone so far as to say that golf is not a sport— just a four-mile hike for a merit badge. Maybe this is because we show no outward signs of physical deterioration, have no badges of courage to display for all to see.
There is a New Sentimentality, but nobody knows it exists. Once it was a kind of virtue, as in: "He is sentimental; he has a good heart.” Then, as times changed, the term slipped from grace and became pejorative. "Don’t give me that sentimental slop.”
Patriotism means commitment to an ideal, to something bigger than yourself and feeling proud of it. New Sentimentality does not allow for such commitment and blind service. In the New, you are proud only of your commitment to self.
The Old Sentimentality always had us seeing you in all those old familiar places, cozy bars, certain hills and lovers’ lanes, great steel-canyon cities that pulsed with glamour, colorful settings, simple streets where dear hearts and gentle people lived, crowded rooms where we saw a stranger one enchanted evening.
These are the people who stand for past values. They are role players. In some cases, they played that role purposefully and aggressively. In others, they didn’t plan it. They were of their time and that time is going. Best of their breed, they gave us the living manifestations of the Old Sentimentality.
These are the givers of the New Way. They have enlisted our interest all along without our realizing the changes they were making. They are the vanguard of a different set of rules, of concepts, and, most importantly, of attitudes. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not, they have been teaching us the value system of the New Sentimentality.
Where did they go, those State Department security risks of a decade ago? One of them, William MacPherson Bryant, is dead now, and who cares?
She was surprised to see Borden in the church. She hadn’t known he was in Los Angeles. And there had only been the one notice in the one newspaper: “Ex-State Department Officer Dies. William MacPherson Bryant died last night at the Santa Monica Hospital, after a long illness.
Berlin is the most tumultuous unfinished urban drama since Rome entered the Dark Ages. It is easier to state its circumstances in line and color as Gerald Scarfe does than in words. But if I had to do it in words, I would begin with the background.
I had seen Shago Martin in the final reel of a good low-budget movie about jazz musicians, and had been forced to see his photograph on slip jackets for his records —the face much too handsome in its ingredients: thin, arrogant, close to aristocratic; a mask.
These days a man has got to stand on his own two feet, and if he is every inch a gentleman, his feet will be as well-dressed as the rest of him. With a dark suit, a man should wear darker shoes, the finer the line the better. The shoe pictured here has only a narrow edge of sole protruding on the sides.
A wellspring of style in a style-conscious era, California has carved itself a vivid niche in the realm of men’s fashion. The general tone on the Coast is bright, bold and unorthodox; flamboyant but not flashy. To the immediate right, William Tishman, president of a real-estate and construction firm and an interior-design corporation (both of which bear his name), with his 1928 Rolls-Royce outside his Beverly Hills home.
The gentleman on the right, according to Current Biography, is an “Author ; artist ; amateur matador ; restaurateur,” otherwise known as Barnaby Conrad. Mr. Conrad is most famous for his film documentary, The Day Manolete Was Killed, and a best-selling novel, Matador.
The Californian pictured to the left is Barry Taper of Beverly Hills, Senior Vice-President and Director of the First Charter Financial Corporation. English-born. Mr. Taper’s taste in clothing achieves a moderate balance between European and Californian. Shown with his two children, upper left, he wears a lightweight-worsted business suit with a built-up shoulder and suppressed waist.
The oldest hotel in San Francisco is the St. Francis. It is also one of the most elegant, and the gentleman shown to the left is its managing director, Dan E. London. Aboard his fifty-five-foot cruiser Adventuress (top right, facing page), Mr. London wears a four-button blue blazer of cashmere and wool, slightly cut away in front.
Out in central Montana, sixty feet underground, two men sit at the controls of destruction, and wait...
Shortly after eight o’clock every fourth morning through most of the year, Kaye D. Jackson and David Schramme slip into their white coveralls, adjust their gold scarves, pick up their leather attaché cases which contain unclassified tech orders and school papers, kiss their wives—Barbara and Lois—and leave their split-level houses in separate suburbs of Great Falls, Montana, and drive to the office for the start of another day in one of the strangest, most artificial, most excruciatingly responsible occupations that modern man has devised for himself.
The Edwardians knew that civilization could be carried to the outdoors: they did it with white-clothed tables, silverware, and hampers filled with champagne, chicken, and lobster mayonnaise, and they might equally well have stayed at home.
<p>Blaze Starr is a quixotic barroom-burlesque house stripper, age twenty-nine or so, who has very large, very round breasts. She is not tall, but she has a head of bushy red hair that somehow makes her seem statuesque. Her face, sandwiched between the hair and the bosom, is sometimes missing.</p>
<p>A strong man can make his way in the world with the car-lift game and arm-wrestling game—but an egg-hiding saint is harder to deal with IN the old days, before I married the last of the Medicis, the Principessa Margaret of all the Italies, in those bad times before I sat at the Captain’s table, before chauffeurs had been given instructions to meet my trains, when in no guest room no towel lay across no bed fluffed against my arrival, before, indeed, there had been any arrival, in that tough age when all I had going for me was anonymity and the fear of death, driving me on and slowing me down like bad news from the fortune-teller, I made my move and left my uncle.</p>
<p>Once a year, in the vast gilded foyers of the Opera House, Paris holds its grandest ball. At the beginning the Garde Republicaine, in shiny gold helmets trailing long horsetails, stand immobile among the guests; trumpeters, hidden in an alcove, tootle staccato tunes.</p>
ONCE THERE WAS THE HARD-WORKING MARIE; NOW THERE IS JUST THE MODERN KITCHEN. WHERE BEEF IS ROASTED WITH NO COMPASSION AT ALL
<p>As long as I can remember, Marie, our cook, “belonged to the family.” In the Moravian town where I grew up, Marie had moved into my parents’ home the day after they got married. My mother’s mother, a sensible woman who knew that an experienced cook is more valuable in a new household than a set of Meissen china, had hired and trained Marie and sent her over as part of the dowry.</p>
We move the bow tie be revived. Few people wear them, most people ignore them. It should be otherwise, we think. Back in the Twenties you saw jaunty ones in bright colors, elegant ones in fine muted shades, and countless variants conveying a wide variety of moods.
At Verrières-le-Buisson (S 8c O), France, stands a château that has been in the de Vilmorin family since the beginning of the nineteenth century. For six generations this family has had an abiding interest in things horticultural. Roger de Vilmorin, a member of the Legion of Honor, has himself been President of the Agricultural Academy of France, the Botanical Society of France, the International Horticultural Society, and the International Commission on the Nomenclature of Cultivated Plants.
Hiring just the right secretary is a highly creative job
Bruce Jay Friedman
“Name, please?” asked Mr. Dworkin. “I didn’t get to study your résumé.” “Rachele,” said the young woman. “With an ‘e’ on the end. Rachele Flanders.” Lovely name, thought Dworkin. Would look good on our personnel chart. Help us sound like Time.
Notes From the Other Side of April; with Negro Eyes, with White
FOUR MOMENTS FROM A POET'S LIFE, WHEN THE WORLD WAS REDUCED TO BLACK AND WHITE, AND AS SWIFTLY ILLUMINATED
<p>I will try to relate to the best of my memory all my occasions of the Negro, the American Negro. My memory of him is not an entirely painful one. There were times of pleasantness, of joy. It doesn’t take much to recall the pleasant and ordinary, but to tell of what was surely my saison en enfer . . . it means going back to the pain, tears, fears, and anger of that terrible year.</p>
Down at the tip of Baja California you’ll find it all—marlin, deer, dove, even mountain lion—but hurry.the tourist is only a year or so behind you
<p>Writing about Baja California, you're afraid you’ll be like the man who discovers a fabulous restaurant, tells all his friends about it, comes back six months later and finds it so jammed he can't get in. But a new car ferry is coming to Baja California anyway, so only a short couple of years are left to enjoy it as it is and has been for centuries.</p>
Q:what Sort of President Would John W, Mccormack Make?
(July 18, 1947. Public Law 199) Be it enacted by the Senate and House of Representatives of the United States of America in Congress assembled, That (a) (1) if, by reason of death, resignation, removal from office, inability, or failure to qualify, there is neither a President nor Vice President to discharge the powers and duties of the office of President, then the Speaker of the House of Representatives shall, upon his resignation as Speaker and as Representative in Congress, act as President.
Culture has now become so fashionable that the danger is no longer what it has traditionally been, neglect of original talent, but rather the opposite: an indiscriminate encouragement of everything, which is producing a cultural inflation reminiscent of what happened to the, Reichsmark after the First World War.
A grand garland for dogfight buffs, featuring: The great aces (Rickenbacker, D’Olive) describing great battles. A lesson in pursuit-plane handling. The emergence of the airplane as a lethal weapon. Never-before-published photos of W.W.
The photograph on page 52 is by Marvin Koner, for Fortune. On page 88, the photograph at top left is by Richard Davis; the three others are from Photo Researchers. On pages 54 and 55, The Barbecue Supreme: the sterling-silver Brûlot bowl is by EllisBarker Silver Companies, New York; glasses by Orrefors, Sweden; salt cups from Dansk; silver settings by International Sterling Silver; wine baskets, candlesticks, salt and pepper mills from Bloomingdale’s; copper pieces, chafing dishes, sauce warmer, bread basket, butter bowl, stainless duck server, lobster and lamb boards, and tablecloth from B. Altman; grill (not shown) created for Esquire by Conver Steel & Wire Co.
The illustrations for Berlin/1964 (page 35) were painted for Esquire by Gerald Scarfe, “born June 1st, 1936, five feet eleven inches tall and very slim and agile. Lives in attractive and roomy flat very close to Hampstead Heath—a couple of square miles of trees and peaceful green hills with a grand aerial view of the city of London.
My strongest memory of the late Paul Hindemith dates back about fifteen years, to a performance of Bach’s St. John Passion at Carnegie Hall. The occasion was some sort of benefit for Juilliard, and the orchestra and chorus were drawn from that estimable school; but the soloists were outsiders, and among them was Hindemith, then a professor at Yale.
If you’re one of those hidebound New Yorkers whose motto is “Why travel, we have everything here,” you’ll never get to Japan, for the new home of the Saito Restaurant at 131 West Fifty-second Street in midtown Manhattan is a transplant of the best of the Tokyo places of its kind.