costume.
“See how they need me,” she might say. “You are what you wear, eh, Lacey?” If she were here, she would be thinking how to costume them properly for this very event. Lacey smiled at the thought.
Detective Broadway Lamont sidled his bulk up to Lacey. “Any fashion clues I should know about?” he asked with his big dead-pan face.
“Only fashion crimes,” she said. “Lots of them. Are the toxicology tests in? What about the dagger?”
“What world you live in, Smithsonian? Does look like poison, though. Don’t know which one yet.”
She nodded. The room had grown quiet for the next speaker.
Analiza Zarina stood at the podium and launched into a long, rambling reminiscence about her late business partner Magda and the various shows they had costumed and the local celebrities they had supplied with custom-made gowns and corsets. “We were as close as sisters,” Analiza said. “Closer.” None of the familiar siblinglike banter that Lacey had witnessed was apparent in her words today.
Lacey had brought a copy of her latest column to give to Analiza, the one about Magda, but she was unprepared when the woman called on her next to say a few words about the deceased.
Stella dragged Lacey up to the podium. “Go up there and tell all these people about Magda, Lace, the way only you can.” A genius at mixing guilt and flattery, Stella uttered a few words of her own and then turned to Lacey. Thankful at least that Stella had passed up the opportunity to show the gathered crowd all the intimate intricacies of corsetry using her own ensemble as an instructive example, Lacey cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and called on her long-ago college acting experience. She spread her column on the podium and read from it.
CRIMES OF FASHION
Behind the Seams:
Corsetiere Magda Rousseau Slain
By Lacey Smithsonian
“Bloody thread, knock ’em dead.” Everyone who knew Magda Rousseau has heard her say that. The saying comes, she said, from an old tradition among theatrical costumers, a belief that if the seamstress accidentally pricks her finger and spills a drop of her blood on a costume, the show will be a hit. “Bloody stitch, all get rich” is another version of the same saying. “Prick a finger,” Magda told me, is to a costumer a good-luck wish akin to telling an actor to “Break a leg.”
Magda pointed out that it was impossible, of course, not to prick your fingers while sewing so many elaborate costumes under the short deadlines of the theatre world, so nearly every costume holds a tiny good-luck drop of the seamstress’s blood. And along with that drop of blood,
Magda always poured her heart and soul into her work. She died this week in her costume shop in the District, still pouring her heart and soul into her work. Our community is diminished by the loss of Magda Rousseau. You may not have known her, but if you attend Washington theatre, you have seen her work on stages around town for many years. An artist with a needle, a poet in fabric, a corsetiere of the old school with a loyal clientele, Magda was also a stern taskmistress and a loving friend who . . .
Lacey finished her reading and sat down to appreciative murmurs from the other mourners, only to be corrected by another costumer. A large woman in a black corset bodice gown stood up to lecture her that the correct saying was actually “bloody dress, good press,” a play, she elaborated, on a phrase that actors say but don’t really believe, “bad dress, good press,” referring to a show’s dress rehearsal. If that rehearsal is dreadful, she said, it’s thought to predict that the press notices for the show will be glowing. The woman then went on to lodge a vociferous complaint about the new theatre critic of The Eye, whom she called “the Butcher of the Beltway,” one of Mac’s new hires whom Lacey hadn’t even met yet, but whose assaults on local theatre were apparently all Lacey’s fault as the Voice of The Eye.
This
“See how they need me,” she might say. “You are what you wear, eh, Lacey?” If she were here, she would be thinking how to costume them properly for this very event. Lacey smiled at the thought.
Detective Broadway Lamont sidled his bulk up to Lacey. “Any fashion clues I should know about?” he asked with his big dead-pan face.
“Only fashion crimes,” she said. “Lots of them. Are the toxicology tests in? What about the dagger?”
“What world you live in, Smithsonian? Does look like poison, though. Don’t know which one yet.”
She nodded. The room had grown quiet for the next speaker.
Analiza Zarina stood at the podium and launched into a long, rambling reminiscence about her late business partner Magda and the various shows they had costumed and the local celebrities they had supplied with custom-made gowns and corsets. “We were as close as sisters,” Analiza said. “Closer.” None of the familiar siblinglike banter that Lacey had witnessed was apparent in her words today.
Lacey had brought a copy of her latest column to give to Analiza, the one about Magda, but she was unprepared when the woman called on her next to say a few words about the deceased.
Stella dragged Lacey up to the podium. “Go up there and tell all these people about Magda, Lace, the way only you can.” A genius at mixing guilt and flattery, Stella uttered a few words of her own and then turned to Lacey. Thankful at least that Stella had passed up the opportunity to show the gathered crowd all the intimate intricacies of corsetry using her own ensemble as an instructive example, Lacey cleared her throat, took a deep breath, and called on her long-ago college acting experience. She spread her column on the podium and read from it.
CRIMES OF FASHION
Behind the Seams:
Corsetiere Magda Rousseau Slain
By Lacey Smithsonian
“Bloody thread, knock ’em dead.” Everyone who knew Magda Rousseau has heard her say that. The saying comes, she said, from an old tradition among theatrical costumers, a belief that if the seamstress accidentally pricks her finger and spills a drop of her blood on a costume, the show will be a hit. “Bloody stitch, all get rich” is another version of the same saying. “Prick a finger,” Magda told me, is to a costumer a good-luck wish akin to telling an actor to “Break a leg.”
Magda pointed out that it was impossible, of course, not to prick your fingers while sewing so many elaborate costumes under the short deadlines of the theatre world, so nearly every costume holds a tiny good-luck drop of the seamstress’s blood. And along with that drop of blood,
Magda always poured her heart and soul into her work. She died this week in her costume shop in the District, still pouring her heart and soul into her work. Our community is diminished by the loss of Magda Rousseau. You may not have known her, but if you attend Washington theatre, you have seen her work on stages around town for many years. An artist with a needle, a poet in fabric, a corsetiere of the old school with a loyal clientele, Magda was also a stern taskmistress and a loving friend who . . .
Lacey finished her reading and sat down to appreciative murmurs from the other mourners, only to be corrected by another costumer. A large woman in a black corset bodice gown stood up to lecture her that the correct saying was actually “bloody dress, good press,” a play, she elaborated, on a phrase that actors say but don’t really believe, “bad dress, good press,” referring to a show’s dress rehearsal. If that rehearsal is dreadful, she said, it’s thought to predict that the press notices for the show will be glowing. The woman then went on to lodge a vociferous complaint about the new theatre critic of The Eye, whom she called “the Butcher of the Beltway,” one of Mac’s new hires whom Lacey hadn’t even met yet, but whose assaults on local theatre were apparently all Lacey’s fault as the Voice of The Eye.
This
Similar Books
