Another rare winter’s day in New York, yesterday with no cold, no snow, no ice although with that bright winter sun’s glare. I went to Michael’s to lunch with the authoresses, mother and daughter, Erica Jong and Molly Jong Fast. From this point of view, we should all be so lucky to share in their company and camaraderie. There is never a loss for words at such a table (at least with this writer who has more than a few thoughts to impart at any given moment). Books are discussed. Writers. Gossip. Politics. More books. Both women are in the midst of writing their next novels.

Nan’s Comportment into History. After lunch I decided to go up to the Met, before going home, to see the Nan Kempner exhibition installed by the Costume Institute. I’d heard a lot about it both pro and con -- the con being the magnitude of the woman’s collection. And from the looks of it, she never threw anything away, but instead maintained it, occasionally wore it, and had it stored nearby. Of course she was married to a wealthy man so she could afford both the clothes and the space (extra rooms in their Park Avenue apartment) where she could keep it. Although as far as magnitude goes, if a lot of us never threw anything away, after a lifetime of buying clothes, we’d all have good sized collections. Although any comparison to Mrs. Kempner ends there.

I knew Mrs. Kempner, although not well. She could look like an ice princess, just seeing her walking down the street with that wide sleek gait of hers, chin up, often sumptuously or gloriously turned out. But aside from that, she was quite friendly and cozy; she liked people. And she had lots and lots of friends, both men and women, and of all ages. And longtime friends.

She was one of those people who was disarmingly frank about herself and those around her. Her politics were what is currently known as “conservative.” That aside, she didn’t suffer fools gladly although there were fools whose company she kept at times as long as they behaved themselves. When the press called, she always made herself available and always had something to say – a touch of both class and wisdom (when it comes to the press). Some of her friends thought she talked too much in that she could get herself in hot water (tepid, really) with some of her quoted opinions about particular individuals. But she didn’t care; she meant no ill will or unkindness (except when she did): she was just telling it like it is/was, for her. And she was often correct.

She was thin as a rail as everybody knows; so thin at times as to look like a former shadow of herself. Her legs and arms were so thin that it appeared as if she had no muscle on her tall and bony frame. However, she loved to eat (she loved to smoke cigarettes too – and was one of the last holdouts) and she loved the good stuff: steaks, peanut butter, bacon, caviar, etc., and therefore, as a hostess, she treated her guests to all of her culinary favorites. They were also treated to her impeccable hospitality, at once both comme il faut and chic.

Like everything else in her life, when it came to entertaining, she knew what she was doing. And she knew how to make it seem as if it were nothing. Maybe, for her, it was.

It was the same with her clothes. Everyone knew she loved fashion because everytime you saw her she’d have on something new (looking). Along with the accessories that glittered or shone or chattered and clanked. In her day she had very valuable jewelry, the lot of which had been stolen in two different burglaries. She gave up, went the costume route, and got on with it. Her friend and buddy Kenny Lane hit the right note for her over and over.

The end result of her choices was a figure who expressed her essence through fashion. This is an iffy proposition to some people who associate the proletarian with the liberal, but history could care less. That’s what came to me when I arrived yesterday afternoon at the steps of the Metropolitan Museum. There I saw the vertical banner hanging just to the right of the museum’s entrance and next to the central banner advertising the collections of Louis Comfort Tiffany: Nan Kempner – American Chic.

Looking at that banner rustling in the light breeze, I thought to myself that even Nan (who intended that her collection go to the Met), this little girl from a good San Francisco family who married the young scion of an old New York banking family and came to the big town to make her way, could not have imagined this. She has been transmogrified by this event from former friend and neighbor and member of the community, and elevated into a historical figure (since fashion is history).

The museum was very crowded at quarter to four in the afternoon. The Nan Kempner exhibit drew a large audience also – mainly women, of all ages, and some men. Women generally look at clothes differently than men. Perhaps it is because women can be more creative with their costume.

Behind the mannequins along one long wall of the exhibit were racks of blouses, dresses, jackets, skirts, pants, and shelves of cashmere sweaters (hundreds), hats and shoes. In other cases were more delicate and/or exotic shoes. And in other cases, pieces of her collection of costume jewelry (some of which – designed by Kenny Lane -- can be purchased on the premises). However, although it was a kind of museum re-enactment of a woman’s vast closet, it really was a document of a time, now past, in American culture and civilization. We were looking at artistry, craftsmanship, workmanship. And beauty. Through the eyes of one woman.

She liked brilliant color and the sheen. Reds, oranges, gold, silver. She liked pastels (her coming out dress in 1949 had a peach skirt). She liked bold and dark; she liked black and grey. She could glitz up and carry it off as sheer elegance. She probably went too far at times with some of her get-ups but that didn’t matter because she knew how to eventually get it right. Her day clothes were often simple and unassuming. There were always accessories that added the aforementioned sheen about the lady. In the last few years of her life I often saw her at Swifty’s for lunch in jeans. And even with a crisp fresh white blouse knotted above the bare mid-riff which kept no illusions about the lady’s age. At night she could be simple (tho elegant) too, in black and pearls. Or she could light up herself and the surrounding space, sparkling, shining, enchanting.

Her favorite designer was Yves Saint Laurent. She took to his drama immediately, romantic, royal, dramatic, commanding, all combined with perfect restraint. There was also a lot of Valentino, de la Renta, Mme Gres,  as well as Blass and Chanel and the Halston floorlength cashmere  pastel knitted sheathe that was so popular with the fashionable ladies of New York as they were emerging from the hippie fashion phase in the early 70s.

When Nan Kempner came to New York as a young married woman, she arrived in the land of the last word in American fashion which was then ruled by the fashion magazines highly influenced by Paris, and women in society such as Babe Paley, Thelma Chrysler Foy, Millicent Rogers, Gloria Guinness, CZ Guest, Slim Hayward Keith, Gloria Vanderbilt and the rest of the New York contingent who also patronized the French couture. It was a rarified and glamorous world that set the tone for society. It was also exclusive: you could not get yourself elevated by being frequently photographed. These were the mentors to a young California woman who loved fashion and beauty and aspired to a bigger world. Her contemporary Jackie Kennedy then came along in 1960 and established the style for their generation. Nan, it turned out, completed the cyle.

You can see the progression in the Met exhibition, of the young woman, seriously turned out for New York, becoming the more confident and self-assured woman with an eye for the elegant and the sexy, for the luxe and the luscious, for the tailoring and the draping, for the vivid and the imagination, and for the amusement. You can also see the progression (if that’s the right word) of the woman’s times which extend almost right up to today.

I passed through fairly quickly to take in the whole, to get the curator’s feel for it. I couldn’t resist listening to the comments of others. They were about the workmanship, the craftsmanship, the fabric, the color, the way it hung on the Kempner mannequin, and “how” one would wear it. The men in the crowd just looked, some no doubt in awe of the sheer volume (and the cost).