Salon.com > Jori Finkel

A farewell to stilettos

Mon, 01 Oct 2001 19:33:00 +0000

I live in Manhattan. I work at an art magazine that sends me into auction houses, fashion houses and galleries on a regular basis. And I have not seen a pair of Manolo Blahniks since Sept. 11.

One Manolo disciple I know is wearing a pair of flat-as-a-pancake Tods; the women who work at Chelsea galleries are sporting military-inspired shoes and boots by Prada and Gucci; and my most adventurous shoe-shopping friend, who happens to be a corporate lawyer, is wearing Pumas to the office. As I write, I'm wearing a pair of plain black Max Mara loafers.

It's a supremely trivial postscript to the staggering tragedy: Along with the 6,400 people presumed dead in the aftermath of the World Trade Center collapse, there are at least as many ridiculous shoes in the closets of New York women that will never again see the light of day.

Of this small thing, I am sure. If I were sure of anything else today, I would write about that instead. But on this particular Saturday afternoon, two weeks after Diana Ross sang "God Bless America," (disco as usual), for the women's finals of the New York Open, and one day before she is scheduled to sing it again, (nothing as usual), for the mass memorial service at Yankee Stadium, I don't know as much as I used to, even about myself: I don't know how long I will stay in New York, or in the art world. I know only the things in front of me, like the hint of my hand in the darkness. I know I like waking up with my boyfriend. I know I will not work such long hours this month. And I know I will never wear Manolo Blahniks.

The case of the forwarded e-mail

Fri, 13 Jul 2001 19:00:00 +0000

Tax attorney Ellen Batzel regrets the day she hired Bob Smith to work on her Asheville, N.C., home. "I hired him to be a handyman," she says. "I wanted someone to repaint and refinish the floors: odd jobs."

At first, that's what she got: Smith did the floors in a few weeks in July 1999. But soon their relationship soured, leading first to a small-claims lawsuit over payment for the repairs, and ultimately to a multimillion dollar federal lawsuit that involves charges of Nazi war looting -- and raises fundamental questions about Internet libel law.

In an act that has legal repercussions today, Smith (who could not be reached for comment for this story, despite extensive efforts to reach him by phone and e-mail) apparently fired off an e-mail to Ton Cremers, the solo operator of the Museum Security Network, a Netherlands-based non-profit that tracks news of art theft, looting and forgery. Cremers' e-mail newsletter reaches about 1,000 readers worldwide -- a small but hardcore group of museum security professionals, curators, art historians, art dealers, art collectors, lawyers, law enforcement officials and journalists.

Are we not divas?

Mon, 10 Apr 2000 16:00:00 +0000

The bitch is back.

Once again, VH1 has gathered together for one concert a handful of the most "demanding, dramatic and often outrageous" singers ever to share -- or monopolize -- center stage.

Back in 1998, the middle-of-the-road music video channel launched its divas series by bringing together Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, Gloria Estefan, Aretha Franklin and Shania Twain. The second concert, in 1999, featured Brandy, Cher, Whitney Houston and Tina Turner. Tuesday night, VH1 broadcasts "Divas 2000: A Tribute to Diana Ross," with Carey, Faith Hill, Ross and Donna Summer.

This time the high-concept series has stooped to new lows. Milking the cash cow to its last drop, VH1 has pulled a desperate gender-bending stunt. It has organized a "Men Strike Back" concert to air on April 18, starring the Backstreet Boys, D'Angelo, Enrique Iglesias, Tom Jones and Sting. It's billing it as "the revenge of the male divas."

Subway love

Mon, 14 Feb 2000 17:00:00 +0000

There was a time in New York, not so long ago, when the very notion of a "subway train" was absurd. The subway was a subway -- generally filthy, mostly underground, always alienating -- a necessary evil in the city. The train was a train -- usually clean, scenic, a machine engineered for producing chance encounters with new lands and new people -- sexy in the best Freudian sense. The subway was hell; a train could, whatever its inconveniences, at least hint at bliss.

Paul Bowles discovered as much in 1946, when translating Jean-Paul Sartres play "Huis Clos" ("Behind Closed Doors") for its first Broadway production. After weeks of searching for a title to pack the same existential punch as the French, he found his answer in the depths of the New York subway system. Leaving the Independent Subway, he saw the sign "No Exit," finding at once his title and the American version of hell.

When I first rode the subway, as a student at Columbia College in the '80s, hell was my word for it too. My most memorable ride was heading back to campus after an afternoon of shopping. My best friend and I, and our latest finds from Kenneth Cole and French Connection, rode the No. 3 uptown. Our talking stalled when we noticed a small, balding man seated across from us pointing a camcorder our way.