What Becomes a Legend Most?

I have a hobby. I don't have a lot of hobbies - I mean, I have my life and that includes working out and hanging out with friends and going to the movies and stuff. When I think of hobbies, though, I think of stamp collecting and coin collecting .. that kind of thing. I do collect movie posters and lobby cards and have for years. A couple of years ago, though, I started a really fun new hobby.

I collect BLACKGLAMA ads.

Do you remember those wonderful ads that started in 1968 with a photo of Lauren Bacall wearing a Blackglama mink? I grew up looking at those ads and loving them (of COURSE - I'm GAY!). So I was thrilled to discover that the man who created the ad campaign, Peter Rogers, put out a book about the campaign and told stories about each ad. The book, WHAT BECOMES A LEGEND MOST? THE BLACKGLAMA STORY, is now out of print; but I found one and bought it and then I went on Ebay and began buying up pages torn from magazines over the years and, now, I have a really big collection in a portfolio of my own making. My friend, Chris Davis, and I spent a happy half hour one night drinking wine (well, him, not me) and looking at them and oohing and aahing. It's a collection of which I have some pride, in spite of the sin of pride. I love and value my collection to the point where I have actually left it to someone in my will.

Today, my friend Marc Harshbarger posted the Judy Garland Blackglama photo in his Facebook profile pic and I asked him if he knew the story behind the shoot. He replied he did not and asked me to tell it to him. I can share it in no other way than to copy it, directly and in its' entirety, from Peter Rogers' book (which, by the way, is wonderful and can be found on various online shopping sites - buy it!).

So, for Marc and for all who are reading, here it is:

I met Judy Garland by chance one night in a New York club. She was living in Boston at the time and agreed to do the campaign, saying she'd be in touch. She kept her word. There must have been twenty phone calls before the evening she actually arrived.

I telephoned every hotel in Manhattan trying to book her a suite and finally had to settle for the Penn Garden on Seventh Avenue -- the only hotel that would accept the reservation. I couldn't believe it!

On the day she was to arrive, I received still another collect call from Judy. She had no money to get to the airport and could not come. I'd gone this far and wasn't about to give up now. So I hired a limousine and arranged to have it deliver her to the plane.

The plane landed on time, but Judy didn't appear. Finally a crew member told me she was still on board signing autographs. The hotels may not have loved her, but the public sure as hell did, as was proved over and over during the next two days and nights.

I went onto the plane to get her and was surprised to see her in that red sequined pant suit she'd performed in so often.

At the hotel, the desk clerk claimed there was no reservation for Miss Garland. Apparently the management had had second thoughts about having her there. I sent Judy and the friend she'd brought along to the bar. In a rare fit of temper, I demanded that the reservation be honored, that I'd take full responsibility for Miss Garland's bill. She got the room.

Tony Bennett was appearing that night at the Empire Room of the Waldorf, and Judy announced that we were going. When she made her entrance, the audience went wild. She'd sent a rose and a note backstage to Mr. Bennett, and when he appeared onstage, he asked "the fabulous Miss Judy Garland" to take a bow. She did, and then took the mike right out of his hands and performed his entire show while he sat on the floor in front of the bandstand. The audience had come to see Tony Bennett, but I don't think they left disappointed.

After the show, Judy insisted we visit Mr Bennett in his suite. We were hesitant, but there was no stopping her. Mr Bennett couldn't have been nicer and seemed to genuinely enjoy Judy's company. Blossom Dearie was there, playing the piano, and some other people I didn't recognize. We were supposed to be at Avedon's at eleven the next morning, so by three A.M. I tried to persuade Judy to leave. But she wasn't budging, and I left her the car and took a cab home, worrying that she'd never make it to the shooting.

At ten thirty I called her from the hotel lobby. She sounded extremely groggy but said to come up, she wasn't ready. I wasn't prepared for what I found. The room looked as though a hurricane had hit it -- vodka bottles everywhere, the carpet completely soaked, feathers all over the place. "What in God's name happened here?" I demanded.

"Peter, Peter, it was the pillows." Gradually I pieced it together. She and her friend had obviously gotten into a pillow fight; the evidence was hard to miss. Dismayed, I told her to shower and dress and I'd take her to the studio. Moments later there was a great crash in the bathroom, and Judy emerged with her feet cut and bleeding. She'd knocked all her perfume bottles into the shower. Fortunately, the cuts were superficial.

Somehow we got her dressed and to the car. While the stylists worked on her, I sent her friend back to the hotel to pack up and check out.

By the time we'd finished with her makeup and hair, she looked terrific and told us she was happy to be there. The photo session went beautifully. She sang along with one of her albums for an hour, as though she were on stage. Ultimately, we chose a nonperforming shot. Somehow it seemed to capture the Garland image more poignantly.

After the shooting, things changed for the worse. Once Garland realized the assignment was all over, she turned on us and became downright hostile, as though we'd let her down. She seemed to feel we'd used her, and that we were no better than all the rest.

She left with the Revillon coat she'd worn in the picture. It wasn't even lined, and I tried to persuade her to leave it behind so we could finish it properly. But it was hopeless to argue; she was determined to take it. She said it was great being in New York and in fur again, and left in the limousine for the airport. I never met her again in person, but later saw a photograph of her with her last husband boarding a plane to London, wearing the Blackglama coat, still unlined.