Mark Dunn - We Five

Nonsense! Nonsense!

And yet.

San Francisco, April 1906

To Tom Katz, the agency account manager responsible for Pemberton, Day & Co.’s summer advertising campaign, fell the enjoyable task of deciding which of the most picturesque spots in Golden Gate Park would make the best backdrops for the full-page advertisement he wished to present in the guise of a photographic essay: “Tramping in Taffeta; Aestivating in Lace.” More to the point, it fell to Mr. Katz, assisted by his agency colleague Will Holborne, the delectable duty of deciding where the five young women who had won the modeling lottery might best show off Pemberton’s summer lines while showing themselves off to the five young men whose responsibility it was to shepherd and/or superintend them.

To that end, both men, equipped with “slide in ‘n’ shoot” Hawkeye cameras, had visited the park a few days before. They had selected three sites for the all-day Friday photography session: the Dutch windmill, Sweeney Observatory at the top of Strawberry Hill, and the Japanese Tea Garden, with permission granted by the Stow Lake boathouse proprietor for use of one of its rooms for costume changing.

The day of the “shoot” having now arrived, a casual bonhomie quickly developed between We Five and the ad-men, who either furtively or manifestly could not take their eyes off them. Miss Colthurst was pleased to see the day proceeding so smoothly and everyone getting along so well. Miss Dowell had remarked that the models had been chosen wisely. The manager of the Ladies’ Departments had agreed with her assistant, whom she had brought along with her to the photography session, and dismissed the murmuring plaints of the five rejected finalists back at the store that “something didn’t smell right.” (Although there was, to be sure, some truth behind this suspicion, since Miss Colthurst had made it clear to Katz whom her particular preferences had been, “for whatever my suggestions are worth.” A great deal, as it turned out.) During those periods in which Katz and Holborne went about setting stops and focal lengths, posing their subjects this way and that, and waiting for those moments that offered the most aesthetically illuminative marriages of sun and cloud, Molly found herself in comfortable colloquy with the youngest Katz agency ad-man, Pat Harrison. It was Harrison’s job to escort the models to and from the boathouse — but only after Miss Dowell, as dresser, gave each of We Five a last-minute prink and primp and “spin-around-once-more-for-me-dearie-thankyoueversomuch.”

As for Carrie, she had spent a good part of the morning avoiding the interested gaze of Mr. Holborne, who, as often as not, was framing her most particularly in his photographic sights. He knew what she was doing and she knew what he was doing, and it became an amusing little game of wordless cat-and-mouse until Katz, taking notice, ordered his photographer to “knock it off.”

Maggie, in the meantime, while changing from a blue and white shirtwaist and golf skirt into a pink, lace-sleeved tea gown, made a confession to her friend Jane, who was changing from striped shirtwaist and cloth skirt into a lavender silk house dress. She admitted that she very much liked the look of the one named Castle, whose job it was to keep onlookers out of camera range, which he did with such commanding and nearly martial authority that Maggie was given to tingle, admiringly, in his presence. “You may have your Mr. Castle,” confided Jane. “I’m far more interested in Mr. Katz, and have been since we first met last week. He’s quite the gentle general. Did you notice how deftly he arranged each of us upon the bridge above the waterfall — adjusting our arms and heads this way and that with such tender attentiveness?”

“All I noticed,” returned Maggie with a sly smirk, “was a modern-day Pygmalion falling in love with his statue. But as for the rest of us, we were merely items of still life to be shifted and shoved about, with little show of respect at all.”

“You’re being quite ridiculous, Mag. Although I’ll admit that Katz does seem just a little more interested in me than he is the rest of you.” Jane leaned in, addressing Maggie through the sheer fabric of her chemise, which she was in the process of lowering over her head and shoulders. “In fact, only moments ago he asked me to have dinner with him next week.”

“And what did you say? Will you go?”

“Of course I’ll go. A girl’s got to eat, doesn’t she? And I can’t think of any finer company — I mean, of course, company of a different gender.” Having answered Maggie’s question frankly, Jane turned to Miss Dowell, who was serving as human clotheshorse, Jane’s silk dress draped at the ready over her arm. “Miss Dowell, these clothes reek of benzine!”

“It cannot be helped, Miss Higgins. The agency wanted them crisp and clean for the photography session. But I sympathize fully, my dear. I am nearly to the point of asphyxiation myself.”

The tall, spectacled member of the Katz contingent wandered through the morning accoutered with pencil and pad, taking notes from which he would draw inspiration for the advertising copy that would accompany the photographs. Ruth followed him about at what she thought was a safe and respectful distance until that point at which he finally decided to engage her, and in doing so discovered she too was a writer (of sorts — hence her fascination with his peripatetic scribbling) and took the opportunity to solicit her opinion as to what in the world could be said about five young women standing before a very Low Country — looking windmill, themselves looking not very Low Country at all in their tasteful drawing-room lounging garments — looking, in point of fact, like the very young women they could not help being: five modern female residents of the very modern American city of San Francisco.

“It’s certainly a conundrum,” admitted Ruth. “I thought the same thing while Mr. Katz was posing me — that a bucolic windmill was an incongruous thing to place within a city park. To my knowledge, Central Park in New York hasn’t a single one.”

Cain Pardlow nodded. “If Katz had been smart, he would have jettisoned the windmill and jettisoned Strawberry Hill — everyone’s so tired of pictures from that blasted hill — as if San Francisco hasn’t got hills and lovely scenic views in dozens of other places — and limited our pictorial presentation to the Japanese garden alone.”

Ruth smiled. “But wouldn’t we have found ourselves in a similar fix? I mean similar to our situation with the windmill. My fellow models and I don’t look very Dutch, but then again, we don’t look all that Oriental either.”

“True,” said Cain. “But Miss Colthurst has an idea which Katz also subscribes to, of putting the five of you — at least for one of the photographs — into summer kimonos. She says that Mr. Pemberton really wants to push the store’s new line of silk kimono-style wrappers, and the setting is perfect for that purpose.”

“Yes, that may very well work, so long as we don’t look as if we just tumbled out of bed. I’ve never seen a woman in a kimono who didn’t appear a little, well, frowzy .”

Cain smiled. He pulled his watch from his fob pocket. “It’s almost time for lunch,” he said, closing the watch with one hand while patting his stomach with the other. “And the agency has quite outdone itself in the way of provisioning our palates.”

“I thought the store was footing the bill for our lunch.”

“Of course it is. But Mr. Pemberton won’t know until he gets our invoice of expenses how very well we ate on this day.” Cain winked as Ruth laughed. “There’s a nice picnic area over by the children’s quarters. What would you say to the two of us having lunch together — that is, if you don’t have other plans?”