December 17, 2009

My Blog......RIP.

Apparently I am not as advanced in adding to my blog as I thought, because this morning I downloaded wordpress and accidentally deleted four years worth of blogs from our site, and nothing I have been able to do can bring them back. BooHoo. So I am starting all over....here we go.

As many of you know, I am writing a book on Grace Jones of Salado, and this is the only blog that I could resurrect.

February 16, 2008 Grace Jones of Salado

I was beginning my class, teaching students how to sew the perfect zipper, when my phone rang at the school. My husband called, wanting me to know that Jane Sibley had called to notify me that Grace Jones had passed away. She went very quietly, in the early morning, with her one of her cousins reading verses of the bible to her. For those who knew Grace very personally, I know that this was just the way she would want to finish. But for those who only knew the “icon” that she created, it seemed so incongruent to her trailblazing life. Grace was an enigma, her personal life quite different than her public persona.

I met Grace when I was just out of design school at FIT in New York. But I had known of Grace Jones of Salado (all one word) since I was a teenager in Austin in the 60’s. If you knew anyone who shopped with Grace Jones of Salado, you were SOMEBODY who knew somebody rich! I had a great aunt who was affluent, and sometimes my mother and aunt would get hand me downs that had a Grace Jones label inside the garment.

But it was not until years later, that I met Grace personally. I had already sold my collections to Neiman Marcus, Sakowitz, and Tootsies of Houston, before I even got up my nerve to call Grace for an appointment. Her assistant answered the phone and took a message because Grace was with a client. I knew by then that Grace’s clients came in from all over the world to her salon in Salado. My palms were sweating when I hung up the phone. I called my mother to tell her that I had actually talked with Grace Jones’ assistant! If it had been her assistant’s assistant’s ex brother in law, I would still have been beaming. That close to royalty!

The following week, I was driving to market in Dallas to show for spring. I had a collection in all black and white linen that year. I loved the collection, because I have always had a deep affection for linen. But I like linen after it has been washed a few times, when the threads swell and the hand of the fabric reminds you of something ancient…like, perhaps, a beautiful old tablecloth that has been rolled and put away instead of folded and pressed with those sharp defining iron marks that expose obsessiveness. I could talk about the character of linen forever…it is more than fabric to me. Grace would love this conversation! But she would tell me that her clients wanted their linen ironed and looking crisp!

As I made my way up I35, I saw the Salado exit, I found myself taking the exit…. just so I could say that I had now actually driven by her salon. One step closer. I was sure that Grace was at market in Dallas, already writing orders. I could even pull into her parking lot and sit for a few moments and she would not know. The parking lot was empty, and I was sure that she was gone. I made the decision to take a sneak peak on the inside…. knowing that she not around. I knew the protocol concerning calling on a buyer…. always, always make an appointment. But I knew that she was not there, and I could take a peek.

turned around and drove up to the gas station on the corner of I35. I got my white linen shirt, Irish Linen (top weight), sewn with flower petal mother of pearl buttons ordered from Europe, top stitched pockets in the seam and sleeve cuffs adorned with the same pearl buttons. Then I pulled out my white linen pants, (English Linen, soft and lined with beautiful a silk/rayon combination lining, invisible zipper, hidden pocket in the seam, belt loops, high waisted…they were perfect and not a wrinkle in sight. I carefully carried them to the gas station restroom…. tip- toed in…and looked for a place to hang my portrait of linen where no dirt could touch it. There was nowhere that was not clean and moist and stinky! My heartbeat had already reached the loud thumping stage. I finally hung the hanger over my head and wore the pants and shirt around my neck like a necklace until I could undress myself. Still standing on my tiptoes, I put the clothes that I had just removed on the floor so that I would have a few inches of clean space to stand on. I leaned against a wall with one hand, and pulled on one pant leg and then the other, with my other hand, still standing on my toes, so that the hem would not drag on the floor. It was easy to get the shirt on …but by this time, the humidity of the bathroom and anxiety had turned everything into a sauna and I knew I had to get out of there fast or loose the pure and perfect press of those linen pants and shirt. I exploded out of that gas station bathroom, using my old clothes to wipe the sweat off of my face. I walked around the parking lot a few times to air out and plan my next strategy. I needed to drive a short distance to get to Grace Jones of Salado, and I could not bend my pants legs or lean against the back of my seat of my car, because my linen would wrinkle.

I pulled the car seat back as far as I could and still be able to reach the foot pedal to drive. I slid in behind the wheel, lying almost horizontal. I held myself up with the steering wheel, so that my shirt would not touch the back of the seat and I drove to Grace Jones of Salado!

I pulled in to the right of her sign…don’t ever block the front door…and the sheer momentum of what I just experienced got me out of the car, and hell, I just walked right in that front door. I was still a little giddy from my circus act when a quite perfectly coutured woman met me at the door, wearing a trapeze silhouette dress, a single gold bracelet on each arm, gold cuff earrings, and strawberry blonde hair, parted on the side, worn straight with a hint of South Hampton curl at the end. I introduced myself to the woman to whom I had spoken with last week, I assumed.

“Well…how are you?”

“Wonderful”…(and I hope that you notice that I don’t have one single wrinkle and you can just tell Grace Jones of Salado when you see her that I was here in my perfect linen ensemble and that ought to get me an appointment!!) I said I was just driving through on my way to market and just wanted to drop in and leave my card, and perhaps make a future appointment to see Grace Jones when it was convenient for her.

“Well, I am Grace Jones, and what about right now?” Grace invited me upstairs, where the real show was held. We talked for four hours about fashion and design. I feel in love with her right there on the spot. She bought my collection, placed a nice order and continued to order from me until I quit designing.

Our relationship continued…the past few summers I would spend several weeks at a time with her, going over photos and stories of our past. Her real persona was so incredibly interesting…. her life before the shop in Salado every bit as marvelous and adventurous. She knew that I was writing my master’s thesis on her, and she gave me access to every wonderful morsel of history on her, even a few secrets…telling me that I should be careful of confidences. She said “I spent my whole life keeping other people’s confidences and secrets…that is why they trusted me. So be careful when it’s your turn”.

When I opened my fashion design school two years ago, I asked Grace is I could name it after her. The Grace Jones School of Design.

“Well, that’s just fine. But do you really think anyone will know who I am?”

I talked with a few friends and business consultants, and every single one discouraged me from this name, asking me the same question….”who is Grace Jones?” I cannot grasp this…from Texas to New York to Europe, only a few years ago everyone knew who Grace Jones of Salado was. Our lives are such short flashes!

The passing of Grace Rosanky Jones was quiet, without hoopla, or runways or flash bulbs or applause. From dirt to dirt.

If Grace had only done this one thing in her life, owning such a successful salon and bringing all of the world to Salado to view and buy these wonderful collections, it would have been enough. But what we find out about Grace is a whole other fabulous story. She was a female pilot in World War II, part of the courageous flying WASP organization. Her life was just amazing, multi faceted and worth studying. I enourage all of my students to read about her and learn.

December 18, 2009

Here is another that I posted when my father, Ted Quadlander passed away.

As I said, I am not too good on adding to my blog on a regular basis. Those of you who have been by the school lately understand why there is so little time.

We added a downstairs for the additional children’s programs, and it was great to have the extra space, even though the re-building of downstairs took a while to complete, and is still being changed. It is bright, and everyone loves working down stairs. Music, air conditioning, big tables, sewing machines, what more could you need?

The summer program was so much fun…..the children’s classes were better than I thought possible…I just cannot believe the work that the kids did! They learn so fast, and are so focused and determined!

We added all sorts of classes for the kids…..skirt design, shoe design, purse design, fashion illustration, advanced fashion illustration, draping. They were amazing! Can’t wait until next summer. For the fall, we decided to add children’s sewing classes to our saturday schedule, lasting five weeks. We had immediate enrollments, so the kids are really wanting to learn to sew…..liberated and sewing all at the same time!

For the adults, we have added six week sloper development, advanced fashion illustration/portfolio, and learning to use industrial machines to our curriculum. Check the new schedule, and register as quickly as possible.

On another note, somewhat sad for me and my family, my Father, Ted Quadlander, passed away on August 14. Although he was 86, it was very unexpected. He just fell to the floor that morning, and I hope died instantly. For a man who lived his whole life being curious and ready to take on any new adventure, his death has been hard to accept. While I am so thankful that it was immediate, it is still hard to say goodbye to someone like him. It is like watching a huge oak tree go down.

I am the oldest of six children..me, Greg, Cheryl, Pat, Mike, and Gary. My dad taught us all to ride a bike, to swim, to play baseball, golf, basketball, softball, to compete in track, volleyball, badmitton, target shooting, ping pong, tennis, anything and everything that had to do with competition and athletics. In 1951, he coached his Austin little league team to the play offs in Williamport, Pennsylvania for the Little League World Series. They came in second, and when they returned to Austin, the whole town showed up for a parade on Congress Avenue! It was the talk of Austin for years. Some of his players from that year showed up for dad’s funderal…they had so much respect for him!

I went to Catholic school and there were always sports for the girls, but once I transferred to public school, there were no sports for girls…..I guess we were just supposed to stand around look pretty for the football players….pass the hairspray, please! I rounded up some friends to start a girls basketball team, and asked my father if he would be the coach. None of us could play worth a dang, but we would head over to East Austin once a week and challenge the girls over there at the Rec Center to a game. They slaughtered us everytime…but my dad hung in there with us until we couldn’t find any other teams willing to play us….we weren’t a big enough challenge, I am sure.

I learned to play golf when I was a teenager, along with my brother. Dad would take us out to practice range, and help us with our swings. I beat Sandra Hainey when I was 16 years old! She later joined the PGA. I think he mourned the fact that I didn’t pursue golf more earnestly. But I had a boyfriend at the time who was terrible at golf, so I quit playing so that I would not embarrass him by beating him.

In high shcool, my dad coached our girls powder puff football team at Sidney Lanier. It was supposed to be flag football…no rough stuff. HA! There was plenty of rough stuff, I am telling you! We played our hearts out, tackling, pushing, shoving, whatever it took. I was a senior, and my dad always coached the junior class…so he was the enemy! I tried to steal his plays one day…I knew he kept them hidden in his sock drawer, but dang, he had moved them. His team won, as they always did. My best friend and I were lying on the field after the last whistle, having just missed a throw that would have tied the game. We were crying our eyes out. I didn’t speak to my dad for a week!

He taught me how to drive when I was 12….we lived out in the country. The first time I ever heard my dad cuss was that day…I was trying to learn to drive our manual transmission Corvair, and I let the car stall, and then I kept stalling it, not quite able to master the clutch and the gas. Oh…I forgot to say…we were stalled on the railroad track with a train coming! My dad kept saying, “easy, easy, let out the clutch, push down on the gas at the same time, easy easy”, and then “Holy —-! Move over!” I don’t know what startled me more, my dad popping the clutch so fast we were airborne, the train whizzing by behind us, or my dad cussing. I think it was the cussing…

He contracted paralytic polio when I was six. My brother was four, my sister, two, and my brother Pat had just been born. Dad was in the iron lung, paralyzed from the waist up. There was very little hope. I think that the doctors fully expected my father to die. It was 1953…polio was thought to be incredibly contagious. I was taken out of school, and our family was pretty much exiled from the neighborhood.

My dad survived…through the well of determination and perserverance that we would come to see for the rest of his life.

I mention only a few of the many many memories that I have of my father, because it is in this foundation that I realized how important it is to be perservering and how important it is for girls to have male mentors.

My father was not the most pleasant person to be around, in spite of all his assets that I just mentioned. The physical effects of polio limited his use of his hand and arm, and I know that it was angered him endlessly to have to accept his limitations. But he would strap a golf club, or baseball bat to his hand and off he went….never ever crying over spilt milk!! There were eventually six children…I am not sure that my father even wanted one! He liked to schedule his life on his own terms, and not have to answer to anyone else. But inspite of all of that anger and emotional un-availability, he still managed to in-still in us a spirt of perserverance and determination, curiousity and dogged stubborness. He was incredible survivor, working for 52 years as a stock broker for Merrill, Lynch, Pierce, Fenner, and Smith. He retired when he was 83, and even then, he missed his job desperately. His eyes had started giving him trouble, and he was having difficulty seeing to drive his car.

We all thought that he would never quit working.

I know that I owe my father for the gift of determination. There is not much that I am afraid of trying…unless it is jumping out of an airplane! Dad never seemed to be too surprised or even notice our accomplishments…he really expected us to do well, and rise above. He never saw my school. His favorite saying was “wipe the blood off and keep playing!” and we all heard it often growing up.

It is so important for children to believe that they can accomplish anything! I try very hard to get this across to my students…set high goals for yourself. Don’t expect to have a perfect childhood in order to accompish your goals. Don’t expect your parents to be perfect. Don’t let fear stop you. Cut yourself loose from people who bring you down, who make you doubt your ability. Just gently cut them loose. Take care of your mind, your body, your wit, your spirit….if any one of those gets weak, everything weakens.

Like most men of his generation, my father was an enigma, tough, hard to please, hard to reach, rough exterior. But his actions spoke so much louder than his gruffness. He taught all of us to be perservering, determined, funny, curious, competitive, and to never quit. What more could a kid ask for?