Year’s before Seinfeld name-checked the clothier, we used to get the J. Peterman Company catalog in the mail. My 12-year-old self would scan its 60-some pages of fantasy fashion and dream the marketing dream they had carefully crafted for me, right on target. Thankfully, I was too young to have my own credit card or it might have gotten ugly.
In a fit of nostalgia, I signed up to get the catalog again, and what should I find therein but “The New Music” dress. According to the catalog note, Peterman first saw the dress at the opera. Dr. Atomic wasn’t what made the night worth his time, however.
You made it through Parsifal, Peterman, I keep reminding myself. Then I notice her next to me. She’s leaning forward intently. Emotions flicker across her face, her hands make small conducting gestures; she’s clearly enchanted. After the bomb goes off and the lights come up, she cries “Bravo!” and flashes me a brilliant smile. “Wasn’t that wonderful?” she asks. The sight of her in this dress is almost enough to persuade me to give Schönberg a second chance.
Note to Nico: Maybe you should cut a deal with this guy to market those striped shirts you fancy.
Hmm, perhaps you would be interested in a Muhly-inspired wallet.