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monogram_hairnet

I love old Hollywood, especially the B movies of the 1930s and 40s, so when I first saw this Monogram hair net in an online auction it reminded me of Monogram Pictures Studios.

The quintessential B movie factory of its era; Monogram churned out westerns, melodramas, mysteries and, most notably, series like Mr. Wong, starring Boris Karloff. The design on the Monogram envelope above looks like it could be a studio logo, and the woman depicted on the front with her au courant hairdo and makeup could be a starlet on the verge of major motion picture career.

Of course, Hollywood stardom has proved elusive to all but a fortunate few.  Of the actors who were making pictures in the 1930s, most were not on the payroll of a major studio like MGM or Warner Brothers. They were more likely working as extras or for a small studio, like Monogram.

One young Hollywood hopeful, Carmelita Geraghty, who graduated from Hollywood High School in 1919 and began her career as an extra, made many of her films for independent studios like Monogram. In 1931 she starred in a drama entitled “Forgotten Women.” Ironically, the trials and tribulations of women trying to succeed in Hollywood is the subject of the film.

A stunning girl with beautiful eyes, Carmelita was selected as one of the Western Association of Motion Picture Advertisers Baby Stars for 1924. By 1925 she seemed poised for great things; Carmelita had appeared in The Pleasure Garden, the first feature directed by Alfred Hitchcock, and would soon accept the role of Jordan Baker in the 1926 production of The Great Gatsby. Despite these successes Carmelita’s breakthrough role never came.

The unknown girl on the Monogram hair net envelope may have shared Carmelita’s fate and never have made it to stardom in the movies—or maybe not. I like to imagine her sitting for the portrait that will forever remind me of Hollywood during its heyday.

 

Picture 23

It is not possible for me to discuss the history of modern cosmetics without invoking the name of Max Factor. The man was a genius.

He created Pan-Cake, the make-up that made filming in Technicolor possible. He introduced the lipstick brush and indelible lip color that didn’t come off, even with smooching. He designed the famous “Cupid’s Bow” or “Bee-Stung” lips for stars like Clara Bow during the 1920s. In the early 1930s, when Joan Crawford went from playing wise-cracking, dance-crazy flappers to the more mature rolls for which she is now best known, it was Max who transformed her mouth from a cute pucker to the dramatic “Hunter’s Bow Lips,” which Crawford referred to as the “smear”. The look became her trademark.

Factor didn’t limit himself to creating cosmetics alone. He also invented devices like the Kissing Machine, which was used to test the longevity of lipstick formulas. In my opinion his most brilliant creation was the Beauty Micrometer, also known as the Beauty Calibrator.

At first glance the calibrator resembles a medieval torture device, but it wasn’t designed to inflict pain; it was made to measure the contours of a woman’s face and head within one thousandth-of-an-inch! Why were such measurements needed? Why to correct with cosmetics the imperfections of nature, of course.

Here are the ideal facial measurements according to Factor:
Nose: same length as the height of forehead
Eyes: separated by a space the width of one eye.

Even the most beautiful stars in Hollywood had imperfections by these standards, but with the deft application of light, shadow, and color, any actress could become perfection personified.

The Beauty Micrometer was featured the February 1933 edition of Popular Science magazine, and was also featured in a 1935 article in Modern Mechanix. With all the buzz, Factor hoped to place micrometers in beauty shops around the world, but his plan never came to fruition. As far as I know, only one micrometer was ever constructed. Which is why, in 2009, I was stunned to discover that the machine had been placed in an auction!

To own such a rare piece of beauty and cosmetics history I would have been willing to do almost anything, but with a preliminary estimate of from $10,000 to $20,000 I feared the micrometer would never be mine. Crackpot ideas for making a quick buck filled my brain. I considered dozens of schemes, most of which would probably have landed me in jail. Then cold, harsh reality finally set in: I would have to watch the auction and hope that whoever was lucky enough to win the micrometer would treat it with care.

And yet, the auction ended differently than I’d anticipated. The one-of-a-kind Max Factor Beauty Calibrator did not meet the auction reserve! So, what happened to the calibrator? I phoned the Hollywood Museum and they assured me that it is now where it belongs: currently on display where Max Factor himself once worked.

Note:  This article originally appeared in The Clutch/Los Angeles Magazine on December 29, 2013.

 

duska_face_powder

The exquisite Duska face powder box (c. 1928) is one of the first I ever acquired. I had seen a photo of it in a book on collecting ladies’ compacts, so when I found it years later at a vintage textiles sale I was thrilled. It was as stunning in person as I’d hoped it would be. The box’s oval shape accommodates the length and breadth of the fountain, allowing it enough space to make a statement. Its bright red color was meant to catch the eye of a woman looking for something modern and sophisticated.

the-moderns-movie-poster-1988-1020201939I was initially under the impression that the box had been created, like most of the items in my collection vintage cosmetics ephemera, by an anonymous graphic artist as a tribute to the fountain designed by Rene Lalique for the Exposition des Arts Decoratifs held in Paris in 1925. I discovered however that the back story on the Duska box is unique because was conceived by well-known artist Frank Graham Holmes, the chief designer of Lenox china from 1905 to 1954.The United Drug Company hired Holmes to design Duska for their chain of Rexall Drug Stores.

I feel strongly that in 1926 when Holmes drew the “Fountain” pattern for Lenox, he deliberately chose to pay homage to Lalique. Holmes’ design for the china, and subsequently this powder box, is a blend of bright colors (a hallmark of Art Deco) and a traditional floral theme, with graceful cascades of water flowing in a precise geometry. If not patterned after Lalique’s exposition fountain, Holmes’ Duska creation is similar enough to a glass panel designed by Lalique to be its twin.

Which is why, no matter how the fountain concept originated, for me it will always evoke Paris during the 1920s. It would have been an exciting place to be, with a cast of characters one can only read about now: Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas.  (Had I been there then, surely I would be involved in a steamy assignation a la Anais Nin and Henry Miller, and I would make it a point to catch Josephine Baker’s infamous “banana dance” at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées.)

Fortunately there are ways in which to vicariously experience an expatriate’s life in Paris during the 1920s, You can read Hemmingway’s or Fitzgerald’s novels, Anais Nin’s diaries or erotica, Henry Miller’s novel “Quiet Days in Clichy” (which I love) or rent the 1988 film “The Moderns” or the 1990 film Henry and June” (based upon a portion of Nin’s diaries). For me, looking at this Duska powder box does the trick.

NOTE:  To view the original post visit the Vintage Powder Room archive at Los Angeles Magazine.

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