Jason at 13
Anna at 95
Miami
Self-Portrait as Man Ray
So, I'm hoping that the deaths of Loleatta Holloway and Geraldine Ferraro complete the celebrity-deaths-in-threes triangulation of the past week. Ms. Holloway made the early 1990s - via the late 1970s - a whole lot more fun...and Ms. Ferraro was the original badass woman running mate. Fuck you-know-who (like I even have to say that) and her faked and half-baked tough-for-the-cameras-with-a-rifle bullshit. Gerry was the real deal. 
And to think I was just about to post an R.I.P. entry for Loleatta Holloway...
Growing up in the 1970s, I thought of Elizabeth Taylor as something of a joke. She was often parodied and was often a parody of herself - the out-of-control, drunk and bloated faded superstar who was famous more for her husbands, jewelry, and various appetites than she was for her talent.
Despite it all, I was mesmerized as a kid. A woman in a turban leaves me weak in the knees.
Sometime after college, I discovered a different Elizabeth Taylor. I found the Elizabeth Taylor that existed before the sludge of gossip and unintentional camp hardened around her. I found Elizabeth Taylor the actress.
Her sheer power is obvious in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, but her blatant yet sophisticated sexuality in Butterfield 8, A Place in the Sun, Suddenly Last Summer, and Giant floored (and continue to floor) me. She was the most famous woman in the world in the 1950s/early 60s for good reason - beyond her stunning physicality, a great deal sparked behind those violet eyes. She was beckoning, but still a fantasy. It's no wonder so many men gave up everything to be with her.
I'll be mourning her death by watching Butterfield 8 tonight in a turban and dark sunglasses.
©2011 Trevor Messersmith
