The death of Elizabeth Taylor, and the flash of early photos of her, circa 1950, brought fresh to my mind a transcendent and poetic grace, captured on film, a sparkle of femininity and loveliness, forever lost.
To see her pivot around the pool table, wasp-waisted and ruby lipped, as Montgomery Clift loses his cool, is to live one’s own youth again. That is the moment when you find yourself uncontrollably attracted to another person. But also inhibited, scared, shaking.
There once was a beautiful young girl whose physical beauty was emulated and admired all over the world. And she rode a wave, a crest, and a hysteria; a tornado of fans, yet somehow she managed to keep her dignity intact.
And now we live in the age of Gaga.
Here in Van Nuys 