Fashion designer of the 40s, 50s and 60s whose diaphanous gowns made of yards of chiffon were worn by the Duchess of Windsor and Queen Sofia of Spain and Elsa Maxwell, and more recently as vintage statements by Renee Zellweger (pale yellow, 2001) and Jennifer Lopez (2006, green) at the Academy Awards.

 Parfum Celui de Jean Desses

Date of birth tells us the era you were meant to influence; date of death that point at which you cease to have quite the same effect, and the hyphen everything in between.  Which is not to say you don't live on afterward -- a person's good deeds and good works if not good intentions certainly can and sometimes do have their impact.  If you are Jean Desses your timeless creations worn by beautiful women years after your death, remind people of who you were.

All of this, of course, as a way to remember Yves Saint Laurent (1936-2008) whose death this past Sunday brought to mind the ways in which a single life can shape an era, make a difference, leave behind a legacy.  For some of us, his passing represents the end of an era, not just in fashion and haute couture but in the larger world of art and beauty and culture.  I was talking to my friend Nick who was driving on the 101 Freeway the night we got the news.

"Before him, you know," I said of Saint Laurent, "dresses stood up by themselves, there was so much whalebone and structure to them." 

"He got rid of all that," Nick said.  "He revealed the woman's body," meaning that Saint Laurent took over from Christian Dior (1905-1957) and dispensed with all the padding and constricting foundation work.

"He was a tortured genius," I added.

"He gave women pants," Nick continued.  "And the Russian peasant look."

I wondered aloud if Paris would remain calm.  We both thought of Cathy Deneuve, and Lulu de la Falaise and Betty Catroux.  Nick mentioned the recent antics of a younger generation of designers who should be more careful of their health and their behavior in public and then announced he would wear orange shorts with a pink belt the next day to work, as a special kind of mourning and tribute.

The New Thought or modern metaphysical movement teaches that because everything is God, then everything is part of one universal consciousness, and you are part of that consciousness and therefore perfect.  You are not born in sin, you are not some flawed or damaged item from God's production line, to be discarded, (or fixed or saved), or otherwise inferior to his higher end creations; you are perfect whole and complete just as you are and just like every other of God's creations, by virtue of being a part of the infinite Mind of God.  And since God is perfect, every one of you is perfect, just as you are, all appearances to the contrary.  And the perception that you might somehow not be enough just as you are is a result of the limited thinking and narrow perspective of Man, who is just not seeing the Whole Picture.

Now, whether or not you believe it, you have to admit it is a comforting way of looking at things.  As I was saying recently to D, however, it does not stop you from wanting to do something or create something or give the world, like Jean Desses or Yves Saint Laurent, something that would survive or be remembered after you are gone.

"You want to make a dress," D. said, with a tentative tone of dismay or disbelief, it was hard to tell which.

"No," I quickly corrected him.  "But you know, I thought for a long long time that if, you know,  I published a novel, then that would be my gift to the world, that would be my legacy.  And then I would finally be somebody."

"Well that's your mistake," D. said.  "That last part.  About being somebody."

Of course I understood what he meant.  Thinking anything outside of myself would make me feel complete, make me feel whole or acceptable or "somebody" is indicative of a sense of spiritual lack that nothing external is going to fix. 

"But the desire to create," I argued.  "Or the urge to give somebody a gift..."

"Oh that's something different," D. explained.  "That's not what you said.  Giving something and wanting to be somebody as a result are not the same thing."

"Okay, okay then," I conceded.  I could see how wanting to publish and get a lot of attention so that people would say, "God, and here I always thought he was such a mess, I had no idea he could write" is not the same as "What a lovely gift, how thoughtful of you, darling, thank you."  

And I had to agree that this goal -- to justify your worth with something as dicey and creative an effort like fiction -- was a futile and largely doomed enterprise.  Especially if all you want out of it is validation.  If all you're looking for is the permission to be allowed to stick around or be accepted, be a part of, be good enough.  Sort of like buying your mom that fancy bottle of perfume at Woolworth's and thinking that somehow it would finally clinch the deal and guarantee you everlasting approval or forgiveness or unconditional love.  

"Not a novel then," I said and added a humble chuckle, as if I hadn't really been serious about it in the first place.  Then I hesitated.  Perhaps there was room for negotiation.

"How 'bout a poem?"