By the mid-Fifties, Suzy Parker was at the peak of her beauty and fame. Such was her wattage that the escort with whom she was most often paired, twenty-something Robin Tattersall, was inevitably cast into the shade.
As a supporting player, he’s long intrigued me. His name alone is enviable. Then there’s his career trajectory. How exactly did he tumble into such a cushy gig, roller skating across the Place de la Concorde by day and sipping champagne at Maxim’s by night?
With his aquiline nose and crisp side parting, Tattersall was no David Gandy. A rare and hitherto anonymous breed, the male models of the era had yet to discover their abdominal muscles, let alone contemplate Speedos. Still, his unforced smile suggests considerable charisma. As well, he wore his own clothes with a devil-may-care elegance that made him the perfect foil to whichever couture creation was the object of Richard Avedon’s gaze. His discreet but impeccable presence provided an English counterpoint to the French fancies of that most American of photographers.
Believing Tattersall to be lost in the footnotes of fashion history, you can imagine my delight when, whilst nattering with @crowley_vintage in his kitchen in Bed-Stuy one day, he mentioned that he had encountered the man himself at an equestrian event not so long before. Chaps of a feather flock together, it seems - even across the distance of half a century and three generations.
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