Filip Gustavsson 32 Minnesota Wild Gus Bus Name And Number Shirt
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Long before I became Mrs. Vreeland’s assistant at the Costume Institute of New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, long, long before I became the Paris fashion editor at WWD, or Paris bureau chief at W, or creative director (and now, once again, an editor) at Vogue, I was an African-American man raised by his hardworking grandmother in North Carolina. Growing up, I learned how to live just by watching my grandmother Bennie Frances Davis as she worked, prayed, and went about the business of making a home for me. Her life was not easy, but because it was based on clear, sound principles of good behavior, it lacked the tortured complexity that I now so often see around me. Her code of ethics, always unspoken, was perfectly straightforward: church and family, the focal points, inextricably bound together. She kept a clean, welcoming home, so that those in her care (her own mother and I) could be well provided for, and so that we could all serve God.Filip Gustavsson 32 Minnesota Wild Gus Bus Name And Number Shirt
What this meant at a practical level was that every surface in our home glowed—not only through the application of soap, paste wax, or ammonia but also through the underlying working of love. What it also meant was that my childhood was, by anyone’s standards, a rich one. Faith, hope, charity… add luxury to the list, because it was that important, taken that seriously in our home. Not the luxury of surfeit and sumptuousness but the luxury of ordinary tasks done well and in a good frame of mind; of simple things suited to their purpose and well cared for. In 1989, I was 40 years old. Friends were already calling me Mr. Vogue. I loved working at the magazine, and, as its creative director, was on my way to a happy yet totally unpredictable future. But that year turned out to be very difficult, because I lost the two women who were most important to me: my grandmother and my surrogate mother, Diana Vreeland. Both had been ill for some while, and each had fought to the end. Their deaths broke my heart. My grandmother had worked hard all her life. So had Diana Vreeland. After my grandmother had raised her own four children (having lost two in childbirth), toiled as a maid, and been widowed, she raised me. Five days a week, she cleaned men’s dormitory rooms at Duke University. Our house was heavy with love and full of odds and ends, leftover furniture from the dorms that students would give to her at the end of a semester or upon graduation.
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