This is Lars Kampmann’s description of the first time he saw Carrie. It captures some of the magic that had me totally entranced Winter Quarter 1965, a little before Lars first saw her. I had my opportunity, and did my best to seize it, but I didn’t quite have the chops.
The first time I laid eyes on her, I had recently returned to Stanford from my time as an apprentice with the Actors’ Workshop in San Francisco, Spring ’65. I was sitting in the student union when the electric door swung open to reveal Trixie — she was still called Carrie at the time — On her feet she wore purple velvet high-heeled shoes with silver laces that wound around her brightly stockinged calves to her knees, where commenced tweed knickers of the kind Japanese golfers wear in old prints. Above that she wore a “distressed” leather jacket; this was before that look was considered chic, and the garment in question was a rag to put it conservatively. Her make-up was clown-like: white lips outlined in black, silver-dollar sized red circles on her cheeks, copious amounts of mascara smudged all round the eyes. Topping off this stunning vision was a purple satin Belle Epoque hat that must have escaped from a musical comedy. At least three feet wide, it had no crown, and was decorated with vast amounts of hot pink ostrich feathers that swooped and swayed every which way. I was not in lust, perhaps, but I was certainly in love, and our relationship began.
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