Halston

Roy Halston Frowick, 1932–1990 He kept his middle name, the pick of   the lot, he thought, and mispronounced himself:Hall-stun. At Bergdorf’s he acquired an accent and referred to himself   in the third person, every bird he flayed wrapped in Ultrasuede. He lit a True with a True, smeared his hirsute muse with sequins. There were air- kisses, Capote’s new-cut face at Studio 54, that Baccarat flute of ejaculate. Never too late, he ordered in meat and potatoes, and a trick. He called it “dial-a-steak, dial-a-dick.” He appeared on The Love Boat, Halstonettes in tow, maybe the high, maybe the low, watermark. When his pupils betrayed him at work, on came the shades. And a well-cut blazer, paranoia. He had signed away the rights to his name, for options. When he tried to reclaim them from the conglomerate, he excused himself to the toilet, just a sec — white dust on a black turtleneck. His block started to look a lot like sickness. Even his beloved orchids, the sickness. Just like that, the eighties were gone. New York, New York, the eighties were no one.