Before reading about her last week, I didn’t know all that much about Kate Spade. I knew, of course, about the pocketbooks – my niece Molly is among the brand’s fans – and her other design work. For myself, I’m the possessor of a Kate Spade phone case. (White with big black polka dots.) I knew that she was David Spade’s sister-in-law. And I knew that she’d built a pretty good business for herself. Other than that, I don’t know much and can’t recall ever having seen a picture of her.
Reading about Kate Spade after her death, I learned that she grew up in an Irish-Catholic family in Kansas City, and that her maiden name was Kate Brosnahan – a fact that I suspect really struck my cousin Ellen, as this is the maiden name of her daughter. I learned that Kate Spade went to parochial grammar school and a Catholic girls high school. And she looked like pretty much everyone I went to parochial grammar school and Catholic girls high school with. After going to an average, nothing-special university, she landed an entry-level job at Mademoiselle. And the rest is history: design a signature bag, build (with her husband) a major brand/business, sell the business for $$$ to spend time with her only child, a daughter, now 13 years old. Kate Spade was only 55, a couple of years younger than my younger sister. She could have been the kid sister of anyone I went to parochial grammar school or Catholic girls high school with.
Reading about her background, I found myself oddly proud of her and what she had achieved, and so very sorry about her death, with special sorrow reserved for her family, especially her daughter.
I was going to post about her, but what did I have to say?
On Friday morning, I went through my usual a.m. routine, which always starts with my looking through my Twitter feed, There I read the shocking news that Anthony Bourdain had killed himself.
I “knew” Anthony Bourdain a lot better than I “knew” Kate Spade.
Years ago, I had enjoyed his original essay on the restaurant world in The New Yorker, and his follow-on book Kitchen Confidential, which I round hilarious and hilariously snarky. As a veteran of the restaurant biz, there was so much in there that I could completely appreciate.
I pretty regularly watched his show No Reservations, and occasionally watched his later show, Parts Unknown.
I mostly thoroughly enjoyed watching him eat (and drink) his way around the world, his exuberance, his wit, his seeming zest for living, his raunchiness – and the fact that the shows always included a side of culture, history, politics. There was room on the plate in those shows for an awful lot besides food and bev.
I say I “mostly” enjoyed the shows, it’s because of all those times I turned away, my stomach churning even though I was thousands of miles away and months of production time removed from the supper at which something truly ghastly was consumed. One in particular I remember was an egg that contained a nearly–hatched chick, feathers and all. Talk about having control over his gag reflex: I give you Anthony Bourdain. (Fortunately, I missed the show in which he ate warthog rectum, “flavored” with sand and fecal residue.)
My favorite shows included the one in which he ate noodles and drank beer, in a hole-in-the-wall spot in Hanoi, with Barack Oba
“Low plastic stool, cheap but delicious noodles, cold Hanoi beer.” This is how I’ll remember Tony. He taught us about food — but more importantly, about its ability to bring us together. To make us a little less afraid of the unknown. We’ll miss him.
What a good time those two guys seemed to have had…
My other favorite was the one in which he dined at a maple sugar shack in Quebec where everything on the menu features maple syrup/maple sugar and, if I recall correctly, some form of pork. It was so ridiculous, so joyous, I just laughed out loud as a I watched.
Anthony Bourdain’s exuberance, his generosity of spirit, his curiosity, his acceptance of the other, his larger-than-big, bigger-than-large personality, his humor and intelligence. He will be so missed, even by those of us who are complete strangers.
And for all his loud-mouthed, bad-boy-ness, there was always a kindness and compassion about Anthony Bourdain. Here’s a link to a Buzzfeed article recounting his standing up for an 88-year-old North Dakota restaurant reviewer whose review of The Olive Garden was being wildly mocked across the Internet. (Bourdain ended up helping publish a collection of Marilyn Hagerty’s reviews. I just ordered it and am much looking forward to reading it.)
Six degrees of separation, by the way, is alive and well. My friend Pat’s sister is married to Anthony Bourdain’s brother, and Pat knew Tony – his name among family and friends – pretty well. I wrote to her on Friday and she wrote back that “it is devastating on so many levels and complicated by the public glare.”
Devastating on so many levels, especially for his daughter – only eleven years old, even younger than Kate Spade’s.
Most people of a certain age recognize the theme song to M*A*S*H. But you may not recall the lyrics, which include in its refrain the words “suicide is painless.”
No it’s not.
Until it’s over, I suspect that suicide and the thoughts and feelings that lead up to it are plenty painful for the person who takes his or her own life. And it’s plenty painful for those left behind, too.
In the case of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, the pain is, as my friend Pat says, so “complicated by the public glare.”
Kate Spade. Anthony Bourdain. All those thousands of folks unknown in parts unknown who are grappling with depression. So very, very sad.
Here’s hoping that the deaths of two celebrities will bring about some good.
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