Marilu Norden

Back in the days of vaudeville, Gypsy Rose Lee and her mom found themselves booked into a third rate theater specializing in the dubious art of stripping. This was comically dramatized in the 1962 film version where the young “Gypsy” is introduced to the inner sanctum of stripping by a trio of strippers, each insisting, in her own inimitable way, that to succeed “You Gotta Have A Gimmick.” “Gimmick” is yesterday’s word for today’s all-purpose “hook,” as in: if you want to guarantee stardom on the world stage “You Gotta Have a Hook.” But in vaudeville “hook” meant if you gave a lousy performance somebody from backstage would wield a big, long hook and reel you right off the proscenium. There went your rent money and your reputation in show business. Not so today. Have a great hook and you’re in the running for whatever the media demands.

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(I’ve been busy working on my second novel, The Ghost Painter, a paranormal thriller set in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The following is an excerpt in which the heroine — a New York artist — attends her first Santa Fe art opening.)

The level of chatter at the Cross of the Martyrs Gallery was rapidly rising. Too many bodies in too small a space, thought she, as she surveyed the crowded room while holding a small plastic glass in one hand and balancing some kind of tiny black-olive-cream-cheese-on-puff-pastry-thingamajig in the other. Never had she seen such a conglomeration of costume “get-ups” in one place without the occasion being Halloween. Nor had she seen so many females running the gamut of southwestern fashion choices. There was everything from Indian-style velvet broomstick skirts in rich colors of ruby-red, aqua, gold, and green, all topped off with high-necked or off-the-shoulder satin blouses, a preponderance of silver-and-turquoise jewelry, and fancy cowboy boots. Some flaunted their slim figures with sexy, skin-tight jeans, fringed sueded vests, and cowboy hats, along with the usual Indian jewelry. The men were no less flamboyant in their Western-style shirts, jeans with silver-buckled belts, high-heeled, alligator-skin boots, ostentatious hunks of turquoise-and-silver bolo ties, and the obsequiousness of the occasional Stetson. What a show, she thought. As for the main event, because of the crowd, Angelina hadn’t been able to get close enough to view the paintings hanging on the white-washed walls since she’d arrived.

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