Farrah Fawcett:
Symbol of the Seventies
My new apartment has free cable, which translates
into twice as many channels to surf through when sleep eludes me. Last Thursday I was slouched on the
futon in my dark living room prodding the remote control at regular intervals
as static and evangelists flipped by.
It was the usual three a.m. repertoire: a black and white movie, some
animated assault on the senses, infomercial after infomercial after
infomercial. Then the familiar
fugitive color of an old TV program filled the screen; three women with
overblown hair and aggressively white teeth, standing around in a 70Õs
apartment. It was that 
ÒCharlieÕs
AngelsÓ show. I pushed the channel
button. I pushed the button again,
wondering why nothing had happened.
The third time, I paused a moment, looking at the screen. Those old seriesÕ had always irritated
me. The awkward, dated cadence of
the dialogue, the sagas that had nothing to do with the world I live in, and
the infuriating pervasive pallor, that haze of primitive broadcast technology
that muted the hues of skirts and jackets and chair cushions in its signature
way. It made my mouth dry up. ÒHey now thatÕs mean!Ó said the blond
member of the trio, tossing her hair and leaning an arm on the broad 70Õs desk. ÒWe never said anything bad about your decade!
Besides,Ó she continued in dulcet television tones, ÒYou and I arenÕt so
different as all that. I went to
UT you know.Ó Now this was interesting! I leaned foreword, elbows on my knees to take a closer look
at the woman who had spoken. Tall
and very slender, with a hint of boyish nonchalance, she was wearing the kind
of 70Õs pants that prove you have no butt and a blouse with a scarf that tied
up at the collar. Her hair was
like a sculpture by Umberto Boccioni.
ÒHa, see!Ó She said brightly, interrupting my thoughts again. ÒYouÕre thinking like an artist! 
I
was an art major too, believe it or not.
At UT.Ó This time I was better prepared; I gave the desired
acknowledgement, and with sincerity:
ÒNo kidding! ÒIt was
in the late Sixties,Ó she said helpfully.
ÒI was voted one of the ten most beautiful undergraduates in sixty-six. Not bad at a school of fifty thousand.Ó[1] She turned and threw a playful, sultry
glance over her shoulder. I was
beginning to guess who this person was.
ÒYou really donÕt watch much television do you,Ó she said. ÒIÕm Farrah Fawcett!Ó So this was UTÕs legendary alumnus. ÒIÕm Genevra GarrettÓ I replied. ÒNice to meet you!Ó
ÒSo are the introductions over?Ó she said, ÒCan we talk now?Ó The TV star relaxed, dropped her pose, and just like that the character was gone and a real person stood in her place. ÒIÕve been trying to get back here for so long!Ó She said, gazing around the set. ÒOh, but not for the show. Acting is just work.[2] ItÕs other things I miss.Ó
I was having a difficult time keeping up. In a matter of seconds Farrah Fawcett
had gone from a polished, slightly airy television type to a woman whose
artless candor made me feel like her big sister. I had to admit, she was beautiful. Not like our 
celebrities
with their looks masterminded by professionals and applied from the
outside. There was something
organic about Farrah that seemed to shine through her skin. The handful of words she had spoken resonated
like a tennis ball hitting the sweet center of a racket.
ÒI need to get a few things straight,Ó I said to my
television in the dark. ÒSure,Ó
Farrah said, Òwhat is it?Ó She
perched on the edge of the desk and swung her legs around to face me from
behind the cozy protective haze of the monitor. ÒWell, arenÕt you still living? I mean, in the world?
What are you doing in my TV is, I guess, what I want to know.Ó ÒOh!Ó she smiled sheepishly at her
knees. ÒWell, yes, I am alive, technically. 
ItÕs
just that I miss the seventies.
Everything felt so right back then. And people loved me just for being myself. ItÕs like they said in magazines, I was
a perfect fit with the decade. The
ÔzeitgeistÕ, I think they called it.
The spirit of the times.[3] ThatÕs just what it is. My spirit has always lived here, I
guess you could say. So I thought
why not come back, why not really do it.
I didnÕt know if I could make it happen, but I had to try. And I wanted to talk to someone my
age. Because,Ó she added in her
musical voice, leaning her head to one side, ÒI really miss UT!Ó
I was taken aback. Sure, I was fond of my school. It occupied a special, blurry place in my heart, somewhere between home away from home and low-level torture chamber. In my four years I had made some great friends, learned some neat things, and had some good times. Of course I valued my semesters at the largest University this side of the Pecos. But it would never have occurred to me that UT could be an experience worthy of electronic time-travel.
On the other hand, Farrah had been so popular. In all likelihood hers was one of those
lightweight brushes with university life: party after party, an endless stream
of boys, the made-for-TV college experience sugarcoated with stardom. Most peopleÕs nostalgia for their
college years was actually thinly veiled longing for their bygone social lives
and firmer, perkier bodies wasnÕt it?
The rest of us just moved on to the next phase of life. But narcissism doesnÕt drive you back
into a thirty-year-old television show, and Farrah was about to show me the
other half of the picture. 
Her pretty face fell a little. ÒI didnÕt have four years like you,Ó she said. ÒHollywood called on the phone in sixty-seven and I moved to California and started doing commercials.Ó[4] YouÕre right; I dated a lotÉsometimes I had a date for breakfast, a date for lunch, one for dinner and one in the evening. Four a day![5] And I shopped with my friends on the weekends. We were poor when I was growing up, you know, so my parents never held anything back once my Daddy started making more money.[6] I had a lot of fun in school, itÕs true. People knew my name all over campus. But if I really wanted fame I would be happy where I am now. I have money and I can buy anything I want and itÕs not at all what interests me.Ó
ÒGenevra,Ó she said. The sound of my name rung in my ears with a shock, the
familiar syllables coming from TV Land startled something serious awake in my
mind. ÒI would trade every
autograph signing for one person to stop me on my way to the art building and
ask to carry my sketchpad for me again.Ó
A frisson of recognition went through me. How many times had I hiked across campus, following that
rout over UTÕs gravel aggregate walkways?
How well I knew that path with my sneakers or my sandals or my
flip-flops, in foul or pretty weather.
Sitting there on the sofa I could remember in my bones the bounce of my
steps down the stairs on 
the
east side of the tower that paved a path between faded oak trees, their old
dark roots resting on the dusty earth.
I could feel my brain burdened with the familiar torment of carrying a
newsprint pad; deucedly heavy, too broad to tuck under one arm and too long to
wrap both arms around, its limp uncooperative body flopping in four directions
at once, the sheaf of fragile leaves rattling in the wind and trying to jerk
free from the cheap binding. I was
stunned. Did Farrah Fawcett really
understand all that? I stared at
her backlit form with wary excitement, suddenly very interested in what she
would say next. ÒYou know,Ó she
continued earnestly, almost in a whisper ÒI never met anybody else in my life
like professor Umlauf. There isnÕt
a day that goes by that I donÕt continue to feel his influence.Ó[7] I frowned, groping through my
memory. An image materialized, a
sculpture of two small bronze people bent in a kiss, hidden in a bank of
growing ferns. Then a falling
Icarus and a war torn mother and a hippopotamus by a reedy Texas pond filled my
mind, and the name Umlauf connected to the sculpture garden west of Lamar and
to several large and emotionally straightforward statues on the UT campus. Charles Umlauf. Professor Umlauf! He must have taught at UT; Farrah must
have been his student. Reading my
thoughts again, she nodded. ÒI
worked so hard,Ó she said. ÒSome
people make you feel capable of so much more than you ever dreamed. It was amazing what he did with his
sculptures. He could capture what
was important in a person.Ó
I did not love the work of Umlauf, but I understood FarrahÕs faith. The heroes of my art school career filed before my eyes, half a dozen giant personalities to whom I had signed over all my trust and skill, from whom I learned lifeÕs lessons as I got better at making pictures. Some of them had ground my sensibilities into the pavement. But that was their sacred duty. In the harrowing war of self-improvement those professors had been my drill sergeants and my generals and their names were carved on the memorials of my mind. I remembered the strength that came from every epiphany and every year of instruction, and I began to understand what Farrah was saying.
ÒI never had a desire to be an actressÓ[8] she murmured, meeting my eyes. ÒItÕs so far away from my basic nature. Sometimes I think itÕs a bad dream.Ó[9] I watched the bright image of the woman as she leaned foreword, bracing her arms on the edge of the desk. ÒI had to make a living, and I wanted to push myself. I wanted to see what I could do out there. I guess I let competition get the best of me. Acting is my livelihood, but the strange thing is that I feel much more confident about my art. ItÕs mine. You donÕt have to turn it over to somebody else.Ó[10] In acting you do your part, then they edit and edit and edit. You do your performance but itÕs always someone elseÕs idea of right; thereÕs always a director standing over your shoulder. But your art can be whatever you want. ItÕs your vision. And I guess I miss that freedom. I miss those years when I held the reins and there were so many people helping me. I miss people supporting who I was instead of paying me to be different.Ó
As her words flooded over me, their truth woke up parts of my being that had been asleep for years. It was like stumbling into a room full of old friends; suddenly I was filled with feelings that had been my own a long time before. I remembered that pride, the secret passion and singleness of mind that governed me when I was living what I loved. I remembered the dedication and tenacity that had brought professors and advisors to my side and made the execution of my goals feel so effortless. Farrah was right. I was lucky to be here in this supportive place, to be a part of this college. I looked up at the textured walls of my apartment, feeling the space that enclosed me. Through the window blinds, beyond the little box that was my living room I could see warm porch lights shining on other side of my apartment complex, a closed three story rectangle of homes facing inward, forming silent balustrades around a leafy oak tree and a pool glowing gold-blue in the night. I followed my thoughts outside the dark shingle skin of the building and south along a short stretch of Red River, a sloping segment that connected my life to the east-most edge of campus like the stem between a fruit and a tree. Had Farrah Fawcett really gone to school for two years on that turf not three blocks away, in those limestone structures resting quietly on the dark cool grass? I remembered our introduction, how Farrah had gazed at the TV set around her, the 70Õs apartment. Had she been measuring her proximity to UT the same way I was now, in two thousand five?
I looked back at the illuminated screen, at FarrahÕs long, tan arms and sweeping hair. I pictured her in the art building in one of the sunny first-floor workshops, stooped over a life-sized lump of clay, sleeves rolled up, hands white with slip, totally absorbed in the creation of something all her own. We were all doing that, at school. We were pushing and sculpting and working on our lives. And in the end it wasnÕt critics or teachers we had to answer to, but our own inner voices. At the end of the day, at the end of the four years, at the end of the decade we should be able to look back proud and content, confident that we had done what we came to do, that we had controlled our experience the way an artist controls what happens in the studio, not with an iron fist or an immutable plan, but with an active open heart. She was right: UT was well worth coming back to.
What a wonderful considerate thing she had done, coming back all this way and sharing her life with me, like some Dickensian spirit of the University of Texas past. As a jaded fifth year senior suddenly given the gift of fresh sight, I felt like a repentant Scrooge.
ÒIs there anything I can do for you?Ó I asked. ÒAnybody you want me to visit or talk to?Ó ÒNoÓ she said. ÒI really just wanted to talk to you!Ó ÒYou know, you have a knack for making people feel important,Ó I said. ÒThatÕs what they tell me!Ó she tossed back with an honest laugh. ÒItÕs nearly time for me to get going; my showÕs almost over!Ó A pang of sadness struck me. I picked up the remote and looked at the LED clock on the TV. It read three a.m. Apparently time had stopped while Farrah and I had been talking, which wasnÕt so odd all things considered. Outside the few visible stars glittered in the sky, and a pale purple glow beyond the edge of the roof marked the radiance of the nearby stadium. I loved my college and I loved my life. I wasnÕt ready to let go of this incredible connected feeling. I wasnÕt ready for my new friend to vanish forever back into her modern existence. I turned back to the screen to plead my case. ÒCanÕt you stay a whileÉÓ I stopped short. There was no Farrah Fawcett regarding me kindly from behind the glass. Instead the mute button blinked its indicator in the top left corner as a blond and two brunette police detectives gestured at one another around the beige sofa in a seventies apartment. I rubbed my eyes. What was going on? I blinked slowly and deliberately, looking around. Was itÉmorning? Through the mini blinds the sky was pale with light and a breeze was shuffling the leaves of the oak tree. I must have been asleep. But what a vivid dream! I drew a deep breath and got to my feet. I bent to gather up the blanket I had been curled in, when something dropped from one of the folds onto the floor At first my bleary eyes thought it was a pencil, but picking it up I recognized the smooth powder-covered surface, the contours and the smell of earth that clung to the object. It was a clay-shaping tool.
The rest of that day I was in a beautiful mood. The warm sun seemed to make the air shimmer, and the sky was like a blue jewel. Walking to class, listening to lectures and traipsing between buildings, I felt better rested than I had in months. It was as though a new strength flowed through me, smoothing out minor difficulties and making my daily routine simpler and more enjoyable than it had been in a long time. Of course I knew what the difference was. I had been touched by an angel, whether in a dream or though some kind of technological voodoo, and the memory of FarrahÕs kindness and sincerity was like a breath of air buoying up my spirits. But underneath my happiness there was a new chord humming. It was a deep and wonderful conviction that my years at UT had been rich and productive, that this was a place of incredible beauty and meaning, and that my time here had prepared me well to tackle the life I was living.
New Word Count: 2,848
Additional/altered
words: approx 524
Words deleted from original: approx 197
List
of Illustrations:
ÒThat CharlieÕs AngleÕs ShowÓ:
http://users.1st.net/chewie/video.html
Umberto
Boccioni, Unique Forms of Continuity in
Space:
http://academics.smcvt.edu/gblasdel/slides%20ar333/
webpages/u.%20boccioni,%20unique%20forms....(side).htm
Farrah Talks:
http://www.interq.or.jp/rock/dreamer/Charlie's%20Angels%20Episode15-28.jpg
FarrahÕs Classic Poster:
http://www.deansplanet.com/classic_broads_farrah_fawcett.html
Farrah and her Friends at
UT:
Burstein, Patricia. Farrah: an
unauthorized biography of Farrah Fawcett-Majors. New York : New
American Library, 1977 p.159
Farrah models for a UT
life drawing class:
Burstein, Patricia. Farrah: an
unauthorized biography of Farrah Fawcett-Majors. New York : New
American Library, 1977 p.159