By the time I was 13 my head was so stuffed with movie trivia that classmates persuaded me to compete as a contestant on Paula Stone's famous "Hollywood Screen Test" -- a radio quiz show for New York City teens. Among the many prizes I won were tickets to Broadway plays. It was my first introduction to live theater and the beginning of in-person autograph collecting.
While my two big brothers were off to war; one in the army, the other, the navy, my weekends and summers during WWII were spent with other star-struck kids hanging outside posh hotels, exclusive restaurants, movie houses, theater stagedoors and favorite radio stations, looking for stars to sign our books. Some of my earliest autographs were those of Marlene Dietrich, Peggy Ann Garner, Shirley Temple, Lon Chaney, Jr., Jan Clayton, Hedy Lamaar and Jimmy Durante. At the very height of these exciting adventures, my world of glitter and glamour suddenly darkened when, at 15, real life threw me a curve.
It was 1945. The glorious summer had ended. I was just about to enter 10th grade when a tuberculosis epidemic swept me into a very crowded hospital via a lung hemorrhage. It isolated me from all my friends, all formal education, and pulled me from the familiar streets of Broadway--my link to the stars. I recall seeing rows and rows of cadavers on stretchers awaiting room at the downstairs morgue... images that were to become daily grim reminders of the gravity of the outbreak. But worst of all, mama, 45, the most precious person in my life and entire universe, succumbed to cancer in another hospital never knowing where I was--a memory which, to this day, painfully lingers. My crestfallen brothers rushed home on emergency leaves, one of whom had just been wounded on the USS CORE, a naval aircraft carrier on which he was serving our country. I buried myself deeply in the stack of movie magazines they brought me.
As I gazed out from my solarium window and watched the seasons change color over and over, I never stopped wondering what I was missing in the theater district downtown; the hunger for my hobby consumed me. After more than four long years (a typical length of stay for patients who survived) and several major surgeries (a three-stage thorocoplasty and a left pneumonectomy) I was finally discharged, cured.
Now 20, with a new philosophical respect and zest for life, I craved to pick up where I left off and went right back to chasing celebrities; this time, with a $1.98 camera slung around my neck and all the flashbulbs I could stuff inside my pockets.
As my snapshot collection grew, hordes of street fans began to ask for copies. While we waited for the Saturday matinees to break and the stars to emerge, there I was, right in the middle of Shubert Alley doing a brisk business with a coin changer strapped around my waist. At 15c each I made a whopping profit of 11c a pic--a lot of money in those days. A couple of my candids appeared in movie and fan magazines and a "N.Y. Daily News" reporter, who was doing a series of articles on "fan frenzy," asked if he could tag along with me one day. Between the newspaper exposure and word of mouth, there was no need to look for a "real" job. Thanks to stars like Mae West, Robert Wagner, Greer Garson, Tallulah Bankhead, Peter Lorre, Barbara Stanwyck, Bogart, Bacall, and hundreds of others who never once refused my polite requests for pictures, I managed to contribute my share of the rent.
With the advent of television, the hobby became even more intriguing. Gone would be the days of
watching radio actors emote before microphones from prepared scripts; no longer would I be riveted to a very busy sound-effects man who raced shoeless on cue as he simulated noises with the oddest of props. Instead, I was now staring up from front row seats, right behind the camera dolly, my eyes glued to top-notch comedy acts performed live by Hollywood's biggest stars as they appeared in person on the early black and white Milton Berle, Ed Sullivan, Martha Raye, Ken Murray, Jackie Gleason and "Your Show of Shows" telecasts. No time was ever lost during those fantastic years as I expertly weaved my way out of those television theaters to be first at the crowded stagedoors afterwards--my trusty camera still click, click, clicking away.
Around the middle of 1954 I retired my camera to embark on an exciting new career venture. Without the least hesitation or regret, I tossed all my pictures in my basement where they had been buried for half a century until the year 2000. Although much of the collection was either damaged and/or lost, the list you see here consists of photos and negatives that somehow survived decades of basement floodings.
As I review these snapshots at age 70, I find myself filled with nostalgia, pride, and sheer amazement at the incredible stamina, dedication, and track record of this driven young woman who used to be me. Her crazy obsession of yesteryear which began with nothing but a dream, a cheap camera, and a nickel for the subway, is now being enjoyed and seriously evaluated here in cyberspace by a vast new computer-age generation. It's my pleasure to share with you part of this extremely rare collection of Hollywood's Classic Film Stars.
