Cherish That Savannah Patina
I know I keep clanging this bell like an old washerwoman calling the family home for supper, but the Savannah I used to know is swirling down the drain of time.
Sometimes it’s hard to tell where I am anymore, what with Waters Avenue’s fancy new facelift and all them sugarcubes glowering over the oaks.
And I’m not complaining, not really. As that dear departed curmudgeon Bobby Zarem would say, I’m not being negative, I’m just being factual. There’s a lot of change to process, and each of us has our own way.
Even my inner BZ has to admit that it’s wonderful to see new businesses and fresh faces around. Some have been around for a minute: I’m all in for Brooklyn transplant Nikki Krecicki’s charming wine and grocery shop Provisions on Liberty, a sort of high-end bodega where you can find rarified treats to pair with a bottle of very affordable Albariño. And instead of buying whatever expensive eye cream the latest Instagram ad serves me, I’m stalking the luxe beauty products of Paris Laundry, founded by local stylist and women’s health advocate Kelcey Bucci.
Further up Bull, the lovely oenophiles of Late Air continue to hold down the western edge of Ardsley Park, and the sparkling new Cafe Taureau seems to be serving the digital nomad set nicely.
But such societal shifts inevitably come with the clean-up—I believe the modern term is “erasure”—of the cultural memories and social codes that once defined Savannah. Which isn’t all bad, considering the heaping doses of insularity, bigotry, and snobbery that came along with it.
But just as we can destroy the value of an antique by Windexing away the rich patina that took centuries to accumulate, our fair city seems to be fast losing its enchanting grime.
Such vicissitude is inevitably of the times, and there’s no point in crying over piles of rubble and paved-over horse pastures. But I find myself gravitating even more lately to the folks who remember what it was like before the influencers took to posing on people’s front porches without permission, wielding their clout at those who don’t have the decency to ride their bicycles around the squares or return a simple heyhowyadoin’.
I’d best check myself here at the behest of my BFF and unequivocal tastemaker Natasha Gaskill, who never hesitates to remind me with a loving smirk that’s exactly how they felt about me when I first arrived.
And that’s the point, I suppose: Twenty years ago, there was still an old guard who kept the gate of the Savannah scene, and while not as obsessed with familial lineage as Charleston, held fast to a certain decorum that was famously difficult to penetrate. With flattery and good manners you might have gotten invited into a stately old parlor to hear about “how it’s always been done, dahlin’” and eavesdrop on some salacious gossip (I’m not saying I’ve heard everyone was sleeping with everyone else in the 80s, but some of these people were flaunting pansexuality before it was even a word.)
Many of them are gone now, their real estate sold off to Airbnb. While I don’t miss the haughty provincialism, I did appreciate the feeling that with a little refinement and respect, I, too, could hope one day to add my stories to the burnished shine.
Who’s left now to show the new folks and young’uns how to preserve Savannah’s patina?
This week the iconic Diana Rogers left the party forever, leaving a legacy of outsized musical talent and an even larger hat collection. This beloved chanteuse embodied Savannah’s eccentric elegance, though what’s fascinating is that even though it seemed like she’d been singing around town since Frank Sinatra had a cold, Diana only settled in Savannah in 2002 after a free-wheeling cross country career (she may have never gotten rich or famous, but she once did cocaine with Bob Dylan in the Catskills.) There was never a need for this lady to stop at the gate; she just sat down one day at the piano in her little fox fur stole and became a fixture on the scene. Celebrations of her life continue with a tribute at La Scala next Wednesday, January 25.
We still have the one-and-only Miriam Center, who at 97 remembers being snubbed by the debutantes in high school because she was Jewish (“I didn’t care, all the boys liked me!”) and went on to waltz across social barriers and reign as the city’s first female director of the MPC. She still follows everyone’s Facebook posts with alacrity, though she laments that she’s too tired to come out dancing.
Not that there aren’t young people contributing new layers to the luster: The second annual Georgia On My Mind concert sold out Victory North last weekend with a mesmerizing multigenerational line-up, and local rock ‘n’ roll princess Gracynn Britt once again slayed the stage. Savannah Arts alum and indie folk darling Anna Kellam also returned home to croon a couple of country classics; watch for her on the Southeast circuit this year.
But Savannah’s patina suffered a most erasive swipe with the recent closure of Michael DeCook Antiques on Chippewa Square. The decor of many a historic downtown manse owes their understated opulence to this tasteful gent, who also lent his fine aesthetic to sumptuous Christmas parties and fancy galas in Savannah for almost half a century. Dealers from New York regularly consulted the stock of early American sideboards and four-poster beds in his basement level showroom, where Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck once haggled over a wicker baby buggy during Bennifer’s first go round.
But don’t worry, Michael isn’t dead, he’s just leaving.
“I’m tired of the tourists and the drunks,” the debonair proto-influencer told me from his favorite blue wingback chair as he petted the silky ears of his English spaniel, Rudi Valentino. “I almost got run over the other day by a pack of girls on those motorized scooters.”
The once-promising veterinary student escaped the harsh Northern winters in the 1980s with his then-partner, LBGTQ+ activist and Savannah’s original zaddy Mark Hill. A short stop in Charleston proved truth in the old adage: “There everybody wanted to know who my daddy was, but in Savannah, all anyone cared about was what we wanted to drink.”
Though their relationship has gone through different permutations, the pair bought and sold a fortune in downtown real estate and have always stayed the best of friends. In the interest of a peaceful retirement and personal safety (those infernal scooters!), these fine fellows have decided to spend the remainder of their days by a pool in a gated LGBTQ+ neighborhood in South Florida. (Mark calls it the “whole alphabet soup.”)
“I loved it when this was a community we were trying to shape,” reminisced Michael of his stint as Chippewa’s ward captain and the secrets of hundreds of lavish parties we’ll never know about.
“We had our dreams and we went for it. Not bad for two kids from Pennsylvania and West Virginia.”
I figured he of all people would fret over Savannah’s diminishing patina. But when I ask about listing the romantically ramshackle 1853 townhome where he’s lived for four decades, he’s shockingly unsentimental.
“Oh, somebody will chop it up and turn it into Airbnbs,” he shrugs. “It’s just the way things are now.”
Of course he’s correct. There’s no bringing back the old Savannah, and I’ve been feeling better lately about letting the swirl of time wash away what none of us could ever hold.
But I swear on his antique china cabinet, you’ll never catch me on y’all’s front porch without permission.
Keep Savannah dirty, y’all ~ JLL
P.S. I’m on a book promotion bender this month; here I am at last week’s Live Like Locals smashing inaugural event in Pooler. I’ll be at the Coastal Georgia Center for An Afternoon of Literary Excellence sponsored by The Links this Saturday afternoon. Free stickers and fans while they last!
Wow! This is timely. I was just thinking about Michael yesterday and wondered what happened to him. Glad to know he is doing well. I wish him the best on his new adventure and hope that his home is NOT chopped up.
Loved this!