Officials Damn Right I Am A New York Jets Fan Win Or Lose Mascot Shirt
This search led me to the Rosemary Woodruff Leary collection at the New York Public Library, which contained pictures of her as a child in St. Louis, her brief marriage at age 17, her time as a model who caught Eileen Ford’s eye in New York, her life with Leary, her time on the run in Italy, Afghanistan, and Central America, and finally the 25 years she spent living under an assumed name on Cape Cod—the part of her story that had never been told. She had helped craft Timothy Leary’s transformation from Harvard academic to barefoot prophet—a shift in which clothing played a pivotal part—and in the process transformed herself. She was no cliché hippie. There was no tie-dye (or if there was, it was artfully incorporated). Instead, her style was chameleonic, reflecting the shifting currents of her life. In 1958, fresh to New York, she wore a sharp bob and high hemlines with thick black dancer’s stockings. As she plunged into the counterculture, she swapped them for low-slung bell-bottoms and men’s button-downs, knotted at the waist. At Millbrook, she sewed her own dresses from the communal clothing heap—homespun yet always elegant. When she campaigned for Leary’s release from prison, she wore a severe black mini dress, oversized sunglasses with pink lenses, and a bold amulet necklace emblazoned with three letters: LSD.Officials Damn Right I Am A New York Jets Fan Win Or Lose Mascot Shirt
She helped her husband craft his image through his style—sewing his clothing, dropping the Harvard tweeds of his professor days, adding unbuttoned linen shirts and flowers in his ear. She made a man into a myth. Clothing, for her, was both armor and expression, a tool for survival and subversion. Disguises, too, became a means of reinvention. When she orchestrated Leary’s prison break, she donned a blonde bouffant wig, heavy makeup, and a pink push-up bra, embodying the 1950s conformity she had once fled. In exile, she was a different woman in every country—wrapped in a majestic blue cape in Afghanistan, a draped green goddess gown in Colombia, shrouded in a tan, calf-skin fur-trimmed coat in the mountains of Switzerland. When she finally disappeared into Cape Cod, her wardrobe quieted into chunky cable-knit sweaters and Eileen Fisher linen, though hints of her past remained—in particular, a purple grosgrain coat that turned heads in Provincetown.
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