One day around the dawn of the new millennium, Irene Williams, an elderly Jewish woman, called the New York-based fashion designer Eric Smith. "Have you ever heard of Annie Leibovitz?" she asked. The photographer had stopped Irene on Lincoln Road, the Sunset Boulevard of South Beach, where she had lived since the 1960s, sewing her own clothes out of toilet seat covers and other found materials. "[Leibovitz] asked me to pose for her," Irene bluntly stated. "Do it!" Eric shouted. "Wear the outfit you made out of the vintage Pierre Cardin towels I gave you!" Irene followed his advice, but when she learned of Leibovitz's fame, she refused to pose unless Leibovitz paid her $90.
Advertisement
The photographer agreed, and this week the portrait goes on display at the Jewish Museum of Florida-FIU's new exhibit Irene Williams: Queen of Lincoln Road. It honors the legend's 100th birthday through a screening of Eric's documentary about Irene, along with displays of her collection of avant-garde hats and angry letters she sent to businesses with poor customer service. (To Greyhound Lines bus company, Irene wrote, "The 'King of the Road' has lost its crown this past Fourth of July weekend on the Busch Gardens/Cypress Gardens Tour.")For many locals, the show is overdue. Irene walked Lincoln Road every day for decades, and her homemade Dr. Seuss-vibrant dresses made her synonymous with South Beach. In the 1990s globetrotting gay men flocked to Irene like she was the hottest tourist attraction below the Mason-Dixon Line."In the gay community there was so much stigma in the 80s and 90s, so much shame. Seeing someone who is out and on their own and did not care what other people think of them is a huge attraction," explains Jewish Museum curator Jackie Goldstein.Goldstein coordinated the event with Eric, who was one such gay man. During the winter months, he would vacate chilly New York for Miami. He browsed South Beach, carrying a camcorder that he used to document oddities as older generations once did with Polaroid cameras. One day in 1994, Eric stopped Irene. Who was this woman who wore pink and green furry hats even on warm days?
Eric took Irene to lunch, where she identified herself as a "call girl with a type writer." Irene supported herself as a stenographer. She operated her office on one side of Lincoln Road and lived in a tiny studio apartment on the other end. (Hence, her infamous walks of the entire street.) Her free time revolved around creating outfits out of household goods and discount fabrics. When she had leftover cloth, she used it to cover a chair. "I don't spend more than a $100 a year on clothes and look at what I make," Irene bragged, according to Eric.
Eric and other devotees have long struggled to unearth Irene's life before Miami. In her lifetime, Irene refused to discuss her early years. Eric only knew she had fled a Massachusetts beach town in the 60s and arrived in Miami without money. "For her there was nothing there but cold," Eric says of her time in New England. In Florida, he says, Irene was happy.Irene worked in hotels to survive. She hated clothes she saw, so she taught herself how to sew. She loved designing, but worried professionalizing her hobby would ruin the fun, so she decided to learn how to type. She launched her own stenography business, and when Orson Welles visited South Beach, he called on her service. Irene never became a millionaire, but she earned enough to rent a tiny, pink studio apartment, whose walls she covered with plastic-wrapped hats, and viewed herself as a pioneer.
Advertisement
"You're not going to see someone else doing something like this," Irene told Eric of her life.
Jackie finds Irene's description historically accurate. "She wasn't married or had kids. She provided for herself in a time when that wasn't common," she points out. "There weren't a lot of Gloria Steinem's down here. There were philanthropist women working with their husbands."Irene symbolizes the old Miami, when South Beach attracted entrepreneurial Jewish Americans and retirees. "She was the last of Mohicans," Eric notes. The 1980s replaced the elderly with cocaine gangsters, gay men, and club kids.Irene grew incensed when a Betsey Johnson boutique refused to serve her friend, Linda, because she wasn't "a club kid." Irene hurried to the library, found Betsey Johnson's corporate address, and typed one of her infamous letters (on her vintage typewriter, of course): "Linda is a far cry from a 'Club Kid' or hippie," she wrote to the designer. "As a matter of fact, she is a very successful artist." (A Betsey Johnson executive wrote back, assuring Irene that they no longer employed the salesgirl in question.)
But Irene also knew she appealed to gay club kids and loved to talk to them, referring to herself as a living "tourist attraction." From her curatorial standpoint, Jackie views Irene as a symbol for how Miami's density forces people of different races, generations, and creeds to interact. "On the same block you have Jews, Italians, and you get along," Jackie remarks. "I'm from New York City, and I never saw everyone mixed together."
Advertisement
"The warm weather breeds that kind of openness in a way," Eric agrees. "[Irene] also said to me, 'You should take some of their housewives that are bored with their housewives and bring them to Florida. See how long they last. It's hard to survive down here. People think they just come down here, and the sun is great. It's tough."Eric describes Irene struggling in the 90s, despite her high spirits and local fame. Computers wrecked her stenography business's client base, and she struggled to walk across Lincoln Road as quickly and easily as she did in the 70s.
"She was becoming irrelevant," Eric laments. "The last few years of her life were a struggle, but she still got up every day and got dressed."Irene scrambled to pay bills, and she spent the last two months of her life in a nursing home. A relative, who Eric notes was heterosexual, traveled south and tossed out all of Irene's clothes. Roughly 30 hats survived, and Irene left them to Eric in her will.He's since donated the collection to the Jewish Museum. "It's her centennial," he explains. "I wanted to acknowledge that." Jackie was happy to enshrine the artifacts. "Irene Williams, when I first heard the story, I just thought it was so amazing," she gushes. "It was a woman on her own who made it on her own as a stenographer who became such a fixture on the scene. Her story is such a triumph. She didn't like the clothes she saw, so she made her own—such a fighter. "
ONE EMAIL. ONE STORY. EVERY WEEK. SIGN UP FOR THE VICE NEWSLETTER.
By signing up, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy & to receive electronic communications from Vice Media Group, which may include marketing promotions, advertisements and sponsored content.
Eric and other devotees have long struggled to unearth Irene's life before Miami. In her lifetime, Irene refused to discuss her early years. Eric only knew she had fled a Massachusetts beach town in the 60s and arrived in Miami without money. "For her there was nothing there but cold," Eric says of her time in New England. In Florida, he says, Irene was happy.Irene worked in hotels to survive. She hated clothes she saw, so she taught herself how to sew. She loved designing, but worried professionalizing her hobby would ruin the fun, so she decided to learn how to type. She launched her own stenography business, and when Orson Welles visited South Beach, he called on her service. Irene never became a millionaire, but she earned enough to rent a tiny, pink studio apartment, whose walls she covered with plastic-wrapped hats, and viewed herself as a pioneer."You're not going to see someone else doing something like this," Irene told Eric of her life.
"She was becoming irrelevant," Eric laments. "The last few years of her life were a struggle, but she still got up every day and got dressed."Irene scrambled to pay bills, and she spent the last two months of her life in a nursing home. A relative, who Eric notes was heterosexual, traveled south and tossed out all of Irene's clothes. Roughly 30 hats survived, and Irene left them to Eric in her will.He's since donated the collection to the Jewish Museum. "It's her centennial," he explains. "I wanted to acknowledge that." Jackie was happy to enshrine the artifacts. "Irene Williams, when I first heard the story, I just thought it was so amazing," she gushes. "It was a woman on her own who made it on her own as a stenographer who became such a fixture on the scene. Her story is such a triumph. She didn't like the clothes she saw, so she made her own—such a fighter. "
