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<text id=93TT0513>
<title>
Nov. 15, 1993: The Importance Of Being Tiffany
</title>
<history>
TIME--The Weekly Newsmagazine--1993
Nov. 15, 1993 A Christian In Winter:Billy Graham
</history>
<article>
<source>Time Magazine</source>
<hdr>
ESSAY, Page 114
The Importance Of Being Tiffany
</hdr>
<body>
<p>WALTER SHAPIRO
</p>
<p> It is not every day that a man gets to jettison the ethical
and aesthetic standards of a lifetime. Until now, the guiding
principle of my journalistic career has been so rock-bottom
firm, so bristling with integrity, that it could be etched on
my tombstone: HE NEVER WROTE ABOUT DONALD TRUMP.
</p>
<p> Like most moral strictures that are actually obeyed (the classic
example: Do not worship a golden calf), this one never impinged
on my life-style. It's not as if I toil for a New York City
tabloid and have to beg some hard-boiled city editor, "Please,
I'll do anything--Madonna, Heidi Fleiss, even Shannen Doherty.
Anything but the Trump beat."
</p>
<p> But my high-minded aversion to shameless self-promoters vanished
with the recent birth of that 7-lb. 7-oz. love child, Tiffany
Ariana Trump. Make no mistake, this is not the beginning of
a screed on Family Values left over from last year's Republican
National Convention. The way I see it, the marital status of
Donald Trump and Marla Maples is a private matter best left
to their attorneys, their accountants and their spokesmen. Instead,
what fascinated me was their decision to name this blue-eyed
baby girl Tiffany.
</p>
<p> Even as the lawyers fretted over the child's heir rights, the
tabloid tom-toms spread the word that the infant's moniker was
a belated art-of-the-deal tribute to real estate air rights.
The eponymous Trump Tower was built in 1983 with the help of
that patch of Manhattan sky owned by Tiffany & Co. How much
more tasteful had the parents simply explained that Tiffany
rhymes with epiphany.
</p>
<p> The advertising world is in a swivet because familiar mass-market
brand names such as Pampers and Marlboro are suddenly reeling
from low-priced generic competitors. Tiny Tiffany Trump, in
contrast, symbolizes the enduring cachet of a certain type of
luxurious commercial pedigree. What could be more emblematic
of this shopping-obsessed century than a fin-de-siecle vogue
for naming children after favored stores? After all, the latest
list of the most popular names for girls already veers toward
the comically pretentious, with Nicole, Brittany and Ashley
far outpacing plain Jane and simple Susan.
</p>
<p> Picture a kindergarten of the future as the teacher calls the
alphabetical roll: "Armani, Burberry, Cartier, Fendi, Gucci,
Hermes..." all the way down to "...Valentino, Vuitton
and Zabar." Instead of superhero lunch boxes, these kids will
tote personalized shopping bags. And what about children cursed
with parents whose taste in store names is simply too plebeian?
On Geraldo, talk-show shrinks will discuss the trauma of low-rent
names like Kmart Smith and Shoe-Town Jones.
</p>
<p> Tiffany--as I'm sure countless parents will argue--is different.
It sounds so mellifluous, so venerable, so upper-crust American.
In the early 1960s, a pretty junior high classmate of mine served
as a harbinger of the future by answering to Tiffany. Her we-should-have-seen-it-coming
destiny: a brief career as a braless starlet on a now forgotten
TV sitcom.
</p>
<p> To think that it all began with Charles Lewis Tiffany, who became
famous in the 1850s by peddling Marie Antoinette's jewelry.
(You can imagine the advertising slogan: "Her head went to the
guillotine, but her diamonds are forever.")
</p>
<p> But the true bard of bijou will always remain Truman Capote,
who begat Holly Golightly (now that was a name) and her unorthodox
notions of a morning repast.
</p>
<p> The 1961 movie version of Breakfast at Tiffany's was a seminal
part of my childhood too. Small wonder that as a married man,
I have succumbed to the lure of shopping at Tiffany. I know
the manly power that comes with presenting a birthday gift encased
in that trademark robin's-egg-blue Tiffany box. The jewelry
itself is almost beside the point; the symbolism is all in the
blue box that proclaims, "I shop with the wealthy. I can afford
to pay retail."
</p>
<p> What trumpery. The issue is not the aesthetic merit of Tiffany
jewelry but my parvenu pretensions in giving it. I was confronted
with my folly a few years ago, while interviewing a marketing
guru. "When you make a large purchase," he theorized, "there
is a simple formula everyone follows--risk reduction." His
prime example, reading me perfectly, was the little blue Tiffany
box, which he called "an expensive sign of riskless excellence."
</p>
<p> At the end of our conversation, this veteran adman offered me
a few words of friendly advice. "Forget Tiffany," he said. "Buy
your wife her jewelry on 47th Street." He was referring to the
world-famous diamond district, which is the epicenter of the
wholesale jewelry trade. Now each year, on the eve of my wedding
anniversary, I shop amid the tiny booths of 47th Street. I will
admit that the whole experience still fills me with apprehension.
Each time I contemplate a purchase, I can imagine the off-price
jeweler later boasting, "You won't believe what I just sold
to that bald guy with glasses."
</p>
<p> How easy to flee back to Tiffany, that bastion of riskless excellence.
But bravely I hold my ground on 47th Street, like a World War
I doughboy dug in on the Marne, because I have finally absorbed
an enduring life lesson: children play with the box; adults
care about what's inside. So to Tiffany Ariana Trump, I wish
a childhood filled with blue boxes with her first name on them.
And if in later life she feels compelled to live up to her first
name, may she skip the diamonds and instead open a homey little
restaurant. Anyone for Breakfast at Tiffany's?
</p>
</body>
</article>
</text>