But of course it is not for her face that women will buy the magazine; it is for the aura of flawless upper-middle-class domesticity that clings to Martha Stewart, the way the scent of doomed passion envelops Elizabeth Taylor. Over the course of eight books (beginning with “Entertaining” in 1982) she has elevated catering first to an art, then to a religion: The Cult of the Home, wherein the perfection of the place settings, centerpieces and food is a reflection of the blissful serenity of the inhabitants. Thus, in recommending a stay-at-home New Year’s Eve dinner, the magazine suggests decorating the baby’s pajamas with applique silver stars and moons to match the tablecloth. “If [he] joins the party around midnight, hug him close,” Martha recommends. This is not the sort of advice you would expect to find in, say, Architectural Digest. But the dreamy tone of Martha Stewart Living also sets it apart from the traditional women’s books, which are obliged to confront a world in which grown-ups get fat and children get dyslexia. There are no problems in Martha Stewart Living, only projects; no rough spots that cannot be covered over by puff pastry or foil gift wrap.
Living extends Martha Stewart’s efforts to proselytize among the middle class, efforts that began, amid some ridicule, with her 1987 licensing deal with K mart. The market for Martha Stewart Living, the editor in chief says, is “everyone who buys my books, plus all the people who would like to buy them and can’t go out and spend $50 on one.” She makes a point of how “accessible” her advice is, and she’s right, in the sense of “inexpensive.” On the other hand, anyone who took her advice and bought an old chandelier at a garage sale and attempted to restore it herself, saving $6,000 or so in the process, might conclude that it would be easier to start life all over with a rich husband. Time Warner Inc., which is publishing Martha Stewart Living, will distribute 500,000 copies of the first issue nationwide, at a cover price of $3. They will stay on the newsstands for six weeks; a second test issue is planned for March, after which–depending on how well it does–it may begin appearing regularly, perhaps as a bimonthly.
The irony, of course, is that the more successful Martha Stewart is in her proselytizing ventures, the less time she has to be Martha Stewart. The magazine’s obligatory working woman feature is about women who start businesses out of their homes (in the first issue, the proprietress of a chic East Hampton delicatessen). This, says editor Isolde Motley, “is to show an alternative to dressing up in a suit and going to an office.” But here is Martha herself in a smart beige suit, in an office without even a small bunch of dried wildflowers or a wicker basket of potpourri, drinking Perrier straight from the bottle and setting it down on the table instead of on a charming Depression-glass coaster. This is a woman who hasn’t had time to do her shopping. Only the fingers–innocent of jewelry or colored polish, with blunt, clean nails–remind you this is Martha Stewart and not, say, Tina Brown across the table. A reporter asks if she has a Manhattan pied-a-terre for those late closing nights; she does, but uncharacteristically refuses to describe it. “My home is in Connecticut,” she says firmly. And as of last week she still hadn’t planned her Thanksgiving dinner, an admission as startling as if Andy Warhol had confessed he hadn’t been invited anywhere on New Year’s Eve.
It’s all artifice, to be sure. No one can live like Martha Stewart Living, probably not even Martha Stewart. Here she is again, on the contents page, posing with a basket of some indeterminate but picturesque produce (kumquats? do they grow in Connecticut?), looking as if she just plopped down on the porch from the garden. But the new flannel shirt is by Louis, Boston; the sweater knitted casually around her throat by Armani; the hair and makeup by Robert Snow. Artifice!
But such charming artifice.
