Death at a Revolution (Noir Exit in Santa Monica)

The headline was a shocker. Less than three months earlier I had been managing this place.

       Feminist Bookstore Closes After Owner’s Suicide

By KATHLEEN KELLEHER, MAY 28, 1992, 12 AM. 
SPECIAL TO THE TIMES

SANTA MONICA —  Revolution, a Santa Monica bookstore that in just six months of operation developed into a significant gathering place and community resource for Westside feminists, artists and political progressives, has closed.

The store, in the Edgemar complex on Main Street, closed earlier this month, several weeks after the suicide of its founder and owner, Gail Stevenson.

Covering 2415 - 2449 Main Street in Santa Monica, Edgemar was a mixed-use shopping center designed by architect Frank Gehry. It combined early 19th century warehouses, a 1940s Art Deco office building and new construction. When completed in 1988, it included roughly 16,000 square feet of space for retail (ours covered 3,000), 8,000 for office, 3,500 for the restaurant, and 8,000, plus mezzanine, for the museum.

Gail launched Revolution, her “eco-feminist” bookstore, about three years later.

Her sudden death, less than six months after its celebrated October 1991 opening, should have been a shock. And might have raised some questions. Yet, for the Times it was just another local tragedy, and one easy to explain.

Stevenson, 47, a clinical psychologist long active in feminist causes, shot herself in the head April 12 at the West Los Angeles office where she conducted her practice.

Stevenson’s husband, psychologist Carl Faber, said she had no history of clinical depression. He said he believed that his wife’s suicide was in part an outgrowth of her “personal pain and despair that had a lot to do with her efforts to inspire change as a feminist and leader.”

I had never seen signs of such pain or despair, at least about inspiring social change. If true, it was a very convincing deflection, manifested in high personal achievement, constant activity, and compulsive spending. She didn’t exactly make me feel comfortable, but I appreciated her determination and didn’t sense deep frustrations. For almost six months I worked with her at least four days a week.

If anything, she seems self-satisfied, verging on entitled. For example, she frequently wondered aloud how long I could stand living in Los Feliz, so far east in L.A., and proudly sang the praises of life on the west side, especially in sunny Calabasas.

Faber said his wife was suffering at the time of her death from fatigue, insomnia and stress, all of which were related to the running of the bookstore.

That could be. I wasn’t there right at the end, and he was her husband, and a famous psychologist with a cult-like following and his own radio program. Still, the bookstore wasn’t the only thing on her mind. There was also her lover, the architect who had designed her dream store.

Without Stevenson to lead it, Faber said he believed the bookstore could not survive on a day-to-day basis. The store closed May 5 after one last book signing by Carol Tavris, a feminist who wrote “The Mismeasure of Women.”

Stevenson launched Revolution last October with an appearance by Susan Faludi, signing copies of her book, “Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women.”

I remember the night, attending as Gail’s recently hired bookstore manager. I had been on the job for a few weeks, a new arrival from Vermont. The news account was true, as far as it went. But just part of the story.

Gail and I had met the year before at the American Bookseller’s Association annual trade show, where she interviewed me for the job after hearing about Maverick Bookstore. I had started Maverick in Burlington’s Old North End in 1985, eventually moving it to College Street for several years before shutting down in 1991. The remaining stock and accounts were sold at cost to the local Peace and Justice Center. 

On North Street there had been a gallery for shows and meetings; on College Street we rented a 2nd floor suite of rooms that allowed us to host readings and other events.

Allen Ginsberg mentioned Maverick Bookstore in a 1986 poem, Burlington Snow.

Gail wanted to start something similar — a community-based bookstore with space for gatherings and exhibits, a center of thought and action. Only much bigger than Maverick, and located in Santa Monica, just a block from the Pacific Ocean. I can’t say it wasn’t fun at times. Hey, I sold books to Faye Dunaway and Dana Delaney, managed a large staff, and hosted dozens of events. 

The location was prime, the patrons affluent, the space large and airy. But Gail was more concerned about what it looked like than how well it functioned as a business. The interior was designed by Topey Schwarzenbach, a Venice building designer partial to deconstructionist style, who thought books could be effectively piled on rough crates or stacked on stark metal shelves that, unfortunately, made effective display difficult. 

Six months after the opening, an event heralded by a complimentary front page piece in the style section of the Los Angeles Times, the renovations still weren’t complete. Still, the clientele, cafe pastries, and press relations were fabulous.

Polishing the Image at Revolution

A CALL TO ARMS - Los Angeles Times, February 9, 1992

No matter how much money we made, it wasn’t enough. The main reason was Gail’s inability to stop spending, and usually on anything but books. The kid’s section had to be a posh playground with toys and designer pillows, the coffee bar had to feature only the best espresso machine and pastries. There were always more ads to place for upcoming events, and new ideas for an even better image. Meanwhile, I struggled to make payroll for a large seven-days-a-week operation and keep up with monster bills from wholesalers.

     

When I mentioned problems to Gail, pleading with her to get a grip on the spending, her gaze would drift away, as if distracted by an invisible marvel somewhere in the middle distance. When I finished talking she’d turn back and say something like, “We need better biscottis.” It was maddening. But obviously also a red flag.

     

Eventually, I demanded some real changes. Making a comprehensive list of what was essential to get the operation into the black, I presented my case. The next day she introduced my replacement. Cold, but I was relieved. Two weeks later I was unemployed. A month after that I got a shocking call from a member of the staff. Gail was dead.

Back in February, while I was still managing day-to-day operations, a film crew had set up in the bookstore and interviewed her for an upcoming documentary.

from MediaBurnArchive on Vimeo. (Gail & Topey are the first two interviewed)

You can watch raw footage for The 90's, an election special.  A series of short interviews were recorded inside the bookstore, as customers browsed around them. They asked several people, starting with Gail, who they would like to win the 1992 presidential election and what issues were important to them. Bits of the store can also be seen in the background.

     After a sound check, Gail was asked to describe President George H.W. Bush in a word: she chose liar. Abortion was a more important issue than military spending and the economy, she said, because abortion will indicate whether the country moves forward or backwards on women’s issues as a whole. (Pretty self-possessed so far.) She didn’t support any of the current candidates but would write-in Hillary Clinton; she and other women’s groups were supporting the New Party as a third choice, she clamed. She acknowledged that Bush espoused support for women’s rights, but found it superficial. Politics and the media involve a lot of lying, she said.

     Next was Topey the architect. He summed up President Bush as “nothing.” We didn’t know it yet, but his affair with Gail had been going on for quite a while.

     Topey thought Bush was hypocritical, one more in a line of presidents that avoided responsibility and lacked direction. He said the economy was the most important issue, but saw the public as sluggish, worried, and chaotic. Politically, he was undecided. For the first time since Eisenhower, he claimed, there was no candidate that he could support. All of them promised the same checklist of deliverables, he chided, but none were believable.

Gail did not look like a woman under extreme stress. Yet just two months after these interviews, on her 47th birthday, she apparently purchased a gun, learned how to use it at a shooting range, then drove to her Westwood office to kill herself. She was accomplished, attractive, and wealthy, with a young son, an admired spouse and A-list friends. None of it turned out to be enough to save her. From exactly what we’ll never know. Considered an obvious suicide, however, her death was investigated no further, and never explained beyond that single L.A. Times article. It continued:

Topey Schwarzenbach, the Venice building designer who built the store and knew Stevenson for about nine years, helped closed the shop for the last time along with four employees.

That made sense. Topey had been there since the start, before that even, and never really left. His architectural vision was a major driver, but also a source of friction and expense. The same could be said of his relationship with Gail.

“People have been really reeling since Gail died,” Schwarzenbach said. Adding to the sense of loss, he said, was a sense among numerous friends, activists and customers that Revolution “was just starting to make it. The book signings were becoming an institution and the community center was just taking off. Gail’s death happened before the bookstore put out deep enough roots.”

(Her husband wasn’t as enthusiastic.) Faber said he hopes to sell the bookstore in the next month to someone whose “interests are in the spirit of what Gail wanted to do with the store.” There are about five prospective buyers, he said, none of whom he would identify. The store, which is part of Stevenson’s estate, is in probate.

Peg Yorkin, president of Fund for the Feminist Majority and a longtime friend of Stevenson’s, said she considered taking over Revolution as a tribute to Stevenson but has since bowed out. Yorkin said she concluded that “it just is not what I do.” (She was actually pretty angry.)

“I was willing to put money into it, but I couldn’t very well be an absentee owner,” she said. “It’s a shame for the community. It wasn’t just a feminist bookstore; it was a beautiful children’s center and community center.”

For now, only the glow from the aquariums in the front windows illuminate the place. Schwarzenbach goes in daily to feed the fish.

Speaking for the family, Stevenson’s stepdaughter, Jollee Faber, 26, said: “It’s a beautiful place. It would be our dream to keep Gail’s dream alive. Hopefully, someone will be able to take it over.”

In addition to her husband and stepdaughter, Stevenson is survived by a son, Carl, 9; stepsons Eric, 28, and Seth, 19, and her mother and siblings. The family has asked that contributions in Stevenson’s name be made to the Fund for the Feminist Majority.

The business did not survive, and at Gail’s funeral speakers publicly chided the departed for violently deserting them. I remained in L.A. for another year. But after managing this Revolution and witnessing Gail’s strange demise, I couldn’t connect with the city’s ephemeral, often narcissistic culture. Something had spoiled the mood. 

Three of my screenplays did make the rounds. One was an historical epic on the Haymarket bombing, developed into a commercial screenplay with a co-producer hoping to make a comeback. Handled by the legendary talent agency CAA, Haymarket languished in packaging limbo, unable to attach “talent” like Gary Oldman as Albert Parsons and Whoopi Goldberg as Lucy. I eventually re-imagined the story and staged it as a play. (Check out INQUISITIONS and Other Un-American Activities)

Another script was a film noir take on the CIA’s notorious MK-Ultra mind control program, based loosely on a true story. The reaction to that one was quite strong wherever it was pitched, but my co-producer questioned whether a period mystery with a gay hero could work. I changed his gender preference and continued to build contacts, aimed toward connecting with John Cusack, before my plans had to radically change. I still think it works. (Check out UNWITTING: The Secret War on William Pierce for the true story.)

There was also The White Hand, an adapted contemporary thriller about religious fundamentalists who carry out assassinations for a covert right wing group. A bit ahead of its time then, I suppose. Now it’s too on the nose.

In the early nineties, none of these scripts flourished in high-concept Hollywood. But to be honest it wasn’t them, it was me. After all, I never even considered developing this story as a script, and it’s a real L.A. mystery, one that may just need a strong third act.

The Coast also didn’t do much for my marriage. The third one. But that’s another story.

Epilog:  Noir Exit in the Garment District

The sudden death of my grandfather, patriarch on my mother’s side, has been a nagging question since it shook the family tree in early 1953. Less than a year before, he had been a successful manufacturer of women’s clothing in New York’s thriving garment district. His company, established in the 1920s, was called Metro Coat & Suit, and by then had a showroom at 500 7th Avenue in Manhattan. 

But sometimes in 1952 Bruno Lupia suddenly sold the family business and retired to Florida. At age seven, I was visiting him in Miami with mom in early 1953. One day, however, he didn’t show up for playtime. Mom eventually told me he was dead, and later that it had been a heart attack.

It made sense for a while. After all, he was in his sixties, overweight, a cigar-smoker. But later mom changed her story. “The unions killed him,” she claimed, “they broke his heart.” What could she possibly mean? The only clarification ever provided was that grandpa, who supposedly treated his employees like members of family, had also asked them for some short-term concession due to hard economic times. When turned down, presumably by their union rep, there was no choice but to shut the business down.

This has long felt a bit simplistic. I finally get a plausible, deeper explanation for this mystery in a new labor history by David Witwer and Catherine Rios. Murder in the Garment District suggests several other factors, some right there in the subtitle: The Grip of Organized Crime and the Decline of Labor in the United States.

Bruno (at right) in 1946, surrounded by a few of
his business friends, lobbies President Truman.

Unions had considerable power after World War II, representing up to a third of the workforce. But by the late 1940s crime figures were making inroads, especially in the garment industry and trucking.

At the most basic level, some gangsters collected payments for protecting firms willing to comply. Some of that money was used to help garment center gangsters serving time in prison. And that pool was managed by Joseph Stracci and Ben Kutlow, both former members of Louis “Lepke” Buchalter’s gang. Stracci also ran a clothing firm, one of many with an office in the same building as my grandfather’s showroom and women’s fashions “knock off” factory. 

More to the point, Witwer and Rios chronicle the rise of “paper locals,” unions that exploited exployees and put gangsters in covert alliances with both manufacturers and unions. They also expose how politicians confused the issue, conflating earlier Communist organizing with criminal syndicates and corrupt figures like Jimmy Hoffa, ultimately using both strikes and congressional hearings to discredit union leadership in general.

By this time, my grandfather was long gone. Based on this new research, however, my suspicion is that he found himself caught somehow between union locals and the mob, and was forced out as their grip tightened. I could say more... but then I’d have to kill you.