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And then there are the references to "When Andy and I were first married ..." Any Stewart follower knows that her marriage ended in a bitter divorce a decade ago, and her ex -- who went so far as to take out a restraining order against her -- is now married to Stewart's youthful former assistant. It's nothing less than bizarre, then, to note the frequency with which Stewart's rosy-toned essays linger on some fondly remembered aspect of married life with Andy.

Frankly, it's fun to have such a regular dose of imprudent psychological obtuseness from the woman who has been impressively shrewd in building a lucrative empire wrung solely from her personal "vision." Precisely because of that empire, I've often wondered why someone doesn't pull the plug on "Remembering" before she really embarrasses herself. I've also wondered if "Remembering" is a title that her wincing editorial staff uses as shorthand for "Remember, it's her magazine."

The thing to remember about "Remembering," though, is that within the context of "Martha Stewart Living," Stewart's indiscretions are fairly safe. She's in Switzerland, so to speak. Which is not to say that those of us who buy her magazine or watch her show or covet the rubberized linen shower curtain in the "Martha By Mail" catalog actually like Stewart, that we're on her side. The relationship between Martha and the Martha'd is far more complex than that, as we all know.

"Even her troubles and strivings are part of the message," notes Didion, "not detrimental but integral to the brand." Ours is a codependency; we may sneer in derision at Stewart's infuriatingly elaborate and expensive projects one minute, then stare covetously at her animals fashioned out of homemade mohair pompoms the next.

By virtue of our complicity in being even the slightest bit interested in Martha Stewart, we become members of Stewart's unique 12-step world. When we read "Remembering," it's the equivalent of sitting in a squalid parish basement drinking watery coffee and listening to the boring, woebegone life story of some balding guy with a compulsive thigh-jiggle and an ugly sweat suit. You don't laugh; you don't point. Once you've walked in the door and sat down, you've joined the community. You may roll your eyes privately, but you don't rat Stewart out.

The editors at the Times magazine, however, let Stewart rat herself out. What would pass for a hiccup of personality in Martha Stewart Living suddenly looms pathetic and cringe-inducing within the far more symbolically "public" pages of the New York Times.

It's no crime and no shame to admit you're lonely and that nobody in your town wants to be friends with you -- but it's pitiful to admit it to a circulation of 1.7 million readers without realizing what you've done.

Over the years, Stewart has elicited a whole kaleidoscope of emotions from me: fascination, envy, material desire, determination, frustration, boredom. Until now, I never felt sorry for her. And what I really don't want is to turn my Martha fantasies toward social intervention for the CEO of Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia -- imagining some sort of dinner round robin ("Sally, you call her up for Monday; I'll invite her over for Wednesday; maybe we can get Stan to take her out for pizza on Friday"), or convincing her to give up the chinchillas.

I want my Martha fantasies for me. Lord knows I'll need the time if I'm ever to get any of my Martha projects off the ground. I want her to replace the veil she's dropped, to keep her revelations behind the merciful curtain of Martha Stewart Living, where such intimacies belong, and where they can be marveled at or shrugged off, as desired. I'm in agreement here with Didion: "The dreams and fears into which Martha Stewart taps are not of 'feminine' domesticity but of female power, of the woman who sits down at the table with the men and, still in her apron, walks away with the chips."

Stewart has indeed proven herself to be, in her inimitable way, a model of contemporary female power (if a model with feet of clay), and for that reason I have to bemusedly offer my admiration and, in a way, my loyalty. I do hope she moves out of Westport and makes more friends, and I hope she can stop herself at eight cats, which should help. I also hope she learns to play her cards, when she next goes to the "outside," a little closer to her chest.
salon.com | April 11, 2000

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