Once Upon a Time in Dallas
[OPENING scene]
Outside of an unmarked studio in the Design District. Concrete steps lead up to glass doors. It is summer in Dallas, and it is hot. A flurry of activity is happening in the small front parking lot. A photographer, dressed all in black with untamed, wild blond hair and precariously tall platform sandals, is awkwardly unloading equipment.
Several assistants, also dressed all in black and sweating, are schlepping props up and down the steps: a large gold backdrop, a theater-style makeup vanity with lights, a bistro table, a ladder, a velvet banquette. The gold backdrop and props are intended to signify an after-party for a 50th anniversary gala, which the featured guests attended. Now they are kicking off their shoes, loosening their ties.
The camera follows one of the assistants as she walks through the front doors and into the studio, where a makeup artist is in a lit room to the left side of the frame, touching up the hair of a striking 6-foot-tall sexagenarian model.
As she throws her head back and laughs at something we can’t quite hear, the following text fades in:
We invited pairs of people from the same profession but different generations to spend a brief time together.
Models, musicians, artists, politicians, athletes, chefs, activists.
They are some of the many people who made Dallas, then and now.
In their own words.
Jan Strimple
She is the Dallas runway model from the ’80s and is still at work today, both in front of the camera and backstage, producing fashion events.
Anneliese Aeria
The actress and model graduated from Booker T. Washington High School for the Performing and Visual Arts.
Aeria:
I had just started working with Kate Wagner at the Campbell Agency. I was trying to get into the runway side of things, six years ago, and she said, “If you have a shot at this, you have to meet Jan.” I was 16. I couldn’t even drive. My mom had to take me to Jan’s house.
We sat at her kitchen table for about two hours. I had my little pink, sparkly notebook, taking notes while Jan told me pretty much everything there was to know about runway. And then, for well over an hour, I walked up and down her kitchen on the tile floor, back and forth, back and forth.
Strimple:
My big thing that I’ve always said to Anneliese, when she went to New York and went to some castings but didn’t really get hits: walk in and be the cool girl. They’re going to love the cool thing, or they are going to want a more classic girl. She’s not a girl-next-door beauty. She’s the quirky, cool girl. “I own this quiet authority in my own completely different vibe.” So own your vibe. Don’t apologize. Be who you are.
Aeria:
That is something I had to learn. When I first started going to New York, it can be a very cold, empty, lonely city. When you’re so new, certain things can get under your skin. I always heard her voice in my head. I still hear Jan’s voice in my head when I go to castings: “You are the cool, quirky girl. This is your time.” It’s really contributed to all the wins I’ve had so far and hopefully the ones that are coming.
Strimple:
D Magazine used to publish something called “The Dallas Look.” When I moved here in 1980, I was the antithesis of the Dallas look. Neiman’s wouldn’t even hire me when I came here. All of the print girls were sexy cute. That was the vibe here. It took me leaving Dallas and having success worldwide for some in Dallas to accept me.
When I went to Europe for the first time for haute couture, the TV show Dallas was big. They couldn’t wait to meet me because I was from Dallas, and I was a 6-foot redhead. You have to play up whatever you have in your favor when you’re marketed. Dallas had that bitchy image, and I was kind of that austere high-fashion fashion girl. I was kind of like the television show Dallas and all the bitches on it, personified on their runway.
Bob Mackie said something once in an interview: “Jan would have had a hard time had she not started when she did, because the industry wasn’t ready for her. We came around to her look.” I’ve never forgotten that. It’s an industry that clamors for change. And so does Dallas now. It didn’t for a while. If we were horses with blinders on, I think the blinders are wider now. We’re a much more global city.
Tim DeLaughter
The Duncanville High School grad is the frontman for Tripping Daisy and The Polyphonic Spree. He also co-owns Good Records.
Cameron McCloud
The frontman for the hip-hop collective Cure for Paranoia also records as a solo artist.
DeLaughter:
Back in the day, in Deep Ellum, we had Trees, Clearview, Dada, Rhythm Room, Curtain Club, Prophet Bar, Theater Gallery.
McCloud:
Even when we were starting, it was like that, like the Monopoly board. You’d play five shows a week before Wednesday. When I was coming onto the scene, I would hear about how Deep Ellum has its phases—booming, die down, booming. When I got there, I remember thinking, like, there’s not going to be a die down this time. Then COVID happened. That was the die down. When it came back, everything had changed. Tim is talking about places I’ve never even heard of.
DeLaughter:
Before all that, it was just warehouses and empty buildings. Kids wanted a place to play, so they’d make a deal with the owner to put on a show. It was cheap. That’s how it all started, before those places became venues. Now I go down there and it’s high-rises and restaurants.
McCloud:
Now there’s a fucking Patagonia in Deep Ellum. Excuse my language. It’s like a strip mall. There used to be more of a community element there among musicians. Now it’s every man for himself. There’s a hierarchy with the bands. I must have missed the Game of Thrones meeting to determine the tier system.
DeLaughter:
That’s weird. We never experienced that. There was a good, healthy community within the bands. We were all in it together.
McCloud:
I feel like with Instagram and TikTok, people blowing up off of that, bands aren’t using Deep Ellum like that’s the route they have to go through to be successful. The plan is to get that audience on social media and then go to the venues and play there when you can sell them out, not so much doing the grunt work and, like, bring your friends. And it’s the same from an audience standpoint. “I’ll support it after it’s popped on Instagram and TikTok. ”
DeLaughter:
Is there another place where bands are playing right now?
McCloud:
The Free Man on Commerce. Different musicians will come in and play weekly, have their spots. That’s probably the only place that consistently draws local original music. But the theory of things—like they say, it always dies and comes back.
Judge Luis Sepulveda
He was one of the first activists to draw attention to the poisoning of residents by West Dallas lead smelters.
Janie Cisneros
The leader of the West Dallas community group Singleton United/Unidos thinks about her young daughter as she continues the fight to shut down polluters in her neighborhood. In April, the Verdigris Ensemble told part of their story with a mixed-media performance, Mis-Lead, at the Kalita Humphreys Theater.
Cisneros:
I’ve known Luis since I was maybe 8 years old. We lived on the same block on Bedford Street. I remember the adults organizing. I understood that something was going on in the neighborhood, something bad with the lead, and there had to be an intervention. Then we reconnected in summer 2021, when I started Singleton United/Unidos and the “GAF’s Gotta Go” campaign [referring to the West Dallas shingles manufacturer].
It’s irritating and very frustrating because it has been decades and decades of the same. Things could have been fixed. Zoning plays a huge role in why we’re in this situation. You don’t put industry next to residents. Inevitably bad things will happen. Bad things will come. To know that the city actually has powerful tools in place that it’s not using, it’s just disheartening. It’s angering. It’s frustrating. We’re not even asking for creative ideas. It’s like, use the tools that are available. Just use them. It’s a no-brainer.
Sepulveda:
I don’t think the city is taking it to heart. “We’re just going to pump some money in there, and the problem will go away.” The city tested lead levels in children in ’84. They haven’t gone back to test those children—adults now.
Cisneros:
I have health issues. I can’t help but think about how my potential was ruined to do better things, more things. I didn’t know, until Luis shared with me what is happening with his nephews, that what I was going through as a kid was lead poisoning. My nosebleeds weren’t random. That was part of having lead in my system. So I can’t help but think about how the negative health impacts of where we live have damaged opportunities. We were robbed.
Sepulveda:
All six of my brothers and I have health problems, heart problems, diabetes. You have to understand that West Dallas was built on a dump site. All the lead, all the arsenic, all the stuff was being dumped right there. They built housing projects, schools right on top of that. That’s the thing that we are fighting for.
I see the light at the end of the tunnel. It’s Janie. We’ve got the youth power now.
Cisneros:
We’ve got more research, and we have the internet, social media. It’s a game changer. There are other communities in Dallas and in the state that are dealing with the same issues. We’re not alone.
Nancy Lieberman
The Brooklyn-born baller was the youngest basketball player in history to win an Olympic medal. In 1980, Dallas’ first professional women’s basketball team, the Dallas Diamonds, made her the No. 1 pick in the draft. Nearly two decades later, in the WNBA’s inaugural year, “Lady Magic” became the league’s oldest player. The Hall of Famer is now the head coach of Power in the men’s BIG3 league.
I always kept my home here because this city grew me from a 22-year-old who was so full of crap and broken, really from my childhood, to having people like Roger Staubach take me under his wing. And I remember my man, Muhammad Ali, telling me, “Make sure you find your roots. Find your roots.” And I was in Dallas, and I found my roots.
Dallas was perfect for me, even though I was nervous coming here, because I’m a city slicker. This town embraced me. We were so ahead of our time. We were selling out SMU. We were getting 5,000, 6,000 people to our games. The media coverage was nationwide for us. I wish it could have lasted 20 years.
I am so proud of the women in the WNBA. I don’t have an ounce of jealousy. I celebrate them; I don’t tolerate them. If I had a wish, my wish would’ve been that I could have played in my prime in the WNBA instead of playing at the downtown YMCA against men for 17 years. I was a 39-year-old rookie in 1997, and then, in 2008, I came back and played at 50. I am just so proud. People call me a trailblazer or pioneer, and, as I tell this generation, “You’re pioneers, too. You’re just paid pioneers. There’s a 4-year-old who you haven’t met and I haven’t met, and that little girl, because of all your hard work and dedication, in 20-something years, that little girl’s going to be making $7 million, $8 million, $9 million a year just to play basketball. Because we’ve done this together.”
As a senior at The Ohio State University, Sheldon was named a finalist for the Nancy Lieberman Point Guard of the Year Award. In April, she became the Dallas Wings’ first-round draft pick.
Nancy is a legend. I’d say not only the rookies but everyone in the league is looking at her and wanting to get where she got—just her success and how she impacted the game. She has an award that everyone tries to win. I knew about it when I was a kid. Freshman year of college, I started looking her up, watching her highlights. Then, in a full-circle moment, at one of our games in Dallas, she was there in the front row. I couldn’t believe it.
The women who have been playing in the WNBA for a long time are so talented and have gotten recognition, but I think this jump in interest is what they’ve been waiting for. Their talent is, geez, unlike anyone else that’s been in this league. So I’m happy for them that they’re finally getting this recognition and happy to be a part of it. And I hope this growth and this increase in fans—I hope we can continue it as we get older, too.
The first Black mayor of Dallas served from 1995 to 2002, when he resigned to run for a Senate seat. He lost to John Cornyn and went on to become the United States Trade Representative from 2009 to 2013.
One of the things I did—particularly with the African American community—I said, “Don’t burden me with making history. Challenge me to make a difference. Because if I make a difference, it will be incredibly impactful that I was the first.”
When I’m asked what I’m most proud of during my time as mayor, I never go to a project. It was changing the culture at City Hall. My friend had a great saying: Dallas had perfected the art of saying no. So nobody expected anything. Nobody thought we’d stop fighting to make the decision about the arena or the Trinity River or anything. I had a tagline: two people in a burning house don’t have time to argue. But because we were always fighting, we kept losing out to cities like Atlanta. Corporate America generally was moving to the middle of the country in the ’90s. Lots of businesses wanted to be near a great airport, middle of the country, low taxes. We were in there. Dallas, Atlanta, Denver, Houston. And I found out Atlanta’s pitch was to literally show video clips of the Dallas Council. We had this infamous, sad deal where Al Gonzalez slugged Domingo Garcia in the at City Hall. I said, “All the fights have to be in my office. You can say whatever you want to, but we cannot continue to put our worst foot forward.”
My City Council meetings over seven years were six and a half hours shorter than the meetings under my predecessor. Typically, Channel 8 and Channel 5 did the news outside City Hall at 10 o’clock, and they were still going, usually with some kind of fight. My meetings ended between 3:30 and 4 o’clock. One of the first things I did, I let go of the evening food staff. Councilmembers said, “What are we going to do for dinner?” And I said, “I’m going home.”
I like Colin. He’s doing it for the right reasons. I think he comes from the school I did. He’s more modern, more thoughtful. He wants to get things done, and I think he is unquestionably the best candidate we’ve put forward in a while.
I told him, “I ran, and I know how brutal it is. So I will never be the guy who says, ‘You got to do this.’ But if you run, man, I’m with you. Money, marbles, and chalk.” So I’ve been with him from the beginning.
Colin Allred
The Hillcrest High School grad played linebacker for the Tennessee Titans, from 2007 to 2010, and then got a law degree from UC Berkeley. In 2018, he was elected to the U.S. House of Representatives for the 32nd District of Texas, and he is now running for a Senate seat.
When Ron became mayor, I was a middle schooler at Franklin Middle School. It was a big deal. I was like, “Oh, I guess I could do that.” Ron was a hero. Once I got to know him, I realized how funny he is and what a character he is. I held him in such high esteem—not that I don’t anymore. Now I know him and Matrice so well. They’re what my wife and I would like to be someday. They’re great people. Ron probably wouldn’t say this, but I’ve seen him as a mentor.
The chef moved to Dallas in 1979 and ran a series of iconic kitchens: Agnew’s, The Mansion, and his namesake, Fearing’s, which opened in 2007 and is still going strong.
Greg Katz
The restaurateur behind Beverley’s and Green Point Seafood AND Oyster Bar got his start at age 22 peeling shrimp and potatoes for Dean Fearing at The Mansion.
Fearing:
I was working at a famous French restaurant in Cincinnati called La Maisonette. I had a brand new ’78 brown Celica fastback. Loved that thing. I packed everything I owned into that car, drove down here, and I’ll never forget—I came up to Dallas, and the sun was setting, and it was the most beautiful sight because the whole city was brand. Spanking. New.
Katz:
My family is from Cape Town, South Africa. I moved to Dallas when I was 11. During that time, South Africa was still apartheid, and my parents didn’t want us growing up in that kind of environment. We’re Jewish as well. It’s one of the most beautiful places on earth, but there was no future for us there.
Fearing:
I talked to your parents before you started. Your parents—it’s on table 14, if I remember correctly—they said, “Our son wants to work here. He’s a hard worker.” I explained the situation. I said, “You gotta start at the bottom if you don’t have any experience.” And Greg did.
Katz:
I didn’t know anything about food. I could barely cook. I didn’t know this is the legend right here. What Dean did—he gave so many of us opportunities. There’s a list of people like me who went to the University of Dean Fearing.
Fearing:
[laughs] School of Hard Knocks!
Katz:
Hey, we worked our asses off.
Fearing:
Oh my god, we all did. On a Monday we would have 250 guests. Can they ever give us a break?
Katz:
I’d be like, “I’m going to sell 60 filets tonight.” It was madness!
Fearing:
We didn’t used to have neighborhood restaurants, and that was the problem in the ’80s and ’90s. It was these stiff restaurants. And I was part of one of them! That was the place to eat. Dallas wasn’t going to make it until the neighborhood restaurants started opening up. Late ’90s, early 2000s, that’s when it really started to happen.
Katz:
When I started, a new restaurant would open and, boom, everyone would go. Then another new restaurant, boom, everyone would go. I think now, for the first time in Dallas, there’s so many people, and the city’s grown so much that a lot of these restaurants and neighborhoods can survive.
Nancy Whitenack
She is the founder and owner of Conduit Gallery, Dallas’ second-oldest art gallery, which celebrated its 40th anniversary in july.
Valerie Gillespie
The artist and curator opened her Pencil on Paper Gallery in 2019.
Gillespie:
Growing up and seeing the shows at Conduit inspired me. A lot of folks from my community have never been to an art gallery. Going into other gallery spaces, it was intimidating. Sometimes the gallerists wouldn’t even look up at me if I didn’t look like I could buy something. Just ignored me. Conduit was one of the few that my dad and my brothers and I could just go in there and not feel like we didn’t belong. That’s why I’ve always been so drawn to Nancy. She would do yoga classes in her gallery. Integrating things like that got a lot of us going to see shows.
Whitenack:
Look at this woman, and look at her energy. That’s why I’m drawn to Valerie. She is fabulous as a gallerist because of her energy and her welcoming spirit. But it makes sense to do things other than straight art. People sometimes are not interested in that, or they are terrified. So we’d do wine tastings or some sort of talk. The Dallas Zoo came in and brought all their animals during one of Jules Buck Jones’ shows. There was a sloth hanging upside down. It really turned the gallery into a different thing. It was great fun.
Gillespie:
If I have a question, I can go to Nancy and say, “I’m thinking about doing this. What do you think?”
Whitenack:
That’s one thing about Dallas art dealers, period. We are very collegial. We work together and try to figure things out together. The scene here is different than it is in other cities, too, partly because of the three families: the Rachofskys, the Hoffmans, the Roses. They made people more aware of contemporary art. When I started the gallery, it was all about expressionism. People didn’t understand contemporary art. So that has grown enormously. It has made young couples go, “Oh, right. There’s something here we need to be part of.” It’s made a huge difference in what’s going on in our city. And it has grown more diverse. Darryl Ratcliff [co-founder of Ash Studios] has become a real mover and shaker.
Gillespie:
I love him. He does a lot of things behind the scenes, too. He has a way of curating really intricate spaces, bringing together people you wouldn’t normally see in the same space. He’s really smart about that. For me, as a Black artist and curator, it’s exciting to see there’s a couple of us, and we’re doing it. It’s cool. I wish it could go a little faster.
THE END.
