Memoir: The Wedding of Sharon Tate
January 20, 1968
Bulbs flashed successively on the street. Photographers bumped and nudged each other for a closer look. A feeling of rushed excitement enveloped the scene.
From British Pathe,
“Today two top film folk got hitched and the present public turned out in force. He is polish born director, Roman Polanski. She’s American actress Sharon Tate. After the ceremony at the Chelsea registry, the mini gowned bride and the mod geared mate made for the playboy club and a star studded reception. But the newlyweds weren’t overshadowed by their big named guests. After cutting cake, the jolly newly’s got the star set really shaking.”
The guest list totaled about six hundred and forty. Arriving in droves, they stepped out from behind tinted windows, the women in micro-mini dresses and patterned tights, the men with long sideburns and flowered shirts.
The couple had a brief formal exchange at the Chelsea registry. But the real celebration began at The Playboy Club. The reception’s unconventional location came as a surprise to no one. Roman and Sharon may have gotten married, but they had no intention of slowing down. To the crowd of reporters and media assembled there, Roman had loudly announced, “I want a hippie, not a housewife.”
Sharon was always smiling. But on this day, her delicate face was illuminated by a smile unlike anything I’d seen before, or since. Beaming effortlessly, she oozed warmth and happiness. Nothing was premeditated. The constant clicking of cameras did not faze her in the least. Sharon was equally overjoyed, as she was content.
At the Playboy Club, “bunnies” served champagne to some of the top names in show business. Dim light flickered in the room like a sultry cabaret. Rose petals with hashish were lavished upon tabletops.
Then suddenly, time seemed to stop.
The newlyweds appeared at the top of the room’s descending staircase. Every eye was riveted on Sharon.
Sheathed by Elizabethan costume, she appeared angelic in a white, lace, mini dress with a high collar, and starched puffed sleeves of silk, and cream colored tights. Her hair was adorned by a mass of individually placed little white flowers.
“I seem to look at things through rose colored glasses,” Sharon had once told me. She lived in somewhat of a fairytale world. But what a beautiful world it was.
Watch actual London newsreel reporting on the marriage of Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski, circa 1968.
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This account of Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski’s Wedding is fictional. It is an imagined memoir; yet one that is deeply rooted in history and fact.
I was not alive in 1969. Nor did I know Sharon Tate.
Yet somehow I feel as though I did…
Many of us carry in our hearts a yearning to live, to experience life in a decade past. We go through books, and articles; accumulating facts and knowledge about a certain era or moment in time. But after so much research, without an outlet for this ever growing interest, one eventually gets to a point when they asks themselves, ‘so now what?’ This frustrating inability to experience the past despite even the most vigorous of research served as my motivation for writing the story from which the excerpt above appears.
Who’s you’re Icon?
August 9, 2013 marks the 44th year since the murder of Sharon Tate. It is the anniversary of an undeniably fascinating crime, one that so riveted the nation that it will forever eclipse the memory of it’s victims. The details of which are readily available on the internet.
To me, Sharon Tate is more than her murder. She is my Icon.
A seemingly unearthly beauty, the Dallas born Sharon found herself at the forefront of Hollywood in the late sixties.
Sharon embodies everything that I most idolize about the time. Her fashion sense was absolutely unparalleled. She was simple, in the best sense of the word. While conducting investigations following her murder, detectives were surprised to report that of the many person’s she’d been in contact with throughout her life, not one had a single bad thing to say about the starlet. And in a town like Hollywood, that’s no easy feat.
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