of the Fair, and if she read about his ban, I am sure it made her giggle. Of the several girls, similarly prepared, whom I have talked to, she is my favorite. Her name is Florence Cubitt, and she was the Queen of the Nudists at the California Pacific International Exposition at San Diego in 1936. The nudists—twenty girls and five bearded men—were segregated behind a fence in a big field, and the customers paid forty cents to go in and watchfrom a distance while they played games. Her Exposition name was Tanya Cubitt, she told me, because “Tanya sounds more sexy than Florence.” I met her on St. Patrick’s Day in 1936, and I spent several hours of a rainy afternoon listening to her talk in her room at the Hotel New Yorker.
Miss Cubitt was sent here to get some publicity for the San Diego Exposition. It is this fact, as much as any other, that makes me think Mr. Whalen’s stern statement would cause her to giggle. The officials of the San Diego fair, which was supposed to “tell the story of mankind’s restless urge toward achievement,” also said they would ban “all but the highest type of concession,” but when customers stayed away by the million, they decided that Miss Cubitt’s nudist concession was of an extraordinarily high type. More than one American exposition has been saved from bankruptcy by uninhibited young women.
The newspaper for which I work sent me up to interview Miss Cubitt the day after she arrived in New York. A photographer went along with me. I saved all my notes, and I want to tell you about Miss Cubitt because I think she will be one of the sensations of the Midway at Mr. Whalen’s Fair.
We were met at the door of Miss Cubitt’s room by one of the Exposition’s press agents, a brisk young man named Jack Adams. We went in and sat down, and he said the Queen—he called her the Queenevery time he referred to her—would be out in a minute. I had a bad cold that day and did not particularly like the assignment. I liked it even less when Mr. Adams began telling me about the Queen. He said she did not approve of the girls in the New York night-club shows because she felt they besmirched the cause of nudism. He said she ate uncooked carrots, took an orange-juice bath about once a week and lived almost entirely off raw herbs.
He was telling about the Queen’s dietary habits when she came in. She was naked. It was the first time a woman I had been sent to interview ever came into the room naked, and I was shocked. I say she was naked. Actually, she had a blue G-string on, but I have never seen anything look so naked in my life as she did when she walked into that room. She didn’t even have any shoes on. She was a tall girl with a cheerful baby face. She had long golden hair and hazel eyes. The photographer was bending over his camera case, screwing a bulb into his flashpan, when she came in. As soon as he saw her, he abruptly stood erect.
“My God!” he said.
Mr. Adams introduced the Queen, and she shook hands with me and smiled. Then she shook hands with the photographer.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the photographer.
“Likewise,” said Miss Cubitt, smiling.
She went over and sat down in one of the hotel’s overstuffed chairs and said she hoped we wouldn’t mind if she didn’t put anything on, and we shook our heads in unison. The telephone rang and Mr. Adams answered it. When he got through with the telephone, he said he would have to beat it, that he had an appointment with an advertising agency, and he said goodbye. The rain was beating against the windows, and when Mr. Adams got to the door, Miss Cubitt yelled, “You better wear your rubbers.” The photographer was still standing in the middle of the floor with his flashpan in his hand, staring open-mouthed at the young woman. I didn’t know how to begin the interview.
“Well, Miss Cubitt,” I said, tentatively, “Mr. Adams just told me you eat a lot of raw carrots.”
“Why,” she said, sitting upright in
Miss Cubitt was sent here to get some publicity for the San Diego Exposition. It is this fact, as much as any other, that makes me think Mr. Whalen’s stern statement would cause her to giggle. The officials of the San Diego fair, which was supposed to “tell the story of mankind’s restless urge toward achievement,” also said they would ban “all but the highest type of concession,” but when customers stayed away by the million, they decided that Miss Cubitt’s nudist concession was of an extraordinarily high type. More than one American exposition has been saved from bankruptcy by uninhibited young women.
The newspaper for which I work sent me up to interview Miss Cubitt the day after she arrived in New York. A photographer went along with me. I saved all my notes, and I want to tell you about Miss Cubitt because I think she will be one of the sensations of the Midway at Mr. Whalen’s Fair.
We were met at the door of Miss Cubitt’s room by one of the Exposition’s press agents, a brisk young man named Jack Adams. We went in and sat down, and he said the Queen—he called her the Queenevery time he referred to her—would be out in a minute. I had a bad cold that day and did not particularly like the assignment. I liked it even less when Mr. Adams began telling me about the Queen. He said she did not approve of the girls in the New York night-club shows because she felt they besmirched the cause of nudism. He said she ate uncooked carrots, took an orange-juice bath about once a week and lived almost entirely off raw herbs.
He was telling about the Queen’s dietary habits when she came in. She was naked. It was the first time a woman I had been sent to interview ever came into the room naked, and I was shocked. I say she was naked. Actually, she had a blue G-string on, but I have never seen anything look so naked in my life as she did when she walked into that room. She didn’t even have any shoes on. She was a tall girl with a cheerful baby face. She had long golden hair and hazel eyes. The photographer was bending over his camera case, screwing a bulb into his flashpan, when she came in. As soon as he saw her, he abruptly stood erect.
“My God!” he said.
Mr. Adams introduced the Queen, and she shook hands with me and smiled. Then she shook hands with the photographer.
“Pleased to meet you,” said the photographer.
“Likewise,” said Miss Cubitt, smiling.
She went over and sat down in one of the hotel’s overstuffed chairs and said she hoped we wouldn’t mind if she didn’t put anything on, and we shook our heads in unison. The telephone rang and Mr. Adams answered it. When he got through with the telephone, he said he would have to beat it, that he had an appointment with an advertising agency, and he said goodbye. The rain was beating against the windows, and when Mr. Adams got to the door, Miss Cubitt yelled, “You better wear your rubbers.” The photographer was still standing in the middle of the floor with his flashpan in his hand, staring open-mouthed at the young woman. I didn’t know how to begin the interview.
“Well, Miss Cubitt,” I said, tentatively, “Mr. Adams just told me you eat a lot of raw carrots.”
“Why,” she said, sitting upright in
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