MAYBE YOU’VE SEEN Tziporah Salamon riding around town on a baby-blue bicycle, a vision in vintage couture, with a funny hat on her head and bike-unfriendly shoes. Somehow she survives, and gets great press.
Tzipi is an artist. Her medium is fashion. If you haven’t run into her on Riverside Drive, where she lives, or at the theater, or on 57th Street, where Bill Cunningham, the New York Times photographer, has frequently captured her for his “On the Street” column, maybe you saw last winter’s profile of her in the Times.
If you are at all interested in clothes, you must catch Tziporah’s one-woman show, “The Fabric of My Life,“ which she performs periodically at venues around town. In it, she recounts her harrowing and humorous autobiography while twirling through a series of exotic costume changes.
Tziporah dresses; that’s what she does. A rabbi once told her she represents splendor. She brightens the day for anyone lucky enough to catch a glimpse of her colorful, creative ensembles (which, incidentally, do not cost a fortune — her wardrobe consists mostly of vintage and ethnic pieces collected over the years).
Tziporah and I met on the Lower East Side a year ago, en route to a concert at the Eldridge Street Synagogue. She helped me a lot, in my own closet (she can do it for you, too) — weeding out criminally un-stylish L.L. Bean raincoats, re-discovering the good but forgotten, and identifying pieces that, with a little alteration, could be wearable again (or for the first time).
The whole process was fun and uplifting. Oh, did I mention she’s funny as hell?
E-mail Tzipi at firstname.lastname@example.org
Photos by Carole Cutner, except top and below (by me)