Word: garments
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...magazine's evolution into a sort of Insiders' Newsletter for the soft-goods trade traces to the end of World War II, when Advertising Manager Monroe Green, 57, sent his salesmen after the Times's neighbors in the Seventh Avenue Garment District. Even after manufacturers began their exodus to the South and to Montreal in search of cheaper labor, they continued advertising, just to keep up with the competition. Now, says Green, thousands of women who turn to the magazine "read the ads as news...
Most of Manhattan is edging into summer this week, but along Seventh Avenue it is already autumn. Buyers from all over the U.S. are making their seasonal march into garment-district showrooms to rummage through, inspect and buy fall fashions. In a $13 billion industry that survives and thrives on change, the biggest change of all is in the corporate shape of the industry itself. Women's wear, a business of some 4,700 firms in which the mean has always been two or three partners with a $25,000 bankroll, is busy styling a whole new rackful...
...best management-labor relationships in many a month. The Iron Law. In Seattle last week, giant Boeing and the Machinists Union reached an amicable settlement involving 41,000 workers on key defense contracts. Friendly accords have lately been reached in the rubber industry and the men's garment trade. In Pittsburgh, Steelworkers Union President David McDonald warned that he wants substantial agreement on a new steel contract by June 1, but no one seemed concerned by his declaration. Discussions have so far gone so smoothly that neither side looks for a strike. Though tension is greater in railroad negotiations...
Fred Gardner's story "Admiration" talks about the seamy side of garment worker society in the Depression. Gardner's hero is a Jewish gangster, with a heart, naturally. "Admiration" is not a world-shaking story, but Gardner writes Yiddish dialogue with accuracy and verve...
...seen in the asylum, a black-haired youth with greenish skin, entirely idiotic, who used to sit all day on one of the benches, or rather shelves against the wall, with his knees drawn up against his chin, and the coarse gray undershirt, which was his only garment, drawn over them inclosing his entire figure. He sat there like a sort of sculptured Egyptian cat or Peruvian mummy, moving nothing but his black eyes and looking absolutely non-human. This image and my fear entered into a species of combination with each other. That shape am I, I felt, potentially...