Indeed, the public face of the groundbreaking, so-called‘Mercury Seven’,in particular,was a crucial aspect of their endeavours—both as a means of selling a hugely expensive project to the
public and, given that this was a symbolic race against the U.S.S.R., to rub theRussians’noses in the U.S.’s success. At least, that
was the plan—in reality,until theAmericans’moon programme, whichthis
yearmarks the 50th anniversary of its first landing,it was the Russians who had most of the firsts in
space.‘Kaputnik!’as one paper wittily dubbed another NASA launchpad
failure.
That the astronauts regularly appeared inLifemagazine—which won exclusive coverage with a $500,000 deal that
included the life insurance no company would grant them—underscored their status as style icons of the era and encouraged a wider interest in the
lives. It was actually an idea NASA orchestrated as a means of supplementing the incomes of men who, although
training to go into space, remained on the contractual payoftheir military rank.Lifetypicallypulled in sales of 10 million copiesof any issuethat featured the astronauts—or their wives, given rockety hairdos and space-age clothing
and expected to be, as one of them put it,“perfect wives [with] perfect children [in] perfect homes”.
Photographsof these astronauts in their space-faring
attire—those early Bacofoil jumpsuits, replete
with zips, straps and nozzles,andthe later,
bulkier, all-white mobile life-support systems—are familiar to us. The less familiarimages, especially with the passing of time,areof these men in their civvies, looking very
muchlikegents of theMad Menera, albeit ones who, as test pilots, had a high
chance of dying doing what they did. As the late Tom Wolfe noted inThe Right Stuff,
the seminal account of the Mercury programme:“How many [men] would have gone to work, or stayed at work,
on cutthroat Madison Avenue if there had been a 23 percent chance, nearly one
chance in four, of dying from it?”
There’s Gordon Cooper
in a black-and-grey-striped blazer,one that can only be described as groovy. Or the rather
proper John Glenn—an ultra-religious family man,a‘my country
first’type—in his checked three-button sports jacket, white shirt and
trademark bow-tie. OrGusGrissom, with his mid-blue serge suit, white shirt and
skinny burgundy tie. Then there’s the more
relaxed publicity stills of them dressed fortheSunday beers andbarbecuesthese men and their families—who were closely connectedbywork but alsobythe shadow
of mortality—regularly enjoyed.There’s Deke Slayton in
pale grey trousers and a polo shirt in rescue orange—akin to the shade later selected for the‘pumpkin suit’, the
launch-and entry-gear wornby
astronautson the Space Shuttle. Or Scott Carpenter in his brown mohair trousers
and silk paisley print short-sleeved shirt.These men could be as sharp in dress as
in wits.
Read the full article in Issue 65 of The Rake - on newstands now or available here.
