Charles F. Berg 1934 window display

by ELIZABETH DYE
243-2122 ext. 335

On Jan. 23, 2001, the city of Portland turned 150 years old. You may recall a few fond retrospectives around town offering airbrushed then-and-now glimpses of the River City. White-painted stumps dotting downtown thoroughfares (that Stumptown thing just gets funnier!); the simian mugs of P-town-founder offspring, still greasing the gears of commerce from their big houses in the West Hills; the great civic redevelopment/decimation of our once-fragrant Brewery Blocks. Now, let's stop this soft-focus nostalgia roller-coaster ride circa 1930 to laud a local mythmaker, Charles F. Berg, whose modestly gorgeous downtown building crowns what little remains of Portland's fashion past.

1930. The economy was in the toilet. Hostess Twinkies appeared on the market. Liquor would be illegal for three more years. Enter Mr. Berg, who had been piloting a ladies' apparel business under his own name in Portland since 1921. He desired an emporium plus grande than his Morrison Street shop and, in grim and unprosperous times, gave us Portland's only Art Deco building--a compact tabernacle of prewar glamour.

About Berg, the man. His first business was a San Francisco yardage goods store in 1907, and by age 59 in 1930, he was the Northwest's premier women's clothing merchant, introducing prêt-a-porter to what was then a fashion backwater (I know, hard to believe). A fat cat whose business shrewdness was matched by splashy self-promotion, Berg also starred in the amateur entertainment group the Hoot Owls. Their weekly KGW radio program broadcast banjo tunes and elephant jokes into Portland's efficiency kitchens and auto shops for nearly a decade. His Charles F. Berg store was celebrated for its elaborate window displays and an atmosphere of cosmopolitan elegance that must have contrasted sharply with Portland's low-key civic image.

As it happened, Berg's Art Deco facelift to the 1902 Dolph Building at 615 SW Broadway was considered as gaudy as Mae West's negligée. Painted black with decorative pilasters textured in real (yes, Ivana, real!) gold, the terra-cotta relief of the building was a pageant of peacocks, zigzags, rain clouds, sunbursts and spirals. The work was done by a Portland subsidiary of a Grand Rapids store equipper, The Portland Case Building Co. (who knew Grand Rapids was an avant-garde design hothouse in the '30s?). Today the building's façade looks much like it did, but the present Berg interior is a far and despairing cry from its original glitz. The chromium-plated, Tiffany-designed elevator cab has been replaced by the same anonymous conveyance you'd find in any building in town. Jade, orchid and silver enameled woodwork has made way for sheet rock and the very Portland peach-and-teal paint job. The shadow-plaid mauve-and-violet carpet was torn up years ago in favor of laminate and wear-ready, hoseable tile, and I most regret the disappearance of the ladies' lounge, which decorator George A. Mansfield modeled after the Submarine Gardens of the Catalina Islands. With its mauve velvet divan, coral-and-silver-finished furnishings, and hand-colored window coverings painted with tropical fish, the lounge provided a tranquil sanctuary for the footsore downtown browser.

Chuck himself went to his reward in 1932 and never witnessed these atrocities. At his death the store passed to his son, Forrest, who refreshed the inventory to target the younger set. His 1950s "Hi-Board," a panel of fashion consultants and models skimmed from the cream of area high schools, had the snoot appeal of a cheerleader's elite. Still, the business ultimately left the family. A costly remodel in '72 accompanied the store's sale to a Spokane-area chain retailer and included--yeesh!--macramé planters and a ground floor made entirely of cedar rounds. Taste notwithstanding, the Berg store survived the '70s to stay in business in some form until 1982, when Mariposa & Gray, the Canadian company that had by then acquired it, shut it down (can't trust those Canucks).

And what tangible traces remain of the Berg legend? I mean, besides that black-and-gold pagoda on Broadway. Showy and style-conscious as he was, Charles Berg was more purveyor than designer. In Berg's era, it was customary for retailers to sew their own labels into the inventory regardless of who made it. That means clothing bearing the Charles F. Berg label can be found in vintage and thrift stores all over town (I walked into one at random and found a Berg jacket within 10 minutes). The clothes are less high-style than the building that housed them, but you can count on better-than-average tailoring and construction, especially in garments made through the '50s. Best are the camel overcoats and fitted suits
of the '40s, which tend to be sturdily assembled of long-lasting materials.

By bringing Berg's clothing back into Portland's closets, you pay civic homage. You honor a man who knew that glamour was good for the soul and good for the city--a man who would never have worn sweats to the symphony.