Welcome to Her Matriarchy

The essential Shirley Ritts story isn’t the one about how she introduced Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere at a barbecue in Malibu. Or the one about the time she cornered Jack Nicholson and lectured him about his love life, specifically the unseemly age gap between him and his female companions. Or even the morning when she took the breakfast she’d cooked for Steve McQueen on the Rittses’ 40-foot boat and, as he watched, dumped it into the waters off Catalina because he’d complained it was cold.

It is the story of her 75th birthday party, held in 1996. The luncheon at Barneys New York in Beverly Hills was hosted by her son Herb, the world-renown celebrity photographer. Just before dessert, a large hatbox tied with ribbon was carried in and set in front of her. Inside was a smaller box. A smaller one nested within that, then a smaller one and finally, an envelope containing a gift certificate good for merchandise at the store.

“Herb told me to read it out loud,” Shirley remembers. “I looked at it, and it said $75,000, and I thought I wasn’t seeing it properly. It had to be $7,500. But then I read it, and everyone screamed. It was unreal.”

Not many 75-year-olds could find much more than a scarf at Barneys, a temple of high style that pays its rent by satisfying the ever-changing yearnings of the young and/or thin. Three years later, Shirley has $14,000 left, having worked the amount down with the acquisition of a $5,000 Jil Sander cashmere coat here, a $5,500 Voyage velvet number there.

The birthday gift was testament to her son’s love and respect. (Presents from Herb’s three younger siblings weren’t as extravagant yet were equally heartfelt and appreciated.) Such a windfall wasn’t over the top for its flamboyant recipient, a dynamic, uncommonly energetic matriarch whose children have all benefited in different ways from her contributions to the gene pool.

What sort of family does such a character create? (Everyone calls Shirley that. “She’s a total character,” Crawford says, affectionately.) When Mom didn’t spend the ‘50s in the kitchen baking cookies, and Dad was the hardworking, emotionally remote male typical of that era, is the inevitable result a gothic, dysfunctional clan? Not necessarily.

Shirley and Herb Ritts Sr., whom she married in 1950 and divorced 27 years later, made an effort not to spoil their children. Ritts Co., the casual furniture business he founded, brought California style to the rest of the country and material rewards to the family.

“My kids had everything,” Shirley says, “but they didn’t know it.”

Learning From Hard Work

The Ritts offspring--Herb, now 47, Rory, 46, Gary, 43, and Christy, 42--were taught to respect hard work, and all became strongly motivated, productive adults. By most benchmarks, Herb’s accomplishments have even surpassed those of his parents. In some families that would be a source of conflict, but the Rittses remain close.

One experience of growing up in L.A. is to be surrounded by privilege. It could be that the guy who lives next door is one of the biggest movie stars in the world, and Mom and Dad are so talented and charismatic that they shine with enough wattage to rival that of any supernova. Yet, sometimes the blessings of creativity and the riches it can bring last only a generation, to be followed by sad sagas of downward mobility, or worse.

Rory, vice president of marketing for a specialty food company for which he invents snacks sold in ingenious packaging of his design, says, “I know a lot of people we grew up with who just turned out terrible. All but a few of my so-called friends from high school are in 12-step programs, or should be.”

Although Rory and his siblings could have carried on the business that bore their name, and all worked in it briefly, each ultimately went in a different professional direction.

Gary (who was unavailable for this story) is an inventor, the married father of four. Rory, in his second marriage, has two boys--3 and 5. Christy is amicably divorced from the father of her 5-year-old son. Because her 87-year-old father has Alzheimer’s, she manages his affairs and, with her mother, the family’s real estate, which is what remains of the company.

“Shirley gave me the confidence to do jobs that could be overwhelming to other people,” Christy says.

While in college, Herb told his parents he was gay. His sister remembers, “When I found out, it was, ‘Is he happy, is he OK?’ Other than that, who cares?” He lives with his companion, a lawyer.

In any discussion of the Ritts family, it would be easy to focus on Herb, even if no pun were intended. A self-taught photographer, for more than 15 years he has been the only Californian to gain entry to an international photographic aristocracy that produces both highly regarded and extremely lucrative commercial work as well as contemporary art. He has shot album covers and directed videos for pop-rock artists Madonna, Chris Isaak, Janet Jackson and her brother Michael, and advertising campaigns for Donna Karan, TAGHeuer Watches and Revlon.

Any month, one could go to the newsstand and find that the covers of Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, Vogue, Gentleman’s Quarterly or Time feature photographs by Herb Ritts. Limited editions of his photographs represented by the Fahey/Klein Gallery in Los Angeles sell for $1,300 to $14,000.

“His career just took off in a way that’s been phenomenal,” Shirley says. “He’s good, he’s bright, he’s reliable, he’s artistic and a hard worker. We’re all so proud of him. I’m proud of all my kids. There’s no jealousy . . . only pride. They’re good people and responsible. You know, they’re not flakes.”

Rory remembers the day in 1979 when his brother called to tell him to run out and pick up a copy of a magazine that had published one of Herb’s pictures.

“He’d keep calling me to tell me to get another magazine and another. Pretty soon, I didn’t have room for all the magazines in my house.”

Soon, many of the stars whom Herb was capturing on film in a unique way had become friends. When he’d entertain them, Shirley would frequently be included.

A Sparkle That ‘Radiates’

She is a small woman, not much over 5 feet tall, and slender. She wears her hair in a sleek, dark bob and rims her huge, round eyes with kohl.

“Shirley has this sparkle that just radiates,” Herb says. “She’ll be talking to Tina Turner or Madonna like she’s one of their girlfriends. There’s no age barrier with her. She’s very definite, and she speaks her mind, no matter who she’s with. As opinionated as she is, she’s open to discussing everything, and people seem to enjoy that. I took her on a trip to London last year, and at a reception for me, everyone stood in line to talk to Shirley, from the Duchess of York on down. She has that magnetism.”

Ask Shirley about the duchess, and she’ll say, “Oh, yes, we know Sarah. Crazy about her. Marvelous girl.”

Shirley was a marvelous girl herself. Herb Ritts Sr. noticed a spark the day the young doctor’s daughter from Baltimore walked into his furniture showroom. Family lore holds that he fell instantly in love. Six months later, they were married.

Herb Sr. owned a thriving furniture company. Before World War II, you could dine in L.A. at Ken’s Hula Hut, Marti’s Club Hawaii, Don the Beachcomber, Trader Vic’s or the Hawaiian Paradise. Much of the decor and furnishings were designed and made by Herb Sr. He eventually became known as the premiere manufacturer of rattan furniture in the United States.

After the war, many of the new homes in America were built with a sun room, or what was then called a club basement.

“People put the rattan there, and they thought they were cool,” Shirley says. “They were living the California life, even if they were in Ohio. Herb was a terrific furniture designer, and I was an interior designer, and supervised the sales, so the combination was wonderful.”

They lived in a 27-room Spanish-style house, on 2 1/2 wooded acres in Brentwood. The children occupied a wing of the house. In their 50-foot playroom, chores were listed on a bulletin board and stars were awarded when jobs were done well. Shirley worked full time and traveled for business, but she was also the Brownie mom, the Girl Scout leader, the one who’d rush to the hospital when Rory was knocked out in a football game.

“Admittedly, it was easier with help in the house and because I was working for myself,” Shirley says. “My children were the most important thing in my life, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t have a life beyond them. You had to juggle sometimes. You just did it. We gave such love.”

Sometimes weekends would be spent at their Malibu beach house, and one summer vacation everyone piled into the Rittses’ Chrysler New Yorker station wagon and drove up the coast, stopping at each California mission. But the children’s fondest memories are of summers that revolved around the family’s boat.

“We had a little cabin at a cove on Catalina,” Herb says. “Even when we were little, my parents would let us stay there by ourselves. There were people to watch over us, but they instilled a sense of independence, early on. They encouraged us and allowed us to be ourselves.”

Herb Led the Pack

Herb Jr. was the leader, but a benevolent one, his siblings say, a child seemingly born with drive. Gary was the rebel; Rory was the jock, always sweet and eager to please. Christy was the joker, and of course, the Girl, a nurturing Wendy to the rambunctious Lost Boys.

“On Catalina, Herb would work pumping gas at the dock, and Gary and I’d always have little jobs,” Rory says. “The whole time we were growing up, we’d work in my dad’s factory every Saturday.”

The foreman would pay them wages, then their parents would match the amount.

“We worked because we enjoyed it,” Herb says. “It wasn’t anything that felt like it was forced on us.”

Christy says they were taught that if they wanted special things, they’d have to pay for them.

“They gave us a work ethic,” she says. “My parents believed in that.” When neighbor Steve McQueen complained that one of the boys had dinged his dining room window with a BB gun, and insisted they pay for a new one, they all ponied up.

“He never fixed that window,” Rory says, “but it taught us a lesson.”

When their parents fought, the children usually didn’t hear it in the rambling house. Herb Sr. and his wife regularly clashed over the business, then quickly made up. But in 1975, they separated. Christy was still in high school.

“The day before they got divorced, they were Mom and Dad,” she says. “The day after, they were two human beings that I had to get to know.”

Herb Sr. married again, then divorced. There were other men for Shirley, many of whom would fall in love with her in a blink, as Herb had.

“I thought about marrying again, but I didn’t really want to,” Shirley says. “I learned to like my freedom.”

Today she lives in an airy Brentwood house, not far from her children’s homes. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving, the family gathers.

“It’s Christmas Eve at Shirley’s,” Rory says. “There’s no two ways about it. Any time a friend of mine didn’t have a place to go, they’d be welcome. Of course they’d get the idea, after the first time, that they were expected to dress properly. But even if they didn’t, she’d always treat everyone equally.”

If Christy and Rory, who share a tendency to put on weight, appeared for the holiday heavier than usual, they would expect their mother to register her disapproval.

“She was always a knockout, and her having great taste was a plus. But the problem is she wants me to be that too. I know about a million mothers and daughters like that in L.A. She says her concern is about health, but I know it isn’t,” Christy says with a rueful laugh.

In recent years, working on Herb’s homes has been a consuming project for his mother. His retreat is a compound perched high in the mountains above Santa Fe. She supervised the building of a pool house, decorated the spectacular main house (photographed by Vanity Fair in 1994) and served as architect and interior designer for the guest house, a haute log cabin (chronicled in Vogue in 1996).

“She’s the type, it’s ‘Get rid of this bathroom, raise the ceiling here,’ ” son Herb says. “She had the determination and the stamina and the taste to make it all happen. She’d be marching around in her quasi-cowboy boots and leggings, and she’d give the workers hell. Eventually, they really respected her. They called her the general.”

That’s funny. That’s just what Shirley’s children nicknamed her, many years ago.

Mimi Avins can be reached by e-mail at Mimi.Avins@latimes.com.