A funeral Mass of Christian Burial will be held Thursday at 3 p.m. for world famous fashion designer Kate Spade, born Katherine Noel Brosnahan 55 years ago in Kansas City.
The site of the funeral is Our Lady of Perpetual Help Redemptorist Church, 3333 Broadway in Kansas City, Missouri. According to Kate’s father, Frank Brosnahan, this is the church at which Spade’s grandparents were buried.
The obituary lays out the arc of Spade’s illustrious career from her grade school days at Notre Dame de Sion to high school at St. Teresa’s Academy to her many successes in the world of fashion.
“To most of the world,” the obituary concludes, “she was Kate Spade, the beautiful embodiment of her brand and a glamorous cultural icon. Everyone knows of her global fame as a fashion designer responsible for the wildly popular and successful products that still capture the hearts and fancies of women everywhere.”
“Many women today recount their first experiences with the Kate Spade brand and the inspiration they drew from its namesake. However, there was so much more to Katy and her life. Those who knew her personally can share stories of a phenomenally loving, giving, humble, warm and affectionate woman who tragically left this world far too soon.”
“Katy’s determination was matched only by her generosity. Loyal almost to a fault, Katy could be counted on to support her friends and family in times of trouble without question or judgment.”
“Her sense of humor was one of her most enduring and charming qualities. Her quick and infectious laugh still resonates in the minds of all who knew her. Katy was always perceptive. She always aspired to put the best interests of others ahead of her own.”
“Katy will always be remembered lovingly for her conscientiousness and empathy. She loved animals. She was a devoted wife, mother, daughter and sister. Katy was kind beyond words to describe. She will be dearly missed by those who knew her and by the millions she inspired.”
As to the why of Spade’s suicide, anyone’s suicide, no one has better captured the tragic mystery than Edwin Arlington Robinson did a century ago:
Whenever Richard Cory went down town/ We people on the pavement looked at him:/ He was a gentleman from sole to crown,/ Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed,/ And he was always human when he talked;/ But still he fluttered pulses when he said,/ “Good-morning,” and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—/ And admirably schooled in every grace:/ In fine, we thought that he was everything/ To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light,/ And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;/ And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,/ Went home and put a bullet through his head.
