I love how the white flowers on Taylor Tomasi Hill’s Thom Browne jacket balance out the Céline white heels, which make the look.
FASHION LESSON NO. 5
THE BRILLIANCE OF WHITE SHOES
WHEN I GOT married, I asked Christian Louboutin to make me a timeless and simple yet sexy pair of white pumps. He knew what I meant—pointed toe, skinny 95-cm heel, just enough toe cleavage. I asked for them to be made in peau de soie, the classic silk used for an evening shoe, but he thought that might make them too tasteful. Is a white shoe ever tasteful? I didn’t think so, but I told Christian to go with his instinct, which was to make them in white moiré taffeta.
The shoes were absolutely perfect on the day—a dash of class (my wedding dress) with an oh-so-subtle dash of trash (the shoes)—and they miraculously managed to remain pristine white. But what do you do with a pair of white moiré stilettos? My first instinct was to dye them—they’d make a stunning black evening pump. But I already had similar shoes in black. And brown. And electric blue. And fire-engine red. Because Christian did the shoes for the Tuleh shows and I got to keep the leftovers, I already had an enviable rainbow of fabulous pumps in my closet. So I reluctantly decided to leave the white ones white.
It wasn’t until I owned a pair of white pumps that I realized how useful they could be. Tired of wearing a black dress with black heels? Wear white heels. Don’t have the right color sandal to wear with your summer florals? Wear white sandals. Looking to add a little irreverence to an otherwise straightforward look? Again, white is the answer.
I wore my white silk pumps so much that I wore them out. Next, I tried white suede pumps. They were killer, but they lasted only three wears before looking more gray than white. At the moment, I’m loving my white leather ballet flats, and I just bought a pair of pristine white Converse for summer, having opted for a more tasteful off-white version in the past. But why do we have to be tasteful all the time? It’s far more fun—and chic!—to be daring.
Me (in Oscar de la Renta) and Zach, as Batman, in our Lower East Side apartment, shot for the debut issue of Vogue Living, 2006.
FAKE IT ’TIL YOU MAKE IT
THE FIRST TIME I appeared in Vogue was while I was working at Gagosian. My oldest friend, Celerie, rang me up and said, “Amanda, your feet are in Vogue!” The magazine had done a trend page on brightly colored pants and I’d worn a pair of hot orange Joseph ones to a fashion party with Christopher. They were mostly cotton with a shiny satin tuxedo stripe down the side of each leg. Sounds hideous now, right? Well, Vogue had snapped my pants, but because I was unknown to the fashion world at that time, they cut off my head and just featured the lower half of my body, including my toes peeking out from my open-toe stilettos. I do, in fact, have recognizable feet, and not in a good way. Many people’s second toes are longer than their first, as mine are, but in fact my third toes, while smaller than my second toes, are also longer than my first, making a kind of handlike silhouette. I was delighted, however, to be featured in Vogue—in any form. I also really appreciated Celerie in that moment—I am lucky to have a friend who knows me so well she can recognize me by my fugly toes!
The next time I was in Vogue, they zeroed in on my feather-trimmed handbag. My head made it in this time, but my name didn’t. I was “girl at a party,” or something like that. This sudden attention to my clothes made me all the more excited to get dressed for parties. As usual, I pushed myself to buy designers I could barely afford. For one particular party, a Vogue celebration at Balthazar of Oprah’s cover debut, I went to Calypso, a trendy new boutique in Nolita that sold things at just under designer price range. I bought two Tracy Feith Indian-inspired paisley slip dresses to layer together. I then went around the corner and bought a pair of brown leather chunky-heeled sandals from Sigerson Morrison, the new shoe store everyone was talking about. When putting it all together on the night of, I slipped a silk flower that I’d bought at the flea market in my ponytail. It was the perfect final touch. I arrived at Balthazar that night with Christopher, and we were snapped by the photographers as soon as we walked in. I felt so good the whole night. I had a wonderful boyfriend, was at a glamorous party, and loved what I was wearing. When the next issue of Vogue came out, there I was—my full body was photographed this time, and my name was printed with my picture. It was my first official photograph in the magazine, and I was proud as could be.
My next appearance in Vogue would be in a more official capacity. It was after I’d left Gagosian and was temporarily helping out in my mother’s interior design office. I was sitting at the drafting board, on the phone with a fabric mill, when my mother tiptoed in and mouthed, “Someone from Vogue is on the phone!” I quickly hung up and picked up the other line. It was Plum Sykes.
“Darling, would you like to be in Vogue?” she asked in her posh English accent.
“Um . . . yes!” I replied, not even sure what she was asking me.
“Okay, great. Go to Pier 59 Studios tomorrow at one P.M.”
I showed up with no idea what to expect. I was especially nervous because I was still growing out a short haircut and it was in a particularly awkward phase. After announcing myself at reception, I was led into a photo studio that felt like home—I had shot there many, many times when working with Patrick. On the dry-erase board next to the entrance, the names Steven Meisel and Grace Coddington caught my eye, and my heart pounded in my chest. I must be in the wrong place, I thought.
My Steven Meisel/Grace Coddington/Chanel Haute Couture moment in Vogue, 1997. I don’t think it ever got much better than this!
But sure enough, my friend Anne Christensen (a freelance stylist who’d been Grace’s assistant for many years) wandered over and brought me up to speed on the shoot. Grace was styling and Steven was shooting the “12 Days of Christmas.” And I was going to be one of the “social girls” representing the “nine ladies dancing.” We’d all be wearing Chanel couture. HOLY. SHIT. Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!
Garren, the legendary high-fashion hair guru, did the best he could with my hair. He gave it a bit of a trim at the bottom and blew it out stick straight (it was the nineties, after all). The equally famous makeup artist Diane Kendal gave me a smoky eye and more makeup than I’d ever worn in my entire life, and Grace chose a beaded and embroidered camisole top with matching skirt for me to wear. I felt cooler than I’d ever felt but still so much less cool than all the other “ladies dancing,” who included Julian Schnabel’s daughters, the Ronson girls, Fernanda Niven, and supermodel Shalom Harlow. The worst was when Steven asked us to dance. Sober dancing in a cold studio in front of intimidating girls was not the way to bring out the best in me. Eventually, we loosened up (a bit) and the picture came together. When it was published, the expression on my face wasn’t the most flattering, but I looked like I was having a good time.
The next Vogue call came when I was happily settled into my job at Fekkai. They were doing a best-dressed list organized by industries, and, as previously mentioned here, I was asked to be included, representing the beauty industry. The shoot conflicted with a big work meeting, but it was decided by Frédéric that it would be great exposure for the company. I showed up for the shoot at the Mercer Hotel. Pamela Hanson was shooting it, and she had a vision of me jumping on the bed in one of the giant ballgowns that stylist André Leon Talley had selected for me. I jumped on the bed tentatively at first, and then I really started to enjoy it. The more relaxed I became, the more excited they got, and after a few minutes it was like a switch went off inside of me. I let go completely and allowed myself to enjoy the moment. It was my first taste of being empowered in front of the camera, and I loved it.
The photo was . . . expressive, to say the least. Plum called me before I’d even seen it. “I’m not sure you’re going to like your photo, darling. You look a bit mad in it.” My heart sank, and I was prepared for the worst. But when I finally saw it, I liked the photo. I was in midair, the giant
dress flying up around me, my head tilted back and my mouth open with laughter. It’s not super-flattering, but I look happy and it reminds me of the fun I had that day.
My first appearance on Vogue’s best-dressed list, shot by Pamela Hanson, 1999.
The next shoot wasn’t nearly so successful. Again I was grouped in with a selection of socially and professionally notable young women, Laura Bailey, China Chow, Lauren Bush, and Kidada Jones among them. Camilla Nickerson was the stylist, Elaine Constantine was the photographer, and we shot on location in East Hampton. Elaine’s style was to capture movement with a big flash so we were constantly lunging at the camera, or asked to laugh on command, or asked to splash around in the pool. This all seemed fine until we were asked to wear tiny bikinis. I caught a glimpse of one of the Polaroids and it so horrified me that I discreetly approached Camilla and said, “I really don’t feel comfortable wearing such a tiny bikini for these pictures. The Polaroids are not flattering.” She wouldn’t hear it and reassured me that it would all be retouched and the pictures would be great. It was too late for me, though. I’d already entered a shame spiral. Thank God the pictures never ran. A friend at Vogue told me that Anna deemed them “too young,” and apparently they served as a mock spread for a test issue of the forthcoming Teen Vogue.
Being in Vogue is valuable to any fashion brand. If you are in the magazine at all regularly, designers want to dress you. I traded on this for many years, and the abundance of borrowed clothes allowed me to experiment more freely with my style and create close relationships with designers. But as I earned more money, I made the decision to buy more and borrow less. It was a more honest relationship with myself and a better way to develop and nurture a true sense of style. Borrowing had been a fun way to experiment in my twenties, but once I entered my thirties, I wanted to be more focused and disciplined. I also wanted more simplicity in getting dressed.
My plan worked, and my style became more focused. Then Vogue called again wanting to feature me in a shopping story in the editorial section of the September Issue, a big honor that required all sorts of assurances from me that I wouldn’t be photographed for any other magazine that month. I boarded a plane to Palm Beach with Mark Holgate (the writer), Alexandra Kotur (the sittings editor), and Jonathan Becker (the photographer). Vogue wanted me to lead them around to my favorite vintage shopping haunts in Palm Beach (of which there are many) and then photograph me in some of my favorite purchases. Back in New York, I’d then show them some of the big splurges in my own closet and also some of my favorite cheap chic resources. This was probably the most meaningful photo shoot I’d ever done because Vogue was validating the way I’d shopped all my life: a few special designer purchases, mixed in with the best of H&M and Zara, mixed in with vintage pieces bought in Palm Beach or handed down from my eccentric great-aunt Molly (read more about her here). In the past, I felt that I was playing a role when I was being photographed, but in this story, I felt like me. The portraits taken for this shoot are my favorite ever taken of me, and I treasure them.
Not even a year later, Vogue called once more, yet again for the September Issue. They were doing a story about New York ladies striking out with their own original projects (they called it “The Selling of the Socialite”) and they wanted to include a section about me writing I Love Your Style. I’d be photographed at Christopher’s family farm in England. Once given the tour, Jonathan and Alexandra decided they wanted to photograph me by a lake that actually belonged to our next-door neighbor. I did my own hair and makeup and wore a Grecian-inspired Zac Posen gown. It’s a beautiful portrait, but I look a bit tired in it. Note to self: Believe people when they tell you that you need to wear more makeup than you think for a photograph.
After that double September Issue whammy, I didn’t expect to be featured in Vogue again for a very long time, if at all. But surprisingly, Hamish Bowles called up one day, confiding that he was working on the debut issue of Vogue Living, and he asked if he could come see my apartment. The insanity began right then and there. If you’ve ever had someone you revere come to look at your house, you’ll know what I mean. Decorating homes is something I’ve never considered myself particularly good at. I’d decorated our New York apartment in my Tuleh years after a phase when I was obsessed with the English decorator David Hicks. This all translated to lots of very bold print and color: pink rugs, turquoise paintings, brown velvet, silver lamé, pop-inspired paintings by my husband. It was certainly a statement, but one I quickly grew bored with. In fact, I grew tired of the whole look before I’d had the chance (and the funds) to even finish decorating.
After hours and hours of manic midnight styling, cleaning, and reorganizing, Hamish came to take a look. I held my breath as Hamish walked around, and I tried to be as positive as I possibly could. I told him how I bought the group of five paintings in the living room from a vintage shop on the Lower East Side, how all the collages in the hallway were Valentines that Christopher and I had made for each other, how I had cashed in my entire wedding registry credit to afford Pratesi sheets for all the beds, how the kitschy wallpaper in the bathroom was an ode to my childhood in Palm Beach, etc.
My desperate enthusiasm must have worked, because Hamish called the next morning to say he wanted to shoot it. There was also the small matter of styling me for the shoot. When Hamish came over for the fitting, he looked at me sheepishly as he unzipped the garment bags and announced, “I have a vision.” He then pulled out giant gowns from Oscar de la Renta and Isaac Mizrahi that perfectly matched the colors of my apartment. You would have thought, given the style of my apartment, that I’d have loved them, but they were so not me. I gamely put them on while the hairstylist teased my hair up into an impromptu sixties froth, and before I could protest, Miles Aldridge, the photographer, entered the room and pronounced my look “Brilliant!” I was tongue-tied, and confused, and very, very far away from looking like myself.
I went into the bathroom, looked at my drag queen–like self in the mirror, and realized before even wondering how to get myself out of this look that there was no going back. I said to myself, “This is Vogue. You are in the hands of a stylist you respect and a photographer you admire. Let go. If the pictures are ridiculous, they just won’t be published.” I accepted that Anna would be the final judge. If she liked the high kitsch, sixties fantasy take on me, then so be it; I could live with that. And if she didn’t, then I knew I’d be saved because no one would ever see the photos.
After the shoot I called Miranda, who is a contributing editor at Vogue and also my husband’s ex-wife. Over the years we had slowly become good friends. I confided in her that I really wasn’t sure about the photos, but that if Vogue was happy, then I’d be happy. She called back a week or so later and said that Anna had loved them. I tried not to worry about it after that.
When the pictures came out in Vogue Living, they were wonderfully over the top. It was obvious that the shoot was a fashion fantasy, starring me in my house, and it was exceedingly obvious that I didn’t actually dress that way. Looking through the story with my mom, we shared a laugh. As an interior decorator, she was proud to see me and my house in the company of Jennifer Lopez, Aerin Lauder, and Samantha Boardman.
What I learned from all this is that being in Vogue is a powerful thing, and I am grateful for both the experience and the benefits it bestowed upon me. The interests and ambitions I had, the limitations I faced, and the quirky way I found my way into the fashion world all forced me to do things my own way, on my own terms, and Vogue’s celebration of that gave me a belief in the satisfaction and ultimate recognition of doing things unconventionally that will stay with me for a lifetime.
My Francesco Scavullo moment for Harper’s Bazaar. I’m such a fan of his seventies and eighties beauty portraits and couldn’t be happier to have one of my own. This photo was included in a story for Harper’s Bazaar called “The Best Tressed List.”
FASHION LESSON NO. 6
> LEARN HOW TO SMILE FOR A PHOTO (IT TOOK ME FIFTEEN YEARS!)
FOR MANY years, when people met me, they would often tell me that I was prettier in real life than in photographs. They were right! It took me a long time to learn how to show my best self in pictures. I used to tease my friend Anh, who, as we were entering a party, would always say out loud, “remember the half smile.” This directive reminded her not to smile too big in a photo, as she felt it made her look goofy. As much as we talked and laughed about it, I never took this advice to heart. Not only would I smile big with my mouth, but I would also smile big with my eyes. The result? I looked like a deer in the headlights in nearly every photograph that was taken of me in my twenties. I always look way overexcited. Not cute. Not sexy. Just slightly out of my mind. I don’t remember what the final straw was, but it must have been after a particularly bad picture of me ran in some publication that I decided I would practice my camera smile in the mirror until I got it right. I started with a half smile. But the result was smug and insincere. What I realized was that the problem wasn’t my smile—like I alluded to earlier, it was my eyes! Every time I smiled, my eyes would widen. I think I learned to do this full-face smile as a young child, because every photo I have from about age four on has this kind of ecstatic, manic expression. So I worked on a full smile with my mouth, but only a half smile with my eyes. It took me a while to get it right, but now it comes naturally, and I have looked better in photographs ever since.
Always Pack a Party Dress: And Other Lessons Learned From a (Half) Life in Fashion Page 10
