STYLE INFLUENCE
DAVID HICKS
Elliott Erwitt shooting India Hicks at David Hicks’s house in Oxfordshire on a shoot I organized. I love the perfect symmetry of the garden.
I FIRST discovered David Hicks when I was sitting in my mom’s interior design office, age fourteen, browsing through her library. I picked up David Hicks on Living—with Taste, and then David Hicks on Bathrooms, and then David Hicks on Kitchens. The houses he designed were well within the bounds of good taste and classic design, but they also looked completely radical to me. His sense of color, his use of graphic lines and angles, his mix of antiques with modern furniture, his abundant and sophisticated combinations of print and texture, his strict, disciplined use of order and placement—it was as if he combined everything he liked from every genre, resource, and era of design and put it together in a way that made total sense.
His style was intensely personal yet universally likable. He made things that on their own might seem hideous suddenly look beautiful when in the right context. For many years I studied all his books and tried to emulate his style in my own creative endeavors. My first stab at decorating our apartment on Chrystie Street (the one featured in Vogue Living here) was directly inspired by my love of David Hicks, right down to the brown velvet and silver lamé upholstered X-bench I found at a thrift store in Palm Beach for $25. In the years since, I wouldn’t be the only creative person inspired by him—Jonathan Adler and Tory Burch brought the David Hicks style into the mainstream with their own brands, inspired heavily by his genius. At first I was depressed to see this style I loved so dearly brought to the mass market, but if you look closely at his books, there is a lifetime of information to be had and endless ways to interpret it.
If there is one thing David Hicks is most known for, it’s his brilliant and original print, pattern, and color mixes, all designed by him. This bedroom is classic David Hicks at his very best.
SIDEBAR
THOUGHTS ON TASTE
I don’t particularly like the word taste.
Taste is safe. Taste is generic. Taste is bland.
Taste connotes an aesthetic that a vast many people find appealing. Why do we want to share the same taste as other people? Don’t we want to have our own unique point of view?
The highest compliment someone could pay me might sound something like “I would never dream of wearing that, but it works on you.” We are all human beings, alike in many ways but also vastly different from one another. Shouldn’t our style reflect that?
These days when I use the word taste, I surround it with air quotes. Like when someone asks me if I like something, I might say, “Well, it’s ‘tasteful’ but ultimately not that interesting.”
Where I think taste comes in handy is when it’s personalized and mixed in with someone’s own style. I love a house that is a balance of things that would be considered tasteful and things that some people are skeptical of, maybe even calling them tacky.
The cruel part is that it’s important to understand taste before you can subvert it. Taste is possible to learn, but what occurs beyond taste requires self-knowledge, a strong point of view, and a good dose of confidence.
“Good taste is something which you can acquire: you can teach it to yourself, but you must be deeply interested. It is in no way dependent upon money.”
—David Hicks
This seventies room is a whole other side of David Hicks, but no less “him.” I especially notice his balance of good taste with typically jarring colors here.
A fitting at the Tuleh studio with pattern-maker Annika Paganakis for my ill-fated Met Ball look of 2004.
THE MET BALL CAN INDUCE THE HIGHEST HIGHS (A “WOW” FROM ANNA WINTOUR) AND THE LOWEST LOWS (ARRIVING IN A BEAT-UP MINIVAN)
THE MET BALL has always been the biggest sartorial opportunity of my year. I’ve taken complete and total pleasure in spending hours, days, weeks, even months contemplating my outfit and then spending even longer to (hopefully) make it happen. When it all comes together, there’s no better feeling than walking into the fashion party of the year feeling confident. That said, sometimes the stars haven’t aligned in my favor, and I’ve been left struggling at the last minute, desperately trying to add bells and whistles to a dress that just isn’t working. Regardless of the success of my outfit, an invitation to the Met Ball induces tremendous excitement (Who will be the surprise performer? Which actress will I spy trying to fix her broken zipper in the bathroom? Who will be best dressed?) and utter insanity (What THE HELL am I gonna wear?). In the fashion world, there is no greater promise of high-fashion glamour, jaw-dropping celebrity sightings, and high-school-prom levels of anticipation than on this one night.
1997
The very first time I went to the Met Ball, I went as someone’s date to the afterparty. We weren’t invited for dinner, but it didn’t matter to me—I was just excited to be at an actual ball and have the chance to wear something fabulous. Being just twenty-three, I knew that whatever I could cobble together out of my mother’s closet would be far better than anything I could afford to buy. Besides, my mother was over the moon that I’d reached the age at which it was finally appropriate to wear some of the things she had saved for me.
We played dress-up in her closet (“Hands off the Alaïa,” I was quickly told) and eventually settled on a black silk floor-length fishtail skirt that Mom had bought at Vicky Tiel on a trip to Paris in the eighties. She then rummaged through her lingerie drawer and picked out a simple off-white silk camisole for me to wear on top. It was simple and chic but not breathtaking. We added her engagement ring from my father (having been divorced for twenty years, she had stowed it at the back of her jewelry box to be rediscovered one day). It was not a small diamond, but not quite enough to make the outfit. And then she ran back to her closet muttering something about “the shawls!” She came back with two duchesse silk shawls with generously frayed edges in the most beautiful pale baby pink and robin’s-egg blue. I pointed to the pink, and she wrapped it around my shoulders and fastened it with an oversize knot at the front. That was it. It was elegant and glamorous, yet appropriately sweet for a young woman new to the city. The evening was okay—we got there late, it was crowded, everyone was a bit too drunk. But I’ll always remember that night for the glamorous and grown-up feeling I had as I walked up the steps to the Met, red carpet and all.
Arriving with designer Bryan Bradley in 2003, wearing a silk jersey Tuleh dress. My favorite maternity gown ever!
2003
The first time I was invited to the Met Ball in its entirety, Tuleh designer Bryan Bradley was my date. I was working at Tuleh at the time and pregnant with my second child, Zachary. Anna Wintour and Vogue had recently taken over the event (having previously shared the duty on alternate years with Harper’s Bazaar), and the evening already had the buzz of being bigger and more glamorous than ever. The theme was “Goddess,” and Bryan made me a white one-shoulder bias-cut silk jersey dress that fell elegantly over my growing belly. I did my own hair and makeup—braiding the front of my hair, fastening the back into a bun, and applying lots of smudgy black eyeliner. At dinner, Phoebe Philo and her husband-to-be, Max Wigram, were seated on one side of me. Phoebe was the Chloé designer at the time, and I was already in awe of her. She was shy, though. Max was an old friend of Christopher’s, and so we found enough to politely discuss. On my other side was Karolina Kurkova, the supermodel, whom I had known since the earliest days of her modeling career. We had a hilarious time, mostly staring at people we were excited to see and bonding over the fact that neither of us was wearing any underwear because of the sheerness of our dresses! Diana Ross was the surprise musical guest, and we boogied until the party ended. Despite being five months pregnant and stone sober, the whole evening was a blast.
2004
The following year, I was still working at Tuleh, but Bryan was away at a trunk show, and this time Vogue invit
ed me to attend with Christopher. The theme was “Les Liaisons Dangereuses.” I was planning on wearing a ruched chiffon column gown in gray with small white polka dots. It wasn’t really that on-theme, but it wasn’t exactly off-theme, either. On the Thursday before the ball, Anna Wintour’s office called. “Anna would like to know what you are planning to wear to the Met on Monday,” an assistant inquired. This is how things happen when you’re in Anna’s world; they come out of the blue and you don’t ask questions. I described the gown and was told I’d get a call back shortly.
It pains me to look at this picture, but here I am in my Tuleh dress in 2004 (next to Vogue’s then style editor Alexandra Kotur).
The phone rang again soon afterward. “Anna would like to know if there is something you could wear that is more in theme with this year’s exhibition?”
“Sure!” I replied naively, just wanting to please. After all, I was surrounded by patternmakers and seamstresses in a studio that had made gowns in three hours, never mind three days. But the reality was that Bryan was halfway across the country on a plane, and there was no way to even get a sketch out of him until the following day at the earliest.
It was then explained to me by Anna’s office that the New York Times Style section was looking to do a story on the process of getting dressed for the Met Ball. They were looking for a girl to photograph throughout the process of conceptualization, fitting, and then arriving on the evening in her custom gown. Anna recommended that I be the girl they follow, and the Times wanted to come photograph me at a fitting the next morning. I managed to get the shoot pushed back to the following afternoon and left a half dozen frantic voice mail messages for Bryan to call me the instant he landed.
After a harried few minutes discussing potential ideas, a simple idea dawned on Bryan. We’d done a show once using corsets, and he had a corset muslin lying around somewhere. It was natural white cotton, so it would have to be dyed, and then we’d add layers and layers of floor-length tulle on the bottom to evoke the grandeur of nineteenth-century gowns. Annika, the patternmaker, and I found the corset and dug out as many yards of tulle as we could find. The look was promising. The photographer came to the Tuleh studio the next day and I stood on a pedestal in front of a floor-length mirror in the undyed corset and tulle skirt. It became a pretty picture, and the dress looked great.
God, how I wish we’d stopped fiddling with the dress then and there—the undoneness of the natural material was a good balance to the pomp and circumstance of the volume and proportion of the fitted bodice and giant skirt. But no. We didn’t stop there. Late that afternoon, after the New York Times left, Annika and I decided we’d dye the whole thing pink. If it had been a very pale pink I think it would have been okay, but instead it was a more vivid purply pink. I looked like a Disney princess. If that wasn’t enough, we then screen-printed it with graphic circular Tuleh logos that we’d had made for T-shirts and sweaters for our last runway show. We thought that the graphic element would add the modern edge the dress lacked. Once it was all done, I wasn’t sure if I actually liked it.
But I did know the minute I put the dress on. It wasn’t me. I curled my hair and put my makeup on (this was still before the days of being able to afford a hair and makeup team), waiting anxiously to feel that the look had come together. When there was nothing left to add, I surrendered to the reality that I’d show up at the Met Ball in a dress I didn’t like. It wouldn’t be the last time this happened but it was the first, and it was heartbreaking. To make matters worse, I was so concerned about my effing dress that I forgot to arrange a car to pick us up. And it was raining. I called every car service I knew and was turned down again and again. That left me with Delancey, which is the slightly squalid car service that picks you up at your door and costs only fractionally more than a cab. I’d begged them for a black town car, knowing full well that with Delancey, you can’t really request a certain type of car—sometimes you get a perfectly respectable Lincoln Town Car and other times you get something that has no resemblance to any kind of professional transportation. When Christopher and I arrived downstairs, with me already feeling dejected in my too costume-y dress, we were greeted by a beat-up burgundy minivan—yes, a minivan!—to take us to the Met Ball. As we pulled up, a sore burgundy thumb in a sea of sleek black town cars, our close friends and fellow downtowners Rachel Feinstein and John Currin were exiting the sleek black town car just in front of us. Thank God it was them. As fellow Delancey patrons, they doubled over in laughter at the sight of us, slightly terrified by the reality that it could easily have been them had Marc Jacobs, their host for the night, not arranged a more civilized car for them.
There is nothing more fun than the Met Ball when you’re up for it, but it’s basically a fashion parade in front of all your peers and colleagues. How can you feel good when you don’t like what you’re wearing? I do remember one moment that night—as I was walking to our table, both Renée Zellweger and Venus Williams came over to me to tell me how much they liked my dress. “You do?” I asked in disbelief before saying thank you. Most gracious people would be flattered, but I was too far gone about it at that point and wanted nothing more than to go home and take it off, which I eventually did. Being naked has never felt so good.
2005
The following year brought my personal favorite and, if I do say so myself, my chicest Met Ball look ever. The theme was “Chanel,” my all-time most coveted fashion brand, and as I have a long-standing relationship with the PR girls there, I thought naturally, I would wear Chanel. Naturally. Although the fitting date was dangerously close to the day of the party, I felt confident I’d find something I loved. I walked into the second floor of the boutique with that adrenaline rush of expectation. How am I going to choose between all the amazing gowns? I thought before even laying eyes on the clothes.
My Chanel-inspired vintage look, with Chanel accessories, 2005.
On one side of the fitting room was a rack of beautiful and elegant ready-to-wear gowns, mostly in black and white. On the other side were the couture pieces—my heart exploded with excitement until it dawned on me that they were the last few couture pieces on offer, the ones that hadn’t been chosen as a first, second, or even third choice by the celebrities who were understandably invited to choose ahead of me. Don’t get me wrong, there were some incredible things—richly embellished and intricately embroidered gowns, skirts, and jackets that would be amazing going down a runway. But it was obvious they just didn’t translate into real life, or at least not into my real life, even if it was the Met Ball. So I went back to the rack of simpler clothes and found a stunning long black chiffon column gown trimmed in Chantilly lace with a satin bow falling over each shoulder. It’s still one of my favorite dresses ever, but it wasn’t right for the Met. First of all, every girl in fashion knows that Anna Wintour frowns upon black being worn to the Met; she wants everyone to look festive, and black clothes don’t photograph well at night. Second, I feared it just wasn’t enough for such a big occasion. It did fit beautifully, however, and at that point it was the front-runner.
I know, I thought, I’ll just jazz it up with accessories! Chanel always has incredible accessories, and that season had more than ever. I picked out strappy black satin stiletto sandals with a giant (we’re talking three inches in diameter!) faceted rhinestone covering the toes on each foot. The matching clutch was equally dazzling—it was a hard black rounded square with the same giant stone and smaller versions scattered around it. I’d add some flowers to my hair and dramatic makeup. Although the outfit came home with me, I knew the minute I left the showroom that I wasn’t convinced. I racked my brain for options and made a few phone calls looking for vintage Chanel from dealers and collector friends. “Too late,” I was told unanimously. So I decided to have a look around my own closet. It only took a few seconds for my eye to land on a 1970s YSL sequin-and-feather bolero.
Several months earlier, my great friend Duro Olowu, a tal
ented fashion designer and enthusiastic vintage collector (and featured here), had hidden the YSL jacket in the back of his shop to save for someone special, and I coveted it so much that he had sweetly arranged a trade with my artist husband (the jacket in exchange for a painting) so that I could have it for my birthday. Ever since, I’d been waiting for the perfect moment to wear it. It wasn’t Chanel, but it was certainly inspired by Chanel, and I figured I could pay homage to my favorite design house regardless of the brand I was wearing. The vision for the look came to me almost immediately: I would tone down the flashy and feminine YSL jacket and the over-the-top Chanel accessories with a simple white silk ribbed tank top and men’s cut black crepe trousers. Yes, I would be wearing trousers to the Met Ball. And then to play up the black-and-white contrast, I’d wear a white gardenia in my hair with a black grosgrain ribbon tied around my bun.
I had another idea, but it was so out there that I thought I wouldn’t decide on it until I was getting dressed the evening of the event. I’d seen a picture of Nicole Kidman months earlier wearing a flower corsage—yes, like for prom—on her wrist at a premiere. Something that had always seemed so tacky in my mind now looked so chic. I asked Lewis Miller, my go-to florist, to make up a gardenia corsage to match the one intended for my hair. I took one final risk and had my fingernails painted optic white. If it worked, my nails would add the slightest bit of irreverence to the classic chic of the rest of my look.
That night was one of those rare occasions when everything just came together as I’d imagined it—the balance of black and white, the mix of masculine and feminine, the ode to Chanel with my own personal style mixed in. And it was the risks that made the look complete. I felt like a million bucks, and when I reached the receiving line, Anna Wintour looked at me and simply said, “Wow!” Certainly the best fashion compliment I’d ever received.
Always Pack a Party Dress: And Other Lessons Learned From a (Half) Life in Fashion Page 11
