Always Pack a Party Dress: And Other Lessons Learned From a (Half) Life in Fashion

by Amanda Brooks

  I made Christopher skip the receiving line so that he could get a picture of me shaking Oprah’s hand. When the chance arrived, she was distracted and barely looked at me as I shook her hand and said, “I am so happy to meet you. I have watched your show for more than a decade, and I have learned so much from you.” Just as Anna was giving me the move-it-along stare, and as my eyes left her to step forward, Oprah put her hand on my upper arm to get my attention back, and when I looked at her once more she said sincerely, “I am so glad to have been your teacher.” That was all I needed. I gave it my best effort to make the moment matter, and I think it did.

  My custom-made Phillip Lim sequined jumpsuit, 2010.

  Later in the evening I went up to my old friend Adam Glassman, who is now creative director of O magazine, and told him about my moment with Oprah. He said, “Well, did you get your picture with her?”

  “Just one from the back that Christopher took.”

  “Well, come on, let’s get a good one,” he said, clutching my hand and leading me over to where Oprah was standing.

  As he reintroduced me to Oprah, he told her I was a huge fan, and this time I got a hug! A hug from Oprah! It was as delicious and warm and comforting as I always imagined it would be. She said she remembered me from the receiving line by my khaki sequins. I guess the jumpsuit made more of an impression on her than my sincere words, but no matter. As we posed for the camera, she pulled me in tight to her and gave me another squeeze.

  As if the night couldn’t have gotten any better, Lady Gaga was the musical guest, and I later got down with Phillip Lim at the afterparty, surrounded on the dance floor by Justin Timberlake, Jessica Biel, Pharrell, Oprah, and Anna Wintour. It was a perfect ending to a perfect night.

  2011

  My invitation to the 2011 Met Ball was another nail-biter. The show and gala were a tribute to Alexander McQueen, who had died that previous year. As I was newly ensconced in my role as fashion director for Barneys, I just assumed that I’d be going. In fact, I’d chosen my dress as I saw it go down the runway at the Giambattista Valli show in Paris three months before the ball. “That’s the dress,” I told myself, knowing full well that McQueen wouldn’t be an option.

  I knew I wouldn’t be a freebie this year. Vogue would expect that Barneys would buy me a ticket, unless a designer wanted to have me as their guest. But days, weeks, and months passed and I heard nothing. I thought for sure someone would bring it up at some point. But no one did, and I was left to quietly wonder (once again!) if this year, in the biggest fashion job of my life, would be the year that I didn’t go to the Met Ball.

  And then the phone rang, just two weeks before the party. It was my friends at Tod’s asking Christopher and me to join their table. The relief and the elation welled up as I realized that yet again, I’d be free to wear a dress of my choosing: I could wear the Giambattista dress! Well, I could if it was available. Of course you can’t get an immediate answer from a designer when the Met Ball is concerned. I’m sure the team at Giambattista Valli had to check with every publicist under the sun to make absolutely sure that a celebrity didn’t want to wear it. Eventually, I got my answer: The dress was mine.

  This was a fairy-tale dress. It was a proper, formal, floor-length gown in white wool with black lace and jet bead appliqué. It also had a sixties-couture-inspired capelet that was attached on top that made it very of the fashion moment. It wasn’t typical, and this is why I loved it unreservedly. I asked my friend Dana Lorenz, who designs Fallon jewelry, to custom-design a pair of glamorous yet ever-so-slightly hard-edged matching cuffs for my wrists. And I’d do dark, smoky eyes with stick-straight hair pulled back off my face to make the dress look more modern.

  One of my favorites, 2011. I knew the minute I saw this Giambattista Valli gown on the runway that I wanted to wear it to the Met Ball.

  The whole look came together beautifully, and I had that always-craved-and-occasionally-achieved feeling of walking into the Met feeling like a million bucks. There was just one thing. The dress was heavy (it must have weighed forty pounds) and hot (two layers of wool crepe, in May!). I just made it through the night. There was no way I was going to any afterparties—I could feel sweat beads rolling down over my belly, and my shoulders were sore from holding up the weight of the dress. At eleven P.M., the night, despite being a great one, was clearly over for me.

  2012

  I don’t know if I’ll ever go to the Met Ball again. I have put that part of my life aside for now. The last time I went, in 2012, was the first time I really wasn’t expecting to go at all. I’d left Barneys and was on my way to England for a year off, and I felt that for sure I’d outgrown my Vogue freebie invite. But there I was at the Calvin Klein showroom to have a fitting for a New Museum benefit a few weeks before the Met, when my friend Nacole, who runs the PR department, asked me if I was going to the Schiaparelli/Prada-themed event.

  “Well,” I said, “I think this is the first year that I’m not gonna go. I haven’t been asked.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re coming with us,” she said. I’d often gone to events as a guest of Calvin Klein (the company, not the person). The designer Francisco Costa is a longtime close friend, and I’d subsequently become friends with the people on his team as well. Going to a party with the Calvin posse was easy and fun. I knew it would be a cozy and low-key way to go to the Met, if such a thing were possible. I found a beautiful hunter green couture-inspired (again!) dress that had unusual yet sophisticated proportions. I wouldn’t exactly call it Schiaparelli- or Prada-inspired but the couture details were certainly in step with the current trend in fashion.

  My final Met Ball look of my NYC years. Wearing Calvin Klein, 2012.

  The morning of the big day I woke up sick as a dog with a stinking cold. I forced myself to make the most of my last Met Ball (for a while, at least) before taking a break from New York. I wore my hair in a simple bun, did my own makeup, and debated a pair of black-and-white rhinestone post earrings. I decided against them and regretted it the minute I got into the car. I’d forgotten the “more is more” rule when it comes to the Met Ball. But what I regretted most was the snot running down from my nose for the entire car ride—I was sure it was red as Rudolph by the time I arrived.

  I made it through the night and managed to have a good time despite eventually losing my voice completely. In a way, it was perfect. That night showed me loud and clear that I was ready for a break from this life where my sanity was dependent on whether I was invited to a party, and if so, what I was going to wear to it.

  I loved the back of my dress, although it was just slightly overshadowed by Lauren Santo Domingo’s amazing Oscar de la Renta confection, 2012.

  Filmmaker Liz Goldwyn and dancer Dita Von Teese matching their lips to their nails, 2014.

  FASHION LESSON NO. 7

  MATCHING MY LIPS TO MY NAILS

  I OFTEN run into a dilemma in coordinating my lipstick with my nails. I don’t wear nail polish that often, but when I do, it’s always red. In summer I like a more orangy red, like Geranium from Essie, on my toes. In winter, I don’t wear polish on my toes, but I do like a nice deep bluish red, like Fishnet Stockings, also from Essie, on my fingernails, just to lighten up the gloom a little bit. But here’s the thing—I am a matchy person, one who likes to feel coordinated at all times. So if I am wearing red nails of any shade, regardless of whether it’s on my toes or my fingers, my lipstick has to exactly match. No, not nearly match. Exactly match. This is no formulaic thing—because color, especially lipstick, looks different on everyone. So you have to find what works for you. After much searching and trial and error, I have found my matching red shades and I stick to them like religion. Red Square by NARS matches my summer red nail polish and Dragon Girl, also by NARS, matches my winter red. If, on the other hand, I don’t want to wear red lipstick with my red nails, then I wear no lipstick. I focus on the eyes instead and wear a lit
tle extra eyeliner with my mascara and then just put Chapstick on my lips. I can’t bear the idea of mismatched lips and nails. It’s just a personal preference, and these little rules and disciplines we create for ourselves make life easier and help contribute to better knowing ourselves and our signature style.

  STYLE INFLUENCE

  DURO OLOWU

  Handsome Duro, one of the best-dressed men I know.

  I FIRST met Duro in his shop on Ledbury Road in London back in 1997. He made exquisite women’s clothes in vintage couture fabrics with heavy influence from his Nigerian heritage. Over the years I’d pop into his shop to see his new collection or take a peek at the extraordinary vintage finds he kept hidden behind the counter. Knowing I was an avid vintage collector myself, he’d play show-and-tell with all his latest finds—a rubber Balenciaga coat from the sixties, a mint Pierre Cardin jewelry set, a bolt of David Hicks fabric, a pair of floral brocade Delman shoes. Occasionally I’d scratch together enough cash to buy something from him; a snake waist belt with double buckles is a memorable favorite.

  Besides being a wonderful and loyal friend who always asks after my husband and children before moving on to other topics, Duro has the most sophisticated taste of anyone I’ve ever met. He taught me to understand and appreciate African textiles and prints, so much so that I covered the tables with them at my wedding; encourages me to like things—jewelry, clothes, paintings—that I often don’t understand until much later; and inspires me with his insistence on being true to one’s self. He also has integrity, dignity, and self-respect. Whenever I have a big decision to make, whether about fashion, friends, or family, Duro is among the first I call.

  Duro’s world—his collection of furniture, textiles, art, sculpture, vintage clothing, and clothes he designs himself—is so inspiring that art dealer Jeanne Greenberg has given him two shows in her downtown Salon 94 galleries.

  Molly (right) at her daughter Marjorie’s wedding. Such a chic dress.

  STYLE INFLUENCE

  MOLLY MILBANK

  MOLLY WAS my stepfather Will’s aunt, who spent many of her holidays with us. She always came impeccably coiffed and beautifully dressed, usually in a matching knit sweater and pleated skirt, with buckle-adorned pumps and sapphire-and-pearl cluster earrings from Seaman Schepps that matched her blue eyes. But she never dressed in a way that would even hint at the many decades of important designer dresses, gowns, suits, and accessories that filled every single closet in her sizable home.

  When I was twenty-seven, Will, who was in charge of Molly’s finances, rang me up to announce that Molly had finally run out of her long-gone husband’s fortune and that she would have to downsize to a much smaller apartment. He wondered if I could help her sort through her clothes. It was deemed early on that Molly’s collection of clothes was so important that we first needed to call in the experts to offer anything collectible or historically relevant to the Met Costume Institute. Fashion historian Caroline Milbank, who happened to be Molly’s niece, pulled out the Madame Grès gowns (“I made a tradition of buying one piece from Madame Grès each time I went to Paris,” Molly once told me), the 1930s woolen skiwear, and a few Chanel pieces. Then I invited Vogue editor Hamish Bowles, who has one of the most comprehensive fashion collections in the world, to choose a few of Molly’s things. Hamish said that what was so original about Molly’s wardrobe was that she had major designer pieces from nearly every decade from 1930 to 1990. Most women had periods of their life when they bought fancy clothes, but Molly’s passion for acquiring new things to wear spanned more than seventy years.

  When Caroline and Hamish left, it was time for me to help Molly sort through what she would keep and what she would give away. Molly found it very, very difficult to let go of her clothes, despite having not worn the vast majority of them for decades. “I might wear that when I go to the beach next summer,” she said as I showed her a pair of sandals, even though she hadn’t ventured outside the city in more than ten years. She had a very isolated life. When I told her I lived downtown, she confided that she hadn’t been below Forty-Second Street since the 1970s.

  Even so, after Molly convinced me to put way more clothes in her “keep” pile than would fit in her new apartment, the leftovers in the freebie pile were still every girl’s dream. Silk Lanvin gowns, knitted Missoni skirts and dresses, brightly colored Kenzo sweaters, a Chanel suit, a Giorgio di Sant’Angelo caftan, and countless Pucci separates all have a special place in my closet thanks to Molly, and I wear them regularly.

  DVF trying accessories on me for her runway show during the time I worked for her as a design consultant.

  WHEN YOU ARE STUCK, ASK SOMEONE YOU ADMIRE WHAT THEY SEE FOR YOU

  WHEN I THINK of my work in fashion thus far, I think of the wonderful jobs I have been lucky to have, the generous people who have mentored me, the incredible clothes I’ve worn, the inspiring places I’ve traveled to, the amazing parties I’ve been invited to, and the creative work that has given me so much satisfaction. I also think about all the guidance required to get me through those twenty amazing years. Sometimes I have sought wisdom from others in order to move on from a situation I didn’t have my heart in anymore, or to figure out what I wanted next and how to get it. Other times I was trying to figure out how to deal with an employee who wasn’t performing or ask for a raise from an employer. Sometimes I needed to stop and appreciate everything I already had. Whether by coincidence or design, my journey in fashion has been accompanied by an equally compelling journey to learn new ideas about myself, my life, my career, my family, and ultimately about how to be happy.

  When I was twenty-four, I was at a friend’s birthday party. It was the night before her actual birthday. When I asked her what she was doing the next day, her answer surprised me. She explained that she was going to watch a demonstration of a woman having an hour-long orgasm.

  “What?” I asked in disbelief.

  Without an explanation, she simply replied, “Wanna come along with me?”

  “Sure,” I found my mouth responding, as if on autopilot. I don’t know how to explain my spontaneous enthusiasm other than to say that my dad always taught me that life is an accumulation of experiences, and the more you have, the richer your life will be. So I guess somewhere along the way that got me in the habit of saying yes to new things.

  The next day I went to the address my friend had given me. I can’t imagine now why I didn’t pick her up in a cab on the way, but for whatever reason I arrived there alone. And in advance of my friend. In fact, I was the first to show up. Yes, I am the girl who always arrives at an event early to get a good seat. So anyway, I walked in and plonked myself into the front row. Regena, the proprietress of this place called Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts, intended to empower woman in all areas of their lives—career, relationships, sex, money, self-esteem. She loves to tell me now, seventeen years later, about the moment she first clocked me. Most women, she recalls, who showed up to the orgasm class had been to many of her classes before, working up the courage to attend the most controversial one of all. There were a few first-timers there, but they were well into their thirties, if not their forties. But there I was, Regena remembers, the youngest girl in the room by at least a decade. And I was in the front row. And I was wearing Chanel. Let me explain the Chanel. At the time I was working for Frédéric Fekkai, whose company was then owned by Chanel. This entitled me to the employee discount at the sample sale. I still remember the prices—shoes were $40, dresses were between $75 and $500 depending on the fabric and embellishment, bags were $150, and accessories like belts, jewelry, and sunglasses were all under $50. So yes, I was wearing Chanel, but it wasn’t as expensive as it looked.

  The class was thought-provoking. There was a woman of considerable age, easily in her late sixties, lying on a massage table on a small stage at the front of the room. Her husband manually stimulated her clitoris for just over an hour. He was moving his finger
as if it was a remote control adjusting the intensity of her orgasm. He brought her up with the increased speed of his touch, and brought her back down with a slower one. She never had a grand finale climax—it was more like she was climbing hills—up and down, progressively getting higher each time until he felt like she had had enough. Even though it sounds overly intimate and even intrusive to watch this moment between a husband and his wife, it was more like watching a science experiment than it was like watching a romantic act that belonged in the bedroom. Let’s just say I learned a lot that day.

  I didn’t have a reason to go back to Regena’s school again until a couple of years later, when I felt like I needed some guidance in my relationship with Christopher. This time, I went to one class, and then another, and then yet another. I took classes on communication, flirtation, jealousy, negotiation, self-awareness, relationships, and ambition, among others. In fact, I did Regena’s classes for nearly nine years, literally one after another. I learned about embracing the power of being a woman, about having fun no matter what, about asking people for things in a way that sounds appealing and not needy. I learned how to negotiate with my boss, with my husband, with my nanny, with my children. I learned not to compromise but instead to make room for multiple viewpoints and multiple solutions. I learned about resistance and how to recognize it and work around it. I learned to not be a martyr or a victim, to take responsibility for what I have in my life—the people, the things, the opportunities. And most of all, I learned how to figure out what I want. How to recognize what I want. How to get what I want. Well, at least some of the time.