by Donna Karan
The preparations alone were exciting. We bought Mark his first tuxedo (at $350, it was the most expensive thing we owned) and practiced ballroom dancing at home—me with swollen feet. The office felt like Grand Central Station because we also had a business to run. Kay Thompson, our show choreographer, visited constantly. Kay was an incredibly talented actress and dancer who played the fashion editor in the Audrey Hepburn film Funny Face, and she was also the author of the famous Eloise books. Kay had worked closely with Judy Garland and was godmother to her daughter Liza Minnelli, the singer and actress who would open for us at Versailles. Liza had just won the Oscar for Cabaret, so I was dying to meet her. We had endless model fittings and rehearsals. We had to make sure everything fit and was in impeccable order, because once we packed and shipped the clothes to France, that was it.
Before Versailles, I had to go with Julie Stern (who’d been my travel companion when I wound up in that German brothel) to a Frankfurt Interstoff fabric show to prepare for pre-fall, the smaller, precursor season to fall, as well as fall itself—as I said, our usual work had to get done. We studied bolt after bolt, vendor after vendor; I used my baby bump as a table to hold swatches and write my orders, and my feet were as big and swollen as my stomach by the end of the long days. I swear, when Gabby was in the womb, she must have rolled her eyes: “More fabrics, Mommy?” I can see why she rejected a fashion career.
During that stop in Frankfurt, Julie and I went to a sauna. “Julie, don’t take your pants off,” I said. “I can’t see you like that.”
“But it’s a sauna, Donna,” he said. “Everyone’s naked—just don’t look.” In we went. It was a handful of men—and me.
“Just my luck,” said a German. “One girl comes in, and she’s pregnant and wearing a swimsuit.”
I caught up with Anne and Mark in Paris, and that’s where our troubles began. We all happened to be Eleanor’s clients, and it was clear that she made her selections to show diversity: Stephen Burrows was African American and new to the industry, and Anne was the only woman on either side. But there was little camaraderie within our group, which was a real boys’ club if ever there was one. Anne was a strong Jewish woman, and let’s face it, people like her and me aren’t the most heralded on earth. When we speak up and fight hard to be heard, we’re considered pushy and overbearing. And even though we may seem confident, underneath we are vulnerable and insecure—yet another thing Barbra Streisand and I share. In Versailles, Anne worked hard to be a team player, but the other American designers took all the best staging rooms, leaving us alone in the basement.
The French were even worse. They were on their home turf and extremely snobby about everything. The designers were couture, fancy, global, and well known. They had the whole day before the shows to prepare and rehearse their elaborate stagings, leaving the Americans to rehearse for our shows only very late that night. No coffee, no toilet paper, no heat—and it was freezing!
But there was a magical moment during rehearsals. My feet were killing me, so I went into the audience, propping my ankles up on a chair. Kay, who was silver-haired and reed slim, appeared on the stage. One of her pant legs was rolled up, and to the beat of the music, she mapped out Liza’s opening number, step by step, twirl by twirl. It was a scene right out of a movie, right out of my childhood fantasies, and I was mesmerized.
More than seven hundred people came to what was now a globally publicized event, a battle of the old school of couture fashion versus the new school of sportswear. I’d never seen so many limousines, so many diamonds and tiaras. Princess Grace of Monaco was there, as well as other kings and queens, heads of state, socialites (as invited by C. Z. Guest, the American hostess, and Marie-Hélène de Rothschild, for the French side). Even Andy Warhol and Elizabeth Taylor attended. Everyone entered through the Hall of Mirrors, where the servers were dressed in eighteenth-century costumes, powdered wigs, brocades, and slippers. Since I was so physically big, I went with a black turtleneck tent dress and a dramatic turban-style wrap around my head. I didn’t wear jewelry—I didn’t own stuff to compete with this crowd. As usual, the petite Anne was my visual opposite in a long beige dress with a fox fur jacket.
Now the show. The French went first—of course. They pulled every trick possible, and took more than two hours to do it. The amazing Josephine Baker sang with showgirls from the Kit Kat Club as backup, and Rudolf Nureyev danced with his ballet troupe. There were more performers after that, and the show dragged on and on. When the clothes finally came out, they were backdropped by outrageous props and life-size cutouts: a white Cadillac for Saint Laurent, a spaceship for Pierre Cardin, a rhinoceros for Ungaro. It was overwhelming—too much, too long, too everything.
Then came the Americans. We had no props, just pools of light on the stage. We had planned to have drapes, but because of a wrong conversion between centimeters and inches, they came in too short. Famed illustrator Joe Eula improvised at the last moment, using a broom to sketch the Eiffel Tower on white seamless paper, and it looked sensational.
Liza Minnelli opened, belting out “Bonjour Paris” with a chorus of thirty-six models in trench coats and carrying open umbrellas. The world had never seen so many black models on a fashion stage. We had brought Billie Blair, Bethann Hardison, Alva Chinn, Norma Jean Darden, and China Machado. We also had “The Halstonettes,” Halston’s regular group of models, including Pat Cleveland and Karen Bjornson. Even my look-alike, Marisa Berenson, modeled.
Anne showed first, a position she got by default after the others duked it out to go last (Halston won). Fine with us. We loved making the first impression and went tribal, exaggeratedly so. Where the French models walked out holding little cards with numbers (an antiquated practice), ours came out gyrating to drums. The clothes were so me—black bras, shrunken tops, hip-slung skirts, and full pants with belly buttons showing. Backstage, I was the dresser. Billie Blair exited, dramatically thrusting out one arm to the audience as she left the stage; inside, I had the other arm, dressing her next look. At the end of Anne’s segment, the audience screamed with excitement, throwing their programs in the air. We’d hit it.
The entire production was a proud moment, with America showing its many stories: Anne’s sportswear, Stephen’s hip edge, Bill’s tailoring, Oscar’s glam, Halston’s minimalism. If this was a battle, the Americans delivered a knockout blow. Victory was ours.
Next came the dinner. Even though it was called a ball, there was no dancing; Mark and I could have saved ourselves hours of practice. I had also insisted we learn to eat formally, as we hadn’t a clue how, but it hardly mattered, because the portions were so small. Everyone had five or six glasses at their place setting, a dinner plate the size of a coaster, twelve forks, and several knives—all for what felt like a serving of celery. In the middle of dinner they handed us warm bowls of water with lemon. Mark drank his. I was about to drink mine when Anne leaned in. “That’s to clean your hands,” she whispered.
Afterward we were starving, so Anne, Chip, Mark, and I went out for dinner at the legendary restaurant Caviar Kaspia on the Place de la Madeleine. The next day, Marie-Hélène de Rothschild held a luncheon at her estate. The Americans were being toasted left and right. Many of the guests marveled to us, “You mean you just pull these clothes on, with nobody helping you?” They were used to hooks and eyes and couture fits. Countess Jacqueline de Ribes told the press that “the French were pompous and pretentious; the Americans’ show was so filled with life and color.” Even Ungaro declared us “genius.” What a triumph for American designers. We were now a force to be reckoned with.
—
Life being a constant give-and-take, something heartbreaking also happened during the show. While standing backstage, Anne discovered a lump on her neck. She didn’t know what it was—a lymph node, maybe—but she knew it was something she’d have to deal with when she got home. When we returned to New York, I told Anne we needed to replace me because I planned to stay home once I had my baby. Again I suggested
Louis. I don’t think Anne wanted to believe I was going to stop working, but this time she was more receptive, which surprised me. But then Chip pulled me aside privately.
“Donna, you can’t leave,” he blurted out. “Anne has cancer.” I covered my mouth in surprise. “She will be fine,” he quickly added, “but we need you here as she goes through her treatment.”
It really did seem like she’d be fine. Tomio Taki had just bought into the company, and his insurance carrier required Anne to have a complete physical since she was the principal. They were aware of the cancer and that she had had a mastectomy, yet had no qualms about investing. Anne’s friend Burt Wayne, the interior designer, had just finished her apartment on East 57th Street. Only Anne knew the severity of her situation—and that, at the very least, she would need to take some time off. Louis accepted the design position, though his Giorgini contract tied him up until June. We were happy to wait for him, as either Anne or I would need a design partner going forward. I just needed to hang on for as long as this baby would let me.
Because Anne wasn’t well, I worked even longer hours than usual; heading home at midnight or later was routine. I wanted to prepare as much as possible before my maternity leave. Julie Stern lived near us on Long Island and drove me to and from work every day. He was the consummate Jewish father, and it was a running joke that my baby would be born in his car. Julie’s son drove the local firehouse’s truck, so Julie kidded that we were covered, no matter what. I was so big by that time that just the sight of my belly made everyone nervous.
I’ve always been late for everything, and giving birth was no exception. I was ten days past my due date when my water broke at the office. I went home in a Town Car and had erratic contractions through the night. By 5:00 a.m. on March 8, 1974, they were much closer together. Whom did I call? Julie Stern.
The minute he arrived, I started giving him cutting orders and other instructions. “Julie, you have to follow up with…” I paused for a contraction.
“Donna, I don’t think you should be worrying about this right now,” he said, pacing next to my bed.
“Of course I should. I’ll be too busy later.”
My labor lasted a full day. While I was in the hospital on Long Island, Anne was at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan with pneumonia—and no one was at work. Our pre-fall collection was due that very week. We spoke on the phone hospital to hospital, discussing how many buttons should be on a double-breasted navy cashmere coat.
I had planned on a natural birth, and I nearly made it—until that last push. “Give me gas,” I screamed, and minutes later, out came a ten-pound baby girl. We named her Gabrielle Hope: Gabrielle for my father, a name that began with H for Harold. The second I saw Gabby, I fell completely, utterly, madly in love. I was overcome with joy. Finally I was the mother I’d always wanted to be. This little baby girl was all that mattered. I held her in my arms and couldn’t stop staring at her, and as if on cue, the radio played Roberta Flack’s “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.” You can’t make that up, it was so perfect.
Gabby had no sooner popped out than Gunther called my hospital room and bellowed in that deep German voice of his, “Donna, ve need you to come back to vork.”
“Would you like to know if I had a boy or a girl?” I asked. “It’s a girl, if you’re interested.”
“That’s nice, but vhen are you returning? Ve have a collection due, and Anne von’t be back in time.”
I checked with my doctor, who forbade me to go back to work. It was far too soon. “You had a big baby, Donna. You’re all stitched up.”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “I have a roomful of seamstresses who can sew me up if that’s an issue.” The joke was lost on him. He ordered me to stay home and sit on a rubber donut for ten days.
When I told Gunther, he said, “Okay, ve come to you. Vhen vill you be home?”
Almost a week later, the whole staff arrived at the new white house Mark and I had just moved into on a cul-de-sac in Lawrence, Long Island. I had the bagels and lox all spread out. I assumed they were coming to coo over Gabby and maybe bring flowers and a casserole. Then I saw the trucks arrive, the racks of clothes being wheeled up my driveway. This was business.
We cleared out my new dining room so we could use it as a design studio. Betty Hanson, our head of sales, had no sooner arrived than she answered the phone in the kitchen.
“Um, okay. Yes,” I heard her say. Her face fell. She saw me looking at her and turned away.
“What, Betty, what?” I called over from my perch on the donut. She hung up and looked all around, clearly unsure of what to say. “Damn it, Betty what happened?” I shouted.
She came closer. “Anne died.”
The shock hit me, and I started shaking and couldn’t stop. Anne died? How could that be? She was only fifty. I’d thought she was going to be fine. Everyone had thought that. I kept thinking of all the reassuring words I’d heard.
“Someone please get me a cigarette,” I shouted to the room. I hadn’t smoked since learning I was pregnant. A Pall Mall cigarette and lighter appeared in front of me. As I was taking a drag, Betty knelt by my side.
“Donna, listen,” she said in a soothing voice. “This is terrible, but you need to finish the collection. The stores are waiting. Anne would have wanted you to.”
I took another drag. Then it dawned on me: everyone had known. They’d known all along that Anne was dying. And no one had told me. Not Anne. Not Chip. Not Gunther. Not Betty. Not even Burt Wayne, her interior designer and my friend. This was like my mother’s secret keeping. Why hadn’t they told me? Who got to make these decisions? I’d just had a baby; I wanted to stay home. Things never turned out the way I planned them. Other people and events had stepped in, and I didn’t even get a vote. Anne was leaving me, and I was the last to know. In a state of shock and rage, I exhaled and stood up.
“Fuck you, Betty,” I said in my sharpest voice. “Fuck these clothes. Fuck everything. I’m going to the city.”
I never got to say goodbye to Anne. Our last conversation was about buttons, for God’s sake. She was my teacher, my mentor, my everything. We were so close, and getting closer. She was a second mother to me. I was the daughter she never had. I was twenty-five years old, had just given birth, and Anne was dead.
The insanity of it still galls me. Once again, life and death came hand in hand, and I had no choice but to react quickly and march forward. I see now that I would not be who I am today if Anne Klein had not died when she did. I would not be who I am if not for Anne Klein, period. But in that moment, I stood in the chaos of my dining room, my infant in a bassinet, barely absorbing the news. I had two things to do: get to the city to bury my friend and finish this goddamned pre-fall collection.
Credit 6.1
Credit 6.2
7
FLYING SOLO
A whirlwind. A blur. A 24/7 storm of madness. Those are the only ways I can describe the chaotic days and weeks that followed Anne’s death. The entire fashion industry was in shock. The memorial service took place three days later at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The chapel seated four hundred, but close to a thousand people showed up. Louis couldn’t even get in.
Edie Locke, Anne’s great friend and the editor in chief at Mademoiselle at the time, spoke, as did Stanley Marcus of Neiman Marcus, the designer Rudi Gernreich, and Anne’s lawyer and dear friend Charles Ballon. Tomio Taki flew in from Japan. We sat shiva in Anne and Chip’s home. Chip gave Louis one of Anne’s lions, a raw-edged copper one. Anne was a Leo; the lion was the company’s mascot, and she had a huge collection of lion figurines. The only thing I remember from that day was wearing my long silver fox coat, the one just like Anne’s.
All my dreams of being a stay-at-home mom had gone out the window—poof. I was on autopilot, heading back to West 39th Street, sometimes with newborn Gabby at my side, my ankles still swollen. As promised, we delivered the pre-fall collection. Now I had to fac
e the big one, fall, set to show on May 15, 1974. I called Kay Thompson, the actress and choreographer who had been so wonderful to me and Anne at Versailles. “Kay, you’ve got to come and help me with this fall show,” I pleaded. “I feel so lost. I have no idea what I’m doing.” More than anything, I needed motherly support and advice.
“I’m here for you,” she answered. “I’ll help any way I can.”
I didn’t have a moment to breathe, never mind reflect on all the recent upheaval. I didn’t channel Anne in any way while designing that collection; I was still too numb for that. But I did call upon every lesson she’d taught me. I designed for flexibility, creating mix-and-match sportswear a woman could wear multiple ways. It sounds old hat now, but in 1974, women wore “outfits.” I knew I had to put my own stamp on this collection, so I made it a little hipper, a little cooler. I wanted the collection to feel young and sexy.
Did I mention I was fifty-five pounds overweight? I was obsessed with losing the baby weight and getting skinny again. I pointed to our leather guy’s dummy and said, “I want the tightest jacket you can put on this mannequin.” I took the leather and molded it to the form. That was my goal: to fit into that jacket. Everything in the line had to look like that: still sportswear, but slim, bias-cut, sculpted, fitted, maybe balanced over slouchy tweed pants or an easy skirt. My crash diet inspired the whole collection—not that I remember actually dieting. When you have a baby at twenty-five, the weight comes off pretty easily. But I didn’t know that as I was frantically designing.
