by Donna Karan
Stephan and I almost broke up a few times, but we never gave up. We did a lot of work together: therapy work, spiritual work, soul work. He wasn’t big on what he called my “woo-woos,” but he would do anything to talk things out and improve our relationship. He had been in therapy for as long as I knew him, and was open to new ideas and ways of approaching our differences. As with all couples, sometimes the work involved accepting the very differences that had initially brought us together. He could be stubborn and set in his ways, whereas I was impetuous, scattered, and indecisive. He loved to sit still, and I loved to move. We had to find a way for our temperaments to live together.
Luckily, the kids got along. Over the next few years, we squeezed in as many family vacations as we could. We went to dude ranches and went whitewater rafting and hiking. At Christmas we’d ski in Aspen, Telluride, or Sun Valley. Summers were about the beach. Our first years together, we went to Fire Island, which was perfect for the kids. There were no cars and no worries, just bikes and red wagons. The house was always filled with friends and family, including Patti and Harvey, who had embraced Stephan without missing a beat. We lived next door to Carole and Saul Zabar of the famous Jewish food emporiums. I took up cooking and was known for my pasta dinners. I was quite the domestic at the beach—except for the topless part. I wore only string bikini bottoms, which drove my more conservative husband nuts. I know, it’s probably not the best way to bring up children, including Stephan’s teenage son, Corey, who had friends coming in and out all day long. But I felt totally myself: a mother, deeply in love, immersed in nature.
I was finding myself, and it was liberating. For instance, at work, I hired a model many people didn’t understand: Lynn Kohlman. The new face at Perry Ellis, Lynn was anything but the standard blue-eyed blonde of the day. She had spiky, boyish brown hair and had lived with David Bowie for a year in Europe. I called her in to model for an Anne Klein show and then insisted we put her in an ad. The day of the shoot, I directed Lynn to give me hard and sexy, and she did. Stephan, who had designed the set, took one look at her and said, “Who is that bitch?” Lynn was a rebel and very androgynous. I related. Not that I was androgynous, but I still consider myself an outsider, not part of the fashion crowd. I liked this nonsuburban Donna I was becoming. It was the most me I’d ever felt.
—
“We need an Anne Klein Two.” Everyone kept saying it, from Frank and Tomio to all the customers Louis and I met on the road. And for good reason. Anne Klein had reached almost $30 million in sales, more than triple from when Anne was alive. But as a designer company, we had hit our ceiling. In 1982, there were only so many $500 blazers you could sell.
I welcomed a new project, a change. We decided to call the line Anne Klein II, which I could shorten to AKII. I envisioned doing casual weekend clothes, but management had a different idea. They wanted a cheaper Anne Klein: wool instead of cashmere, suits for the young working girl. I wanted to dress that girl, too, but in clothes more in line with her age—sexier, cooler, edgier.
Louis and I brought in our old friend Maurice Antaya. He had been with us on our Hotel de Crillon escapade and had also known Queenie in the sixties; she had helped him get one of his first jobs. Maybe she was still networking in heaven, sending me Maurice right when I needed him. We also needed a new publicity director. Finally I had found a place for Patti Cohen. “But I’ve never done PR,” Patti said.
“You’ll figure it out,” I said. “You’re such a shopper—you get fashion better than anyone.” Patti had great taste. It was fun to see her come into work in high-end labels like YSL and Sonia Rykiel and get genuinely excited over our more commercial line. Patti has always been one of my most supportive, tell-it-like-it-is friends. She’s a great sounding board, because as enthusiastic as she is, she’s also realistic. I can get very caught up in the moment, and she’ll be the first to tell me why something doesn’t or won’t work. You need that in a friend and PR person. She’s also loved by every editor in town and is very plugged in. You need that most in a friend and PR person. With Patti on board, my work family was falling into place.
Our first AKII collection, which launched in February 1983, featured novelty sportswear: boyish jackets, leather vests, white shirts, pleated or skinny skirts, tweeds and trousers. We added lots of fresh twists, including a group of tailored pieces cut in sweatshirt fabric. It was an instant success. There was nothing out there like it. Editors raved as much as the retailers. And with prices only a third to half those of our Anne Klein designer clothes, sales soared. Without even trying, we’d pioneered a new category in sportswear, called “bridge” because it bridged the gap between designer and contemporary clothes.
My vision for Anne Klein II was always a lifestyle one, not just a work one: the sweats should be as important as the suits. But Marilyn Kawakami, our new president, saw it as a workingwoman’s wardrobe, period. She wanted to edit the line and how we sold it. I saw shades of Betty Hanson’s “I know better than you do” attitude in her, and it bugged me.
I follow my gut, not a marketing plan, when designing, not that I’m always right. When Maurice first showed me the pink version of Anne Klein II’s iconic blazer, my teeth hurt. I’m not a big fan of color, never have been.
“Does it have to be so bubblegum?” I whined.
“Donna, we need a color, and women love pink,” Maurice said. “And look how chic it is when we pair it with gray flannel pants.” I added a tie for a funky haberdashery look and let it go.
By then, my friend Lynn Kohlman was working both sides of the camera. Arthur Elgort and Irving Penn had mentored her when she modeled for them, and from her time with David Bowie, Lynn was well connected and shot rock stars and personalities for Interview magazine. I asked her to photograph Anne Klein II’s first ad, featuring that bubblegum jacket. We went on to sell more than three thousand of them. I’m convinced that Lynn’s photograph, which had her signature edge, helped.
Still, my creative struggle for Anne Klein II continued. Marilyn kept saying, “More suits, Donna!” It drove me crazy. I appealed to Frank and Tomio, but it’s hard to argue with success—our sales were in the tens of millions right out of the gate.
—
Stephan and I had been living together for a little more than six years, when Dale granted Stephan a divorce. Committed as we were to each other, I was thrilled to make it official and plan the wedding to go with it.
We married on September 11, 1983, the hottest day of the year, at Stephan’s mother’s house in Hewlett, Long Island. I had designed our upcoming spring collection (the one which would be my last Anne Klein collection), based on the colors of the wedding party, to kill two birds. I wore a sequined shirt, a full chiffon skirt, and a large wide-brimmed hat. The kids wore pastels.
Uncle Burt and I art-directed the whole thing, from the tents and flowers to the seating chart and place settings. But we couldn’t control the heat. All my flowers wilted and died, every last one. People were dripping with sweat. Thank God for sequins is all I can say (that’s why performers love sequins—you can’t see the sweat). We all drank far too much and danced late into the night.
Despite the sweltering heat, the wedding was magical. My past, present, and future came together under those tents. Ten-year-old Gabby danced with her teenage siblings Lisa and Corey. There was Stephan’s mother, whom I adored. There were Gail, Hank, and my nephews, and Louis and his beautiful girlfriend Jac, who modeled for us. Patti and Harvey. Lynn and Mark. Jane Chung and so many others from my Anne Klein family—many of whom would go on to join Stephan and me at the Donna Karan Company.
At the center of it all was Stephan. Sixteen and a half years after meeting my sexy, creative soulmate, the love of my life, I was finally marrying him. Stephan wore a white linen double-breasted tux and the biggest smile you ever saw.
Credit 10.1
Credit 10.2
11
FIRED AND HIRED
Birth, death. Death, birth. The same year I married
Stephan, my contract with Anne Klein & Co. came to an end.
Anne Klein was doing as well as ever, and with the birth of Anne Klein II, the company was flying high. But success makes me restless. What was next? I saw my contract renewal as an opportunity to redefine my future. The problem was I didn’t have a clear picture of what I wanted to do. I needed help.
Dr. Rath was my primary sounding board, of course, but I’d recently heard about est from some friends in the fashion world who had had extraordinary experiences and thought, why not give it a go? Est, or Erhard Seminars Training, was wildly popular in the 1970s and early ’80s. Supposedly it helped people achieve clarity so they could reach their potential, and seminars took place over two weekends (sixty hours). I attended a seminar called “The Power of Being” at a midtown hotel in New York City. I asked Louis to go with me, and he said no. A few more designers declined. Finally I told Jane I would fire her if she didn’t go. I was kidding, of course, but she saw how much it meant to me and came, as did Edward.
I had a life-changing breakthrough at est. I remember sitting on the stage in front of hundreds of people. I was asked to think of a three-word phrase that I wanted to say to the room, and then repeat it over and over again. Since I was being pulled in a million directions in my life at that time, the phrase that popped into my mind was “Leave me alone.” I said it many, many times. Leave me alone. Leave me alone. LEAVE ME ALONE! Then the est leader pointed out that being left alone was actually the last thing I wanted. I had a fear of being left alone. If anything, I fostered other people’s dependence on me, so I had to respond to their needs and demands rather than face myself and ask, “What do I want?”
It sounds so simple, right? But women are taught to put others first. We’re so attuned to everyone else’s needs that we rarely ask what we need. That was the question I had to answer.
Creatively, here’s what I wanted: to design a small collection of clothes for me and my friends. I was tired of designing for other people. Anne Klein had an established customer who wanted a certain look, but it wasn’t my look. I wanted to explore what I wanted to wear, which was basically a Danskin leotard with a large scarf wrapped around my hips—the same clothes I’d worn in high school! I also wanted fluid, flexible pieces to take me through my nonstop days, especially when I was on the road. Like every urban workingwoman I knew, I didn’t have time to go home and change into evening clothes; I went straight from the office to dinner. Last—and this was huge—I wanted clothes that made me feel sleek and sophisticated. Every morning, I had to face the mirror. I was far from a perfect size 6, or even 8. When you’re not bone-thin, dressing is a crapshoot: Do these pants make me look fat? Is this jacket flattering enough? And I was a designer! Imagine how a regular woman must feel.
At the same time, I didn’t want to give up my professional success and security. Couldn’t I have a little collection under the Anne Klein umbrella, a place to pour my creative juices? My collection would be small, with no major fashion show, and a very limited distribution—maybe just Bergdorf Goodman and Neiman Marcus. Couldn’t something of that size coexist with Anne Klein?
I met with Dawn Mello, the president of Bergdorf’s, to gauge her interest. Dawn was beautiful, tall, and slim—as elegant as the store itself. I told her my idea for a seven-piece wardrobe.
“Everywhere I look there are clothes—clothes, clothes, clothes,” I told her. “Yet women like us—sophisticated, stylish, professional women—have nothing to wear. I want to design the perfect seven pieces that every woman needs, no matter what she does or where she goes. Just seven pieces that will take her from day into night. And every season I’ll introduce seven more pieces that build on the last.”
“Seven pieces, Donna?” She looked at me disbelievingly.
“Yes, seven pieces,” I said. “Look at it this way. There are so many of us who are on the go, constantly traveling to Europe or wherever. What do we pack? We’ve got the one suitcase, so it’s about essentials. What’s going to take me to work, take me out at night, and, if I have the time, let me take in a museum? What if it’s cold, or if it’s hot—what can cover me up if needed or show some skin? You don’t want to bring a trunk of clothes, just the right clothes. Seven pieces feels perfect. That leaves you room for the accessories, the scarf, and the change of shoes.”
Dawn considered my words for a moment, then said, “Donna, we’ll support whatever you do. But we’ll need more than seven pieces. How about thirty?” Whether the pieces numbered seven or thirty, she thought the small collection was a great idea, and that I should take it to my bosses.
The answer was an unequivocal no. “You couldn’t do anything small if you wanted to,” was how Frank put it. They wanted my full attention on Anne Klein. They were protecting their brand; I understood, I did. But I hate hearing the word no. I met with lawyers left and right trying to come up with a scenario where I could have it all under Anne Klein & Co. But the other side wouldn’t budge.
Finally my lawyer Charles Ballon, who had been Anne’s personal lawyer as well, said, “Stay or go, Donna. They need you to make a decision.”
It was the most difficult career decision I’d ever faced. I was in such agony, I really thought I was losing my mind. I will never forget sitting on the toilet in the office bathroom early one evening, scratching the paint off the walls with my fingers out of sheer frustration.
But then fate intervened. We were in the midst of preparing for our spring 1985 show. The design room was in full bloom, bustling with models, assistants, seamstresses, and shoes being lined up. Louis wasn’t there, but I didn’t think anything of it. Then the phone rang.
“Donna, Mr. Taki and Mr. Mori would like to see you right away.” This wasn’t a request; it was an order.
At that instant, Louis walked into the room. His face was ashen, and his eyes avoided mine. The air was thick with tension. I didn’t have time to ask what happened, because they were waiting for me.
“Donna, you’re fired,” Tomio said, staring right at me.
“Excuse me?” I was sure I had misheard.
“This back-and-forth has gone on too long,” Frank said. “We’ve made the decision for you. We’re not renewing your contract.”
“You’re joking.”
Frank shook his head. “No. This is difficult for us, but it’s clear your soul isn’t here anymore.”
Before I could fully digest what was happening, Tomio continued. “We believe in you, Donna. Which is why we would be happy to support you in your own company. You can choose us or someone else. Personally, I think the devil you know is better than the one you don’t. It’s up to you. But Anne Klein is not an option anymore.”
My head spun. I’m fired? I’d been at Anne Klein longer than Anne Klein had been. I was Anne Klein. They couldn’t fire me!
But they did. There were no smiles or hugs. They told me to take the weekend to decide about partnering with them, that we could work out the details on Monday, that I could use the Takihyo conference room as my new base of operations. Or not. It was really up to me.
Stunned, I stumbled my way back to the design room. Louis must have just been told, at least about my firing. We didn’t speak. I called Stephan to come and pick me up, then gathered my things, picked up my handbag, and headed to the elevator. I’m sure I looked serene and in control, but I was numb with shock.
—
“Donna, I’m just not seeing the bad side. This is great news,” Stephan said later that night after dinner as we lingered at the dinner table. “It’s everything you’ve dreamed about—only with partners to support you, to support us!”
I loved Stephan’s fearlessness, but I didn’t share it. I was terrified. Who was I, Donna Karan, without the solidarity of Anne Klein & Co. behind me? I didn’t know the first thing about running a company. All I had was my gut, my own sense of what I wanted to wear. Who knew if anyone would respond to my vision? My design ideas were so personal and specific to my lifestyle. I didn’t know from trend
s or what women outside of my zip code would like.
Stephan didn’t share any of my doubts. “Put the business equation out of your mind,” he said. “You have me. I’m your partner. I’ll handle what needs to be handled. I’ll deal with Charlie, with Frank, with Tomio. I’ll protect you. You just need to design.”
“Stephan, I love you, but you’re not exactly a businessman,” I said. “You’re an artist. You need to spend more time in the studio, not less.”
“Business is creative, Donna. You analyze it, you sculpt it, you create something from nothing. This will be my art for a while. We’ll start it right here,” he said, hitting the table. “We can do this, I just know it.”
“What if we can’t?” I whispered.
“Then we fail,” he said, smiling with that ever-present twinkle in his eyes. “Never be afraid to fail. That’s the first step to succeeding.”
At that moment, at our dining table, the Donna Karan Company was born.
—
We went into partnership with Takihyo Inc. Tomio and Frank offered us 50 percent of the business with a token investment on our part. Stephan asked for three million dollars to get us going, which they gave us, no problem. Three million sounds like a lot of money, but it’s nothing when you add up the start-up costs involved in a business. Keep in mind, Tomio and Frank had no idea what I was planning. I barely had a plan! We were all operating on faith.
