by Donna Karan
Until Liza Minnelli, whom I’d been friendly with since Versailles, came to visit. She was heading to Europe and needed some clothes. She went into my closet, pulled out the Cold Shoulder, put it on, and screamed, “Divine! I love!” Her eyes danced as she twirled around in it. She wore it all over Europe, and when she returned, she asked me to make it into a gown, which I did. I must say, when I went to see her perform, she looked sensational in the dress (except that you could see right through it under the bright lights—that’s when I learned the importance of the right underpieces). Liza went on to wear it to the Academy Awards, and Candice Bergen wore a version of it to the Emmys.
Not long afterward, our new First Lady, Hillary Clinton, wore my Cold Shoulder to her debut state dinner. I found out when everyone else did: when her photo from the dinner appeared on the front page of the New York Times. She looked chic and modern, and ushered in a new generation of First Ladies. Apparently she bought it at a store in Arkansas and paid for it herself. We’ve gone on to sell tens of thousands of Cold Shoulder bodysuits, sweaters, and dresses, both in Donna Karan Collection and in DKNY. Take that, fashion critics!
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Long before menswear was even a thought in our company, the entertainer Peter Allen, once married to Liza, asked to borrow our gold sequined shirt to wear onstage. “But Peter,” I said, “it buttons up on the girl side.”
“It’s a gold sequined shirt, for God’s sake!” he laughed. “Do you really think the button side bothers me?” Years later, I met Hugh Jackman while he was performing on Broadway in The Boy from Oz, a musical about Peter Allen. I told him about the gold sequined shirt, and he said it wouldn’t have bothered him, either.
It certainly didn’t bother Edward Wilkerson. My former design assistant had left Anne Klein and had been Calvin’s assistant and associate for three years. He had just come back to me at Donna Karan. I was thrilled. No one makes me laugh like Edward, and he’s the only guy who wears my clothes better than I do. A six-foot-one African American with dreadlocks, Edward loved to play dress-up with all my most dramatic pieces—the RLM jewels, the gold sequin wrap skirt, everything. It wasn’t exactly drag; it was, well, Edward.
I’ve had so many assistants in my career, but no one got me like he did. When he sensed that I was in a bad mood, he’d quietly put on Barbra Streisand music to calm me down. He thought I didn’t notice. Once I was in such a truly horrible mood that I looked at Edward and snarled, “Don’t even try with the Barbra!” I got Edward, too: When he’d complain it was late, that he was tired, I’d say, “Act like you’re at a club,” because he never was too tired to dance. Edward was with me at Donna Karan for fifteen years before he went off to design his own collection under the successful label 148 Lafayette.
So many truly remarkable talents have passed through Donna Karan New York and DKNY. Many of them have also worked for Ralph and Calvin, which isn’t ideal, because you’re always afraid they’ll take your best and worst secrets to the competition. Then there are those you just know will leave to do their own thing because they’re so gifted.
A perfect example is Mark Badgley of Badgley Mischka, who was with me in the early years. He was so elegant and handsome. Naturally, he designed eveningwear for us, and his talent was extraordinary. Then there was Christopher Bailey, who thoroughly modernized Burberry and was recently named the company’s CEO. I am not at all surprised—Christopher was one of the most organized people I’ve ever worked with, as well as one of the least pretentious. I’m so proud of him.
Istvan Francer, who has designed Theory for many years, was also with us for a long time. Istvan brought a European sophistication to the clothes that you simply can’t find in America. He also brought in a lunchbox from home, like a schoolboy. His wife made him a sandwich and a dessert every day, which I thought was so funny until I tasted how delicious they were. Edward, who was so flamboyant, would tease the more conservative Istvan by slowly putting on lipstick in front of him.
Even our shoe designers have gone on to achieve fame and glory. Edmundo Castillo designed our shoes for years and gave me my all-time favorite pair, which I still wear today: black suede lace-ups, the modern version of my gladiator sandals from high school. Paul Andrew took over for Edmundo in 2003. Paul’s shoes are works of art, but every season we argued about heel height. “Paul, we both want them to look good,” I’d say, “but I’m the one who has to wear them!”
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The early years of Donna Karan were as fast and blurry as Denis Piel’s first photographs. We worked late into the night, with friends like Uncle Burt coming over from Anne Klein after work in his fur coat, holding his Diet Coke, or Liza and Barbra stopping by to have dinner in my office and see what I was up to. We were constantly in the news, and the Donna Karan look of black bodysuit, wrap skirt, and gold jewelry was being ripped off left and right, something that bothered others more than it did me. My standard answer was, “They can only copy what I did yesterday, not what I’m doing tomorrow.” Of course that fed into my insecurities about what was next, what was new, what hadn’t been done before.
The collection was selling off the charts, but I was spending money as quickly as we were earning it. I was still a fabric junkie and spared no expense. By now I had hired Cristina Azario, a chic and proper British girl, to help me develop fabrics in Europe. Cristina had lived in Italy with Jane, which was all the recommendation I needed. She met me at the Milan airport and hopped on the speeding train that was Donna Karan New York. Cristina was born into fine fabrics: her parents owned Nattier, which had supplied all the Parisian couturiers in the 1960s. I hardly knew her, but I handed her a blank personal check and a long fabric wish list. Mostly I wanted her to ask the mills to figure out how to infuse stretch into luxe fabrics like lace and cashmere. Unless it was a natural stretch, like jersey had, stretch in those days was primarily used for swimsuits and ski wear.
I still squeezed in my own fabric sourcing trips whenever possible, scheduling back-to-back meetings without a minute to spare. Edward would complain. “You make my time with Calvin look like a luxury vacation,” he’d say, describing the stretch Mercedes that greeted him and Calvin at the airport and their cushy stays at the Plaza Athénée in Paris. On our trips, we’d land, then hop right into a car that would take us to mills on small mountain villages, and we’d stay in tiny, unglamorous hotels. Poor Cristina would carry a bag of Tuscan cookies to keep up her strength because I wouldn’t stop until midnight. We’d have eight or nine suitcases with us and fill them with inspiration: a scrap here for its color or texture, a scrap there for its shape or detail. I don’t have the best memory, but somehow I possessed a photographic recall for every single swatch we brought home.
“Can you give me that piece of mink?” I’d shout out to them from my room.
“What piece of mink, Donna?” Cristina would shout back.
“You know, that amazing chocolate-colored one with the black tips. I so see it as a sweater, don’t you? We definitely packed it.”
I could picture Cristina and Edward rolling their eyes as they rummaged through the bags.
Dyeing was my other fixation. I’m the first to make fun of Barbra, but I, too, would insist that every item in an outfit match perfectly: the cashmere jacket, the sweater, the bodysuit, the shoe, the hosiery. And not just match, but match in every kind of light. I drove everyone insane, myself first and foremost.
Other times, when the situation called for it, I was more relaxed. When we first started out, I had an idea for a washed silk collection for resort 1986 using the same inexpensive silk the sportswear company Go Silk was using.
“No, no, no,” Julie yelled. “You’ll destroy the company with that cheap stuff.”
I didn’t care because I was designing as a woman with personal needs, not as a businessperson. Resort means traveling; you just want to throw something into the suitcase and not worry about it. Washed silks in hot ombre colors like fuchsia, tangerine, cobalt, and teal looked great with a tan
and for going out at night, too. The fabric was affordable, which helped customers take a chance on the saturated colors and soft, billowy silhouettes. It was one of our most successful collections.
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I was becoming a star in the hosiery world now, too. By insisting on the blackest of the black matte hosiery, I had created a luxurious new fashion essential, because even if you couldn’t afford our clothes (and I knew the average woman probably couldn’t), you could afford our tights. At $11 a pair, they were twice the cost of the average department store pair, but everyone had to have them. Hanes predicted it would be a $3 million specialty business, but the first season we took in orders for $6 million, and the number kept doubling. Once again, Peter took an innovative approach to advertising. He and Denis Piel photographed a beautiful, sensual ad of a nude woman. That’s right, we used bare legs to sell hosiery, to show what your legs would feel like in ours. I thought it was extraordinary, and it was certainly revolutionary: in 1987, the CFDA honored us and Arnell/Bickford Associates with a joint special award for the campaign.
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In 1988, just three years after starting our company, we were invited, along with eight other designers, to participate in the Bicentennial Wool Collection fashion parade in Australia. Held at the Sydney Opera House, it had all the same elements as Versailles: the grandness, the international designers jockeying for position, the royalty (this time in the form of Princess Diana and Prince Charles—Patti and I swear we saw him nodding off during the show). There we were alongside Oscar de la Renta, Kenzo, Missoni, Gianni Versace, Claude Montana, Bruce Oldfield, Sonia Rykiel, and Jean Muir. We had flown over on the same plane with Oscar, and Patti and I marveled at how pressed his suit still was when we landed all those hours later in Sydney. But that was Oscar: the consummate elegant gentleman. We’d first bonded in Versailles, and we both had offices at 550 Seventh Avenue, where we enjoyed what we called our “elevator relationship.” Oscar loved women, and it showed in his work.
Every experience in Australia was wonderful, from visiting Rupert Murdoch’s farm to the day our group went to Tamarama Beach, otherwise known as “Glamourama.” For some crazy reason, we were driven there in a white limousine, which we had drop us off a block away. There we sat, a bunch of fully dressed fashionistas, including Women’s Wear Daily’s Patrick McCarthy, enjoying the natural beauty of sand, waves, and sky. Being on a beach like that within a huge, vibrant city was nothing short of magical.
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The more successful I became, the stronger my conviction grew that women needed to access their power and believe in themselves. I didn’t consider myself a traditional feminist. The movement at that time seemed to pit women against men. I saw us as equals, each bringing something unique and valuable to the table. A woman’s leadership style is very different from a man’s: we’re more inclusive, bringing out everyone’s best side while encouraging and nurturing.
For spring 1992, I decided to do a collection that embraced a woman’s strength in a more overt way. I envisioned navy and gray pinstripe suits with stretch lace tops, and finished with pearls, of course. We had an idea for an ad campaign inspired by the infamous line “Don’t f——k with me, fellas!” from the film Mommie Dearest. Joan Crawford says it when she confronts the board of directors of the Pepsi-Cola Company, which is trying to dismiss her after the death of her husband, Al Steele, who had been chairman. I wanted to show a commanding woman with strong shoulders, her hands down on a long rectangular table. Peter Arnell and I conceived it together, and Peter Lindbergh was all set to shoot it in Manhattan.
The night before the shoot, I had an epiphany and called Peter and Patti. “Why settle on a businesswoman?” I asked. “Let’s make her the president of the United States!” Patti still can’t believe how Peter turned the shoot around on a dime. The very next morning, he had Rosemary, Peter Lindbergh, hair, makeup, and extras on a plane to Florida. If our woman was going to be president, she needed to be outdoors for her swearing in—and it was winter in New York.
The campaign was iconic, our most talked-about ever. There was the serene-faced Rosemary in dark pinstripes and pearls, hand on a Bible, surrounded by American flags and a team of men. The tagline said it all: “In Women We Trust.”
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Barbra and I saw each other as much as we could. I’d fly to Los Angeles, and she’d come to New York. We just clicked. We had the same passions, obsessions, and taste in clothes and décor. Stephan called her “wife number two.” I’d also figured out how to work Stephan: just have Barbra ask him for something. If we wanted to take an extravagant vacation together, Barbra would present the idea to Stephan first.
People often ask why she didn’t come to more of my shows, and the answer is simple: she came once, and we were totally unprepared for the insanity of the photographers and reporters mobbing her. The show started more than an hour late, and we really paid for it. Everyone was angry at us. Glamorous as fashion shows may seem, they’re work for those in the industry. Also, a late show screws up the designer who follows you. Barbra was happy to watch the video.
So there I was, hanging out with Barbra, flying around with Oprah, and dressing celebrities. My name was quickly becoming synonymous with New York and powerful women. We even went to a White House dinner and were seated at President Reagan’s table, where I found myself next to Sly Stallone. The one person who wasn’t impressed by my new high-profile life was Stephan. He knew me as Donna Faske and had no tolerance for pretension. He refused to be my plus one; if an invitation said “Donna Karan and Guest,” he wouldn’t come (and Patti would). If I was late to meet him somewhere, he’d leave.
I felt like I was leading a double life. I ran home for dinner almost every night. If it was near showtime, I’d go to the apartment, make dinner, return to the studio, and work all night. I attended all of Gabby’s school functions. And, unless I was traveling, weekends were exclusively family time. I did my best to maintain this balance, but Stephan let me know when I was slipping. I never, ever forgot that I was a wife and mother before I was a designer.
Credit 14.1
15
DKNY: A FAMILY AFFAIR
An elusive pair of jeans. A teenage daughter. A restless young designer. Those were the factors behind the birth of DKNY. And yes, my partners were after me to make money. We had long since gone through our reserves, and Takihyo had put up more funds to keep us going. The logical thing to do was launch Donna Karan II, just like Anne Klein II. But I always choose instinct over logic.
So, jeans. I really needed a pair. Until that moment, women’s jeans were made either for moms (that frumpy fit, God forbid) or models (people with no curves). I wanted a pair for people like me. The jeans needed to be either slim and sexy or cool and comfortable. I also needed clothes for my downtime—weekends, vacations, days I was running around the city. My collection was too sophisticated for everyday life.
Second, I wanted to dress my fifteen-year-old daughter, Gabby, who was constantly raiding my closets, with and without her friends. She’d take out a hand-painted velvet evening dress and add a chunky leather belt and cowboy boots, then maybe throw a jean jacket on top. Cool as she looked, I hated seeing my beautiful, luxe pieces tossed about. Gabby needed her own clothes.
Then there was the restless designer Jane Chung, my assistant since the Anne Klein days. After four years of designing with me at Donna Karan New York, she resigned when an outside company offered her the chance to do her own collection. Truth be told, Jane had never been a Donna Karan New York customer. She was a chic rock ’n’ roll type. She wore ripped jeans to work, sometimes with a Chanel or Matsuda jacket. She had long black hair and loved her high, high heels.
“I get it, Jane, I really do,” I said. “But you can do your own clothes here.”
“I need time and space,” Jane said. “To travel, explore, and be inspired again.”
“Then go travel, see the world,” I told her. “Just be sure to come back with ideas.”
In April, right after showing our fall collection, Jane went off to Europe and Asia and came back a couple of months later raring to go, armed with sketches, fabric swatches, and sourcing ideas for a new collection.
Here’s what Jane and I agreed: these clothes would be the pizza to Donna Karan Collection’s caviar, equal but different. I love pizza, and I love caviar. One is not better than the other. You need both. This line would represent my other side, and there’d be no overlap with Donna Karan New York whatsoever. We saw it as a sportswear collection: unisex, accessible, friendly, and fueled by life in New York City. Our pizza just needed a name.
God bless Peter Arnell, who, with his team, came up with DKNY’s name, logo, and brand identity. Just weeks after we conceived of the new collection, he presented us with a short film and a huge fake newspaper to illustrate what these clothes were and who they spoke to. For the name, he used the acronym DKNY for Donna Karan New York (to make sure we got it, he wrote out “Donna Karan New York” with small dots under the D, K, N, and Y). Peter spoke rapidly as we flipped through the mocked-up newspaper. “Here’s why I love the name,” he said. “It has the energy and street cred of FDNY [Fire Department of New York] or NYPD [New York Police Department]. You have to say it quickly. FDNY. NYPD. DKNY.”
Our mouths dropped open at his complete and utter genius. Then on to the graphics. Where Donna Karan New York’s logo was slim, elegant, and etched in gold, DKNY’s was bold and clean in black-and-white Helvetica typeset. Icons—a subway token, a manhole cover, a billboard—were lifted from the city streets. At this point in the presentation, we were all crying. I called in Xio, Istvan, Edward, and our house models Doreen and Gina, and right at that moment, Peter had six pizzas delivered, each with DKNY spelled out on it in black olives.
Trey Laird, a young account executive who worked with Peter and went on to become our creative services director, was the one who had stopped at the pizzeria to assist in the laying out of the DKNY letters while holding on to the bag with the logo materials after the team was up all night producing them. When you’re on the receiving end of a fabulous presentation, you don’t appreciate all the details and stress that went into pulling it off. It’s like a fashion show: the audience sees a calm-looking, pulled-together model, but none of the backstage hysterics, never mind the countless sleepless nights.
