by Donna Karan
Even Barbra hated it. One time she hit and bruised her shin on the corner of a black coffee table on a black rug. “This is ridiculous!” she cried, rubbing her leg.
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Stephan wanted to ride his motorcycles, so we had to leave Fire Island (which doesn’t allow most motor vehicles), our summer getaway for so many years. We found a quirky, far-from-fancy three-bedroom house in East Hampton, high on a bluff. What was supposed to be a modest renovation turned into a nightmare when we discovered the builders had knocked down far more of the original house than expected; in fact, all they left was a bedroom and the fireplace.
Stephan was secretly happy because he got to play architect. I offered opinions here and there, but he made it clear this was his domain. He let me do the bathrooms and decorate (just not in black). I called my old friend Ilene Wetson and asked her to do a white house, and I drove us both nuts by insisting that all the whites match. Finally, I brought in a color expert who patiently explained that matching whites was virtually impossible, especially when natural light hits different textures in different ways. So instead, I channeled my obsessive-compulsive tendencies into shopping for the house. Bring on the antiques! Here’s what I love about an antique: it’s had a life before you. You don’t know where it’s been, what it’s seen, or what energy it holds. Also, it’s a one-of-a-kind. So I’d see something, and I’d absolutely, positively have to grab it; God forbid I missed my chance. I bought giant, ornate mirrors, whitewashed wood tables and chairs, Italian marble statues, and distressed concrete benches. Everything had to be white.
“Welcome,” Stephan would say to the pieces being wheeled into our house. “This is where antiques come to die.”
So now we were renting a modern black apartment in the city and owned an antiques-filled white house on the bay in East Hampton. Stephan and I were a good team. Our friend Pearl Nipon, who with her husband created the line Alpert Nipon, had a great line about us: “One’s the head and the other’s the neck, but the neck controls where the head goes.” I was never sure which part I was, but it worked either way.
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17
WOMAN TO MAN
From the day I met him, Stephan was never a suit kind of guy. He was strictly jeans, a T-shirt, and leather jacket. We went to a fancy Chinese restaurant on one of our first dates, and he had to borrow one of the restaurant’s jackets. Not long afterward, I was sleeping over at his place and he woke me up to say goodbye before leaving on a business trip. There he stood in a brown plaid suit, tan shirt, and wide tie, and I almost died. If anything could have made me fall out of love with Stephan, that was it. I felt like I’d woken up to a stranger, a man who bore no relationship to the sexy jeans-wearing guy I’d gone to bed with. Thank God for his cute face. A lifetime later, when our business required him to wear a suit, I took charge. I bought all his tailoring at Armani. He looked fabulous in Armani suits.
Early in 1992, I noticed a young man sitting in the reception area of our offices. He didn’t have an appointment. “I’d like to speak with you, if you have a moment,” he said to me. He was very proper and spoke with what I later found out was a Dutch accent. (I’m glad I was fully clothed.)
“Sure, sure, come on in,” I said.
“My name is Michael Hogan,” he said. “I’d like to work on a menswear collection with you.”
“Listen, my husband only wears Armani. Unless you can do something better than that, I have no reason to go into menswear.”
“I think we can. I’d like to introduce you to the custom tailor Martin Greenfield.” I didn’t know who Martin Greenfield was, but he said the name with reverence. Since my father had been in the custom tailoring business, I was intrigued. A few days later, Michael returned with an elegant, gray-haired man in a perfectly tailored suit: Martin. I immediately connected with his old-school manner.
I picked up a photo of my parents and told him, “If you can make my husband a suit with the quality of my father’s tailoring, but with the sensibility of my design”—I pointed to my design room, right outside my office—“then I’m interested. Stephan’s a 54 long. It has to be in crepe. Blue or black, I don’t care.”
A few days later, Martin returned with a 54 long suit. It was a heavier crepe than we used in womenswear because it had to hold structure and padding. He skipped the pant crease for a more fluid, easy look. I called Stephan in to try it on. He looked hot, no doubt about it. “How does it feel, Stephan?”
“Amazing. Really comfortable,” he said. After the shock of that brown plaid so many years ago, I knew not to ask him how he thought it looked.
Michael and Martin got to work making samples. Istvan, my women’s creative director at the time, was dying to jump in and help. “Forget it, Istvan,” I said. “I need you worrying about womenswear. Do I have to remind you we have a show in a week?” And then a lightbulb went off. I called in our model booker, Ray DiPietro, and asked, “Can you hire us a few male models for Friday?” Ray raised an eyebrow. “I’m perfectly serious,” I assured him.
The night before the show, as we were putting the finishing touches on the menswear looks, I stopped cold. Maybe my partners should know about this, I thought. I told Frank, Tomio, and Steve Ruzow I had a surprise for them and asked them to meet me on the fourteenth floor right away. The three men entered the small, airless room where I had the men’s suit samples lined up. In my sweetest voice, I urged each of them to try one on.
“Sensational, Donna,” Tomio said, admiring himself in the mirror.
“I agree, these are great,” Frank said. “I’d love to own something like this.”
“You do. We do,” I said. “And I’m putting them in tomorrow’s show with the girls.” This is how I’ve always done things: jump in and figure it out later.
“Donna, wait, slow down,” Steve said. “Let’s think this out.”
“Don’t worry,” I said innocently. “I’m just giving them a taste of what’s to come. A preview, that’s all.”
But when a major designer shows ten or so menswear looks during Fashion Week, you’re in the menswear business. Even I knew that.
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Our handful of menswear looks were the buzz of the industry. Photos appeared in every publication, and when reporters asked about our plans, I told them the truth: the show was an exploration. We had no actual business to speak of. Nonetheless, stores were clamoring to be the first, offering us the world for an exclusive.
Linda Beauchamp, the men’s fashion director at Saks Fifth Avenue, approached Steve about launching our menswear at her store. Linda had long red hair, a curvaceous figure, and a direct, no-nonsense manner that radiated power. My kind of woman. She even had a New York accent like mine, only she was from New Jersey. I invited her to my apartment to make the pitch, and by the end of the meeting, I asked, “How do I get you to be our menswear president?”
We didn’t have an office for Linda, so she worked out of mine at first. I’d be talking on the phone, trying on a sample with my free hand, and nodding approval on fabrics while someone else placed a salad in front of me and another staffer lit candles. “How do you work like this?” she marveled.
“Like what?”
Multitasking is like breathing to me, so I just folded menswear into the mix. I quickly discovered, however, that it held a special place in my heart because of its discipline (tailoring is so precise!) and how it connected me to my father. I thought about him constantly. The process was invigorating, and my designers loved it as much as I did. We took many leads from our women’s clothes in terms of flexibility, luxury, comfort, and, of course, a seven-easy-pieces approach. If I was going to do menswear, it had to say something new, but I also appreciated that men are resistant to change. Our biggest challenge was striking a balance between classic and modern.
A MAN’S SEVEN EASY PIECES WARDROBE
1. The black crepe suit. This was our foundation. Together, the jacket and pants were a classic suit; sepa
rated, they were two pieces of sportswear. That seems obvious now, but in 1992 a suit was a suit and a sports jacket was a sports jacket. The secret was in the crepe and molded construction, which gave it a stretch-like comfort. It was also seasonless and perfect for traveling. This was a major departure from the average worsted-wool suits men were wearing at the time.
2. The white shirt. Every suit deserves an elegant white shirt. Ours were made of the finest, smoothest cotton and had hidden snaps to keep the collar down. Add a black tie and you could substitute the black suit for a tuxedo.
3. The knit T-shirt. The right knit can turn a suit into a casual, day-into-evening look. Our fine silk and cashmere knits came in polos, crews, and high Vs.
4. The cashmere sweater. You could replace the jacket with a chunkier, luxurious cashmere pullover or cardigan. Ribbed, cabled, or leather-buttoned, these were the kinds of sweaters women would steal. We also did a cashmere sweatsuit: ultra-luxurious.
5. The sports blazer. The suit jacket doubled as a sportswear jacket, but we also offered a classic blazer for variety. Our signature style was in vicuña or bright red cashmere (quite a statement at the time). We also served up tweeds and classic menswear patterns like glen plaid, herringbone, and houndstooth (referred to as novelties in the business).
6. The leather jacket. Thanks to Stephan, I knew my way around leather jackets. This one was sleeker, smoother, and softer than a biker jacket but exuded the same masculinity. Robert Lee Morris did the zip pulls in our signature gold.
7. The tailored coat or trench. Every man needs a dress coat or a great trench. Our cashmere dress coat echoed our jackets with its molded shoulders and clean lines, and our trench was a classic: simple, belted, functional.
Stephan was our critical eye when it came to function. He’d ask for two-way zippers and pockets that wouldn’t let things fall out. He told us to make sure the buttons stayed on because men don’t replace them. And he really chimed in about the label. “I’m telling you, Donna, no man in his right mind is going to wear a suit with a woman’s name on it.”
“So what should I call it, Don Karan?”
Stephan thought DK Men sounded good, and that was the label we shipped with our first collection. Soon after, Istvan got his wish and moved to menswear (by then Michael had left) with Alan Scott, a talented British designer who became our design development designer, and Wallis Shaw, a Scotsman who gave our knitwear a feeling of authenticity. It was the perfect team, and Linda ran her small division like a family. Also, she was married to Bob Beauchamp, a fashion editor who worked at GQ and then Esquire, so we had an insider track to the menswear industry. Everything was falling into place. We launched at Barney’s New York, where I assumed I could work with the customer in the dressing room as I always had. But they stopped me from going in. How was I supposed to sell the clothes?
Then a miracle occurred—big-time. The phone in my office rang, and the voice on the other end said, “Donna, please hold for President-elect William Clinton.”
His drawl was unmistakable; I had met him briefly at a fundraiser at Barbra’s Malibu house the previous summer. “Hi, Donna, it’s Bill. Our friend Barbra says you’re the only one I can trust to make me a suit for the inauguration.” My first thought was, Oh my God, I’m being asked to dress the president of the United States. My second thought was, The inauguration is two days away! He called on a Friday, and Martin, like Beth, honored Shabbat. But I’d worry about that later.
I inhaled. “Of course I can help you out, sir. What size are you?”
“54 long.”
“You mean 54 extra long, right?” I remembered that he was much taller than Stephan.
“No, 54 long.”
It was a mad scramble, but we pulled it off—and in the process, I learned how to make a tuxedo. I sent along a 54 extra long, too, just in case.
Stephan and I attended the inauguration with Barbra and music producer Richard Baskin, and then we went to the Arkansas ball at the D.C. convention center. This was no fairy-tale ball. We were starving and spent the whole time looking for food. We stupidly thought there’d be a sit-down dinner or at least snacks in the VIP room, but there weren’t. As we were congratulating Al Gore on his vice presidency, someone came in and said that the president and first lady had arrived. The Secret Service immediately started pushing us toward the stage.
So there we were: me, Stephan, Barbra, Richard, and Barbra’s friend Ellen Gilbert and her husband, all up on the stage next to Chelsea and the president’s mother, Virginia. Hillary and the president strode onto the stage and with a sweep of his arm he said to the crowd, “I’d like to introduce y’all to my family.” His arm was pointing at us! All we could do was smile and wave. When the president came over to greet us, instead of congratulating him (like I meant to), I asked, “So what are you wearing, a 54 long or a 54 extra long?”
He smiled. “A 54 long.”
That’s when I realized the president is never wrong.
Martin Greenfield and I dressed President Clinton throughout his presidency; we made him some twenty suits in all. More important, he and I began a lifelong friendship that later included philanthropic ties through our work in Haiti.
That same year, we were awarded the CFDA Menswear Designer of the Year. My menswear hero Giorgio Armani presented the award, and in my acceptance speech, I thanked my father in heaven for sending me Martin Greenfield.
Despite Stephan’s belief that “no man in his right mind would wear a suit with a woman’s name on it,” a nonstop parade of testosterone wore Donna Karan New York Men. Our clothes were especially beloved in the sports world: Fox network announcers for the Super Bowl and the World Series wore them, as did NBC sportscasters for the Olympics in Nagano and guys from the Knicks, the Nets, the Giants, and the Yankees. One of our favorites was Patrick Ewing, whom we put on the cover of our made-to-measure brochure. If we could dress Patrick, we could dress anyone. The musician Sting wore our clothes, too, and I became good friends with him and his wife, Trudie Styler, both dedicated yogis and philanthropists. And on the spiritual front, my friend Deepak Chopra, the author and holistic healer, also wore our clothes, and he looked particularly good in the dark suit.
Design-wise, I pushed the envelope too far a couple of times. Once I did a man’s bodyshirt (a shirt and boxers in one, which kept the shirt tucked in). I thought it was a great idea, but no one else did. Then I did a men’s sarong, inspired by my love for how men dress in places like Indonesia. We got another firm no from the press and retailers. One of my more surreal menswear moments was when Jack Nicholson came to see me. Jack had met Linda through a mutual friend.
“I need some golf shirts,” he told me after we said hello.
“We don’t do golf shirts, Jack. We do a lot of other shirts, but not golf shirts.”
“You really need to do golf shirts. In colors.”
As if, I thought. (Sarongs are much more my speed.) But hey, stranger things have happened. Like having Giorgio Armani present me with the CFDA menswear award the first year I did menswear, and dressing the president of the United States for his inauguration.
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18
INWARD BOUND
Business was great. Every day presented a new challenge, a new problem to solve, a new plan to put in motion. In 1993, just a year after being named the CFDA’s Menswear Designer of the Year, we received the Fragrance Foundation’s FiFi Award for best fragrance, the most prestigious in the industry. I was thrilled for Stephan and incredibly proud of him. With the continued rise of Donna Karan New York and DKNY, and our ever-expanding global presence, I was being heralded as the “Queen of Seventh Avenue.”
But personally, I didn’t feel like the queen of anything—least of all my own destiny. I was too busy being the Donna Karan the world thought I was and expected me to be.
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In the spring and summer of 1992, I spent more time than ever at our house in East Hampton. One day I wen
t down the winding wooden staircase to the shore, and there, right at the bottom of the steps, something caught my attention. It was a rock the size of a baked potato, with two “eyes” (brown spots). A real Mr. Potato Head. Out of tens of thousands of rocks, it had stopped me. Or called out to me to stop. So I did. I sat and looked at it for a while. It was perfectly still, so content. My body relaxed. The noise in my brain quieted. I heard a knock, a whisper from within.
Donna, Donna. Remember me? The rock wasn’t speaking, of course, but deep inside I heard a faint voice. It sounded lonely and longing. The voice belonged to the real me. I had stopped talking to her a long time ago. I didn’t have time for her; I didn’t even know her anymore. Like the rock, she just was sitting there, waiting for me to notice. But she was also hurting, silently pleading with me to make time for her. “Who am I?” I wondered. “Where have I gone?” The rock looked back as if in understanding, and, crazy as it sounds, I felt like I had a friend. The rock became my touchstone. I didn’t try to move or “own” it in any way. Instead, I just looked forward to seeing it every weekend. It was the first stop I’d make after the two-hour drive from the city. The ritual was calming, grounding, and centering. I loved that while my life in the city whirled round and round, my rock sat still, waiting.
—
On the surface, I had it all: I was with the love of my life. I had a daughter I treasured beyond anything, and I was even a grandmother, thanks to Corey and Lisa. I was a highly acclaimed designer and financially very comfortable. But something inside wasn’t being fulfilled or nurtured. I just couldn’t find inner peace. Despite all the therapy I had, I was always searching, searching, searching—for what, I didn’t know. I was so busy being Donna Karan the designer and the brand that I’d lost me. I had given myself away to my business and to the public at such a young age. Where was Donna Karan the woman?
