My Journey

by Donna Karan

  Business demands constantly brought me back to earth. In 1998 we introduced the Donna Karan Signature Collection—a less-expensive line of classic Donna Karan pieces produced in Italy. It was a huge hit, and it allowed us to take more risks on the designer side while giving our loyal customer the tailored work clothes she wanted from us. But it also meant that we had another design staff and business to manage.

  Still, despite all our moves inside and out, the stock never regained its value. The figurative tomatoes kept coming at every annual meeting.

  Emotionally, the period from 1996 to 2000 knocked the breath out of me. The company was reeling from changes. The press was attacking me left and right. I had to keep up appearances while still designing and producing collection after collection. I was constantly putting out fires and didn’t have a moment to stop and reflect, let alone catch my breath. Patti kept having dreams that I was driving us down Fifth Avenue at high speed in a car with no brakes.

  Of course, everyone pointed to the money Stephan and I were making. How could we not be thrilled? Who were we to complain about anything? But trust me, the cliché is true: money doesn’t buy happiness. Of course I appreciate the money, and it offers a certain kind of freedom, but it’s never been my motivation in my work or my marriages. The first time around, I married for security. Mark made me feel safe, not alone. I married Stephan for love, plain and simple. Now we had money to take extravagant trips, live in beautiful homes, and invest. We could help our children and relatives and not sweat our financial future. But I swear I would have traded this newfound wealth to go back to where we were: building our company and legacy on our own.

  —

  Once the beauty division was sold, Stephan had less to do at the company. He served on the board of directors with me and protected our interests. But Donna Karan International’s legal and licensing divisions, which had been Stephan’s domain, now reported to John Idol, our CEO since going public. It was the perfect time for him to return to his art.

  Shortly after the IPO, Stephan had bought a two-story former refueling and repair building in Greenwich Village and turned it into the ultimate studio. The first floor, where he worked, featured an open space with twenty-two-foot ceilings; the second floor was an apartment loft we could escape to. The studio had a huge working brick fireplace and a dramatic arched panel window. The loft had a floor-to-ceiling paneled glass wall and doors that gave onto a magical rooftop garden with mature trees, also conceived and designed by Stephan. The studio was his haven, where he went every day. He was incredibly productive there.

  But all was far from well. Cancer struck again, just three years after the first time. It was another small spot, but this one was on the other lung, and a primary cancer, meaning it was unrelated to the prior cancer. Surgery was scheduled to remove the spot quickly and effectively. We wondered if Stephan’s cancers had been caused by his early cigarette smoking or by the asbestos he was exposed to at his family business. (In those days, theaters had asbestos curtains that would come down in the event of a fire to isolate the front of the house from the stage and backstage. Stephan told me he’d spent many hours rolling out, cutting, and sewing large panels of asbestos cloth.) Later, as an artist, he worked with Plexiglas, casting resins, and solvents that generated fairly toxic dust and fumes. Or maybe it was all his pot smoking. Who knows? Stephan had once had double pneumonia and a collapsed lung, so he was vulnerable to begin with. The cause was irrelevant; he had lung cancer, pure and simple.

  For the second surgery, Stephan brought a zipper to his doctor and joked, “Close me up with this so you can save on all the stitching next time.”

  The night before, Stephan went out on his bike. His son Corey, his wife Suzanne, and their children, Etan and Maya Rose, were staying with us at the apartment. Maya Rose was a baby, and we had an intercom in their room. It must have been turned on, because all of a sudden I heard Stephan talking, probably to Corey. “I swear, I didn’t see the car coming.”

  “Stephan? What are you talking about?” I yelled. I raced into the room, and there was Stephan with a leather jacket draped on his shoulders. He was trying to hide his injury from me, but I noticed the arm sling.

  “I took a fall on the bike,” he said by way of explanation. “They took me to the hospital, and it turned out I broke my collarbone and arm.”

  I was trying not to scream or cry, as I wanted to do both. But Stephan made me laugh instead by continuing with his story: “They took X-rays, and the doctor on duty comes in and says in this very serious voice, ‘I don’t know how to tell you this, sir, but while we were looking at your X-rays, we discovered—’ So I interrupted him. ‘Oh, that. That’s my cancer. We’re taking care of that tomorrow.’ ” Classic Stephan.

  The next day, we “took care” of the cancer. The surgery was long and difficult. His oncology surgeon, Michael Burt, told us, “We got it all,” but I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t, trust that it was true. When Stephan woke up in the recovery room, I was sobbing by his side. “What are you crying about?” he snapped. He hated it when I cried, maybe because it reflected his own fears. After he was fully awake, he told me that he had passed to the other side at one point and had an out-of-body experience. That put the fear of God into me, but I did my best to be cheery around him. I even brought a photo of his beloved Ducati to the hospital so he’d feel right at home.

  We were still painting the black apartment in the San Remo at this point, so Stephan came home to our old place on East 70th Street. There, in front of our building, I had a present waiting for him: a fire-red Lamborghini Diablo.

  “You have the bike,” I said. “I figured you want the car, too.”

  I know, I know, it was over the top, and totally ridiculous. But I kept thinking, What can I possibly give him to compensate for what he’s going through? What will make him light up? I did what I always do when I want to comfort: I switched into mothering mode. I spoiled him. Money can’t buy health any more than it can buy happiness, but it can make a childhood dream come true. (Actually, the car of his dreams was taxicab yellow, so he exchanged it.) They say the difference between men and boys is the size of their toys. I planned to shower Stephan with big toys and all my love for as long as I could.

  Credit 19.1

  20

  SEEING THE WORLD

  Stephan loved big toys, but I’ve always loved big experiences. My greatest luxury is traveling the world. The farther away, the more exotic, and the more ancient the culture, the better. I could easily spend the rest of my life going from one new place to another, exploring and discovering. This is a relatively new passion for me. For most of my adult life, I was busy raising a child, building a business, working around the clock, and then, after our company went public, answering to shareholders. I was lucky to take a week off. But I was determined to change my ways. None of us knows what the future holds. That’s one thing Stephan’s cancer taught me.

  —

  Like New York, Europe was a place for work. As much as I loved my fabric-buying trips to Germany, Italy, France, and England, they were for business. In and out was the name of the game. I was always on a tight schedule, rushing from one fabric house to the next, one city to another. If there was time, I’d check out a hot store, hit a flea market or an exhibit, and then grab a nice dinner and jet home.

  The one time we would take it easy was when we visited my friend Andrea Pfister and Jean-Pierre Dupre, his life and business partner, in Italy. Andrea and I had become extremely close when he designed shoes for me and Louis at Anne Klein. The couple lived in a cliffside villa on the Amalfi coast. You’ve never seen such a glorious place, and since they were such dear friends, we’d stop there regularly when in Europe. Stephan gave me my engagement ring on their balcony overlooking the sea. Over the years, we’ve visited them with friends including Patti and Harvey and Barbra Streisand. Years later, Gabby met her future husband, Gianpaolo de Felice, at a seaside restaurant on the island of Ischia while styling a story about A
ndrea and Jean-Pierre’s home for the New York Times.

  Our travels in the United States were pure fun and relaxation. Sometimes we’d motorcycle up the West Coast, just the two of us. After a show, we’d go to Canyon Ranch in Tucson, Arizona, where we’d sign up for eight-hour hikes in the mountains with our favorite hiking instructor, Molly Elgin. They were tough walks at high elevations, and I loved being outside and breathing fresh air after weeks of intense stress. Nothing beats the quiet, the physical challenge, and the perspective you gain when you look up at an enormous tree and realize it’s been there for hundreds of years, majestically growing taller and taller. Did I mention I’m a tree hugger? My juicing friend Pam introduced me to the concept on a hike in Sedona, Arizona. I will stop and literally hug a tree to feel its calm and comfort. I have a tree in Central Park that calls my name, kind of like my rock on the beach. Nature humbles you. It reminds you that you’re only here for a little while, and that each day is a wondrous gift to enjoy.

  In the ’90s, we took lots of vacations with the kids and grandkids (by now Corey and Lisa had given us five: Maya Rose, Etan, Mackensie, Miles, and Mercer), mostly out west, where we’d go paragliding and whitewater rafting. For the holidays, we’d rent an enormous house in Aspen or Vail, Colorado, and later in Sun Valley, Idaho. Gabby’s longtime boyfriend, Kenny Thomas, who designed for Ralph Lauren, would come as well. We brought many friends on these getaways, too, including Barbra and her friend the composer and producer Richard Baskin, Patti and Harvey, Bernadette Peters, and Lynn Kohlman and her husband, Mark Obenhaus. Susie Lish, our fabulous chef and caretaker, who has been a part of the family since we started the Donna Karan business when Gabby was ten years old, would go in advance to set things up so it really felt like home.

  We made wonderful friends on these trips. Demi Moore and Bruce Willis, of course, whom we met in Sun Valley at Bruce’s club, Mint. Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver, who had a huge holiday party in Sun Valley every year. (Once Susie sent us with a coconut cake, and Clint Eastwood had a slice and asked, “Who made this cake? I want to marry her!”) Sometimes Jamie Curtis would stop by, and we’d all wind up in the kitchen cooking dinner together. The mood was always friendly, warm, and easygoing, and the scenery was magical: snow, snow, snow, and more snow, with amazing mountain views and huge moose wandering outside our windows—surreal stuff for New Yorkers. We’d ski all day, then come back to the house and collapse in our long johns, drink hot chocolate, sit around the fire, and sing. The only person not singing, of course, was Barbra. She never sings in public, and that includes in a house full of people. You can’t even play a recording of her music if she’s there.

  “Oh, come on, Barbra, it’s no big deal,” I said one time.

  “You think it’s so easy? Why don’t you sing?” So I serenaded her, along with Liza Minnelli.

  On this trip, Liza had called from Aspen and asked if she could come stay with us. There were demonstrations going on in the town (who knows about what) and she was uncomfortable there. She arrived with Billy Stritch, her good friend and accompanist, who played the grand piano while Liza and I sang “My Funny Valentine,” teasing Barbra. She didn’t care. Instead of singing, Barbra and Richard performed card tricks for the group. We had a blast that week. Stephan spent the whole time wearing a sarong and a garrison (military) belt because the New York Times had made fun of me for putting them in our menswear show. I remember laughing nonstop—until we got a phone call from Kenny. Gabby was in the hospital with a ruptured cyst on her ovary, and she needed surgery.

  I ran to the hospital, which was somewhere out in the boondocks, raced into Gabby’s room, and all but threw myself on top of her. Barbra and Liza, all bundled up in ski clothes, followed me into the room looking very concerned. By that time, seeing Barbra and Liza together was perfectly normal to me, but not to the average hospital nurse or attendant. Hushed crowds gathered, straining their necks to get a better view.

  —

  My fiftieth birthday was coming up, and Stephan suggested that we take a boat trip to Greece. Boats are my idea of heaven. (Barbra introduced me to the indulgence, along with my other ridiculous addiction: private planes.) Why boats? They’re like floating hotels. You never have to unpack, put on makeup, or even wear clothes. Slip on a swimsuit and you’re done—the freedom of that alone! There’s also a feeling of getting away from it all, something I’m great at once I leave New York. For my fiftieth, Barbra and her husband, James Brolin, joined us, as did my spa and travel buddy, Linda Horn, and her husband, Steve. Talk about a wonderful memory. Stephan’s cancer was under control (or so we thought), and we could really relax and enjoy ourselves, island-hopping and having leisurely lunches and dinners at sea.

  Not long after that, we were in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, with Barbra and Jim at some over-the-top luxurious villa. One morning Barbra took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and said, “Boy, do I love vacations, especially when I’m not paying for them.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. I was genuinely confused. I thought we were splitting everything.

  “Our investment paid for this one.”

  “You mean my investment?”

  “Exactly. The one that I made for you.”

  “What investment?” Stephan asked, alarm rising in his voice.

  I should say here that Barbra is an excellent investor. She has a real talent for day trading, and her returns are incredible. One day I’d had an idea: “Barbra, let me give you $1 million to invest, and see what you can do.” Don’t ask me how I got the million without telling Stephan, but I did. And now, in front of Stephan, Barbra was luxuriating in the profits ($800,000 in five months, she made sure to point out).

  I yelled at Barbra, and Stephan yelled at me. All while on a fabulous vacation in Mexico.

  Barbra is my BFF, my soul sister. We’re like Lucy and Ethel, connected on some deep level. We love to hang out in each other’s closets, shopping, playing, and dressing up. We can disagree, but I don’t see her often enough to be mad at her. Besides, we’re too busy planning our next adventure. Our vacation styles are polar opposites. While I can let everything go, Barbra is constantly plugged in, calling her office, sending emails, and reading scripts. And as I’ve said before, her fans are everywhere. One time we were on a boat in the middle of the Aeolian Islands. There wasn’t another soul in sight except for a couple in a small fishing boat. Within two seconds, they were pointing to us and saying Barbra’s name. And when we go out for dinner? Forget about it. I could be wearing pink pajamas with elephants on them, and no one would care. All eyes, ears, and conversation are directed at her: “Barbra, Barbra, Barbra!” In any language, it’s exhausting to be Barbra.

  You’d think I’d pack light on all these trips, throwing my swimsuit and sandals in a bag and hitting the road. But no. I bring everything, just in case. I’m famous for FedExing my luggage to my destination and then not opening it once I’m there (Patti can attest to this). My overpacking drove Stephan nuts. He was forever making fun of my “Seven Easy Pieces of Luggage” or my “Seven Easy Trunks.” I think of him every time I zip up an extra bag or nearly throw my back out trying to close an overstuffed suitcase.

  —

  After all this vacationing—a week here, ten days there—I still hadn’t taken on Asia, not really. We had gone on many business trips there over the years. Having Japanese-born Tomio Taki as a partner gave me, Stephan, Patti, and Harvey a front-row seat to the wonders of Japan and its neighboring countries. But I never had time to immerse myself in far-flung cultures just to soak up inspiration.

  I’ll tell you who did have the time: my alter ego Bonnie Young. Bonnie joined us in 1992 as Collection’s director of fabric development, which meant she was in charge of sourcing and innovating fabrics. I had met Bonnie through Gabby, whose boyfriend, Kenny, had worked with her at Ralph Lauren. About four years into working with us, she came into my office and said she’d been offered a position at Prada, one that would give her a lot of travel opportuniti
es.

  “But you travel here,” I said, not understanding.

  “To Europe, yes. But I want to travel the world and be inspired.”

  “You and me both,” I said, laughing. This was right after the IPO, and I longed to be anywhere but where I was. So maybe I was projecting my own wanderlust onto Bonnie, but I also didn’t want to lose her talent and unique, creative eye for fabrics and details. So I came up with what would be my dream job. “I’ll tell you what. Do it for me. Travel the world and bring it back to New York. Be my eyes and ears. Source what you can, and come back with boards to inspire us.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  Bonnie signed on immediately as director of global inspiration, and her first trip covered Tibet, Nepal, and China. She brought her boyfriend, Rudy, with her, as it was safer at the time to travel with a man, and he helped schlep her bags and carry her various finds.

  I know, I know, she should have been paying me, right? But most design houses have some version of a Bonnie, and to be fair, this was incredibly hard work. She still sourced fabrics and was on the front line for our next collections. Fashion is insane that way. Designers work on many seasons all at once. You’re preparing for your spring runway show at the same time you’re publicizing fall’s deliveries as they’re going into the stores. Somewhere in there you’re also creating mood boards for summer and purchasing fabrics for resort. It’s totally schizophrenic.

  Bonnie brought back a treasure trove of ideas and set up her office like a flea market filled with Tibetan monks’ robes, ancient jewelry, hand-sewn leather, ceremonial wigs, embroidered fabrics, and photos everywhere. She also made a film, so we could see and experience where the many artifacts in the room came from. Her eye was extraordinary.