by Donna Karan
Meanwhile, men continued to die all around us. I didn’t lose anyone particularly close, but I went to many a memorial. These were young men in their twenties, thirties, and forties—they had no business dying. It was making me crazy.
After Perry died, I took my fundraising store idea to Carolyne Roehm, the newly appointed president of the CFDA’s board of directors (I was on the board). I also went to Anna Wintour. After countless conversations, Carolyne and Anna called a meeting and explained that they saw it more as an evening than as a store. Fine with me, I told them; whatever it took. “Let’s do this!” Anna said, slapping her desk. We’d call it Seventh on Sale. The CFDA and Vogue would sponsor, and I would co-chair. We’d have a dinner—we had to feed people—but we agreed it would be more about the shopping, a flea market of the highest order, with all designer clothes, all at a discount, and all proceeds going to the New York City AIDS Fund to benefit HIV/AIDS organizations.
This was 1990. Donna Karan New York was flying high, DKNY was being born, and every day at work brought a drama of one sort or another. I needed a major event like I needed a hole in my head. But I threw myself into Seventh on Sale with all my heart, and so did everyone around me. The generosity of spirit and resources was astounding. Every American designer asked how he or she could contribute. Vogue brought in the European designers, who were just as generous. Even the stores—which, let’s face it, had a lot to lose with this shop-till-you-drop event—signed on. There was no pushback.
The CFDA and Vogue served as command central. We picked a Thursday in November and secured the 69th Regiment Armory on Lexington Avenue between East 25th and 26th Streets, a huge space. We decided to create a market environment around the center of the space, where we would do the dinner. Robert Isabell, the premier party planner of the time, was in charge of the design, and came up with the brilliant stroke of hanging drapes around the dining area, which we would raise after all the shopping. We wanted to stress the shopping first and foremost.
Egos were put aside, and we had fun. Ralph Lauren was extraordinary. Among his many contributions, he handled the entire back end and retail logistics (because no one understands retail better than Ralph). Alfredo Paredes, the creative genius at Ralph, was particularly remarkable with his vision and management. Everyone was engaged and passionate. The day before the event, Stephan came with me to see the space. I was unpacking clothes in the DKNY booth when he ran over to me, alarm on his face.
“We’ve got a serious problem,” he said. “The curtains are not fire-retardant, and you have candles on every table. This is a tinderbox. The Fire Department will shut us down.” Given his experience with his family theater-curtain business, he knew what he was talking about. Stephan wasn’t prone to hysterics, but he looked pretty hysterical then.
I went straight to Robert Isabell. Robert was a smooth operator—he’d have to be, given all his high-end clients. In a rush of words, I explained the problem.
“Have you told anyone else?” he asked.
“No, I came to you first. But we have to do something immediately. The whole fashion industry and every big name in New York is coming here tomorrow night.”
A sneer formed on his handsome face, and he stepped in close to me. “Listen to me,” he said in a dark voice. “Leave it. Just leave it alone.” Robert’s voice was so menacing that I shivered. Who knew the boogeyman of my childhood would come to life in the form of a high-society party planner? I backed away from him, but not from the problem. I told everyone. Someone suggested I call Ian Schrager, the hotelier and former co-owner of Studio 54. He would know about parties and fire prevention. And he did. I don’t recall the particulars, but we flew up some guys from Texas who sprayed the curtains with fire retardant just in time for the event.
The event was perfection. Guests were dressed to the nines, and the cash registers rang all night. Personally, I had a blast. I was going through a short phase—my hair was short and I wore a platinum sequined mini dress. Most unexpected for me was the fun of shopping other designers. Bill Blass personally helped me at his booth, steering me to a black frou-frou dress (he knew my color). I tried it on and bought my first Bill Blass original.
After the Thursday dinner event, Seventh on Sale opened to the public. We sold tickets for three-hour shopping slots spread over the next three days. The lines went around the block to Park Avenue. Designers and retailers replenished their stock, so there was a constant influx of new merchandise. More than anyone, Anna Wintour, a true leader, was there day and night, night and day, personally overseeing details big and small. We raised $4.2 million in three and a half days.
Now I was juiced. This was my first taste of philanthropy and conscious consumerism. A world of possibility opened to me. Up until then, charity events had been self-congratulatory affairs. You bought a table, got dressed up, and listened to speeches as you ate rubber chicken. At Seventh on Sale, the dinner was the least of it. To see people rolling up their sleeves and physically moving—well, it just warmed my ADD heart.
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Thanks to Anna Wintour, three years later I had the pleasure of getting involved with Kids for Kids, the NYC street carnival to benefit the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. Elizabeth Glaser was the wife of the actor Paul Michael Glaser. In 1981, she contracted the HIV virus through a blood transfusion after giving birth to the couple’s daughter Ariel. The virus was transmitted to Ariel, who tragically died in 1988. Elizabeth and her two close friends, Susie Zeegen and Susan DeLaurentis, created a foundation to support pediatric HIV/AIDS research, as little to no research was being done at that time.
I so admired that Elizabeth was unafraid to be a face for AIDS, which in the late 1980s was as much a stigma as it was a disease. For a prominent wife and mother to come forth that way completely changed the perception of AIDS. It was no longer a gay issue; it was an everyone issue. I loved Elizabeth on a personal level, too. She was from Hewlett, one of the Five Towns, and so was Susie Zeegan, one of her co-founders. We were the same age, but we had never met. We were determined to create the coolest street fair this city had ever seen, with loads of things to do, eat, and buy, and fun activities for every age.
On a Sunday in April 1993, we set up our carnival in front of Industria Studio in Greenwich Village. Once again, thanks to Anna Wintour’s passion and influence, everyone showed up with a generous spirit. Famous artists like Roy Lichtenstein, Francesco Clemente, and Red Grooms painted with kids. Photographers organized by Fabrizio took portraits. Coach Pat Riley of the Knicks brought basketball players to shoot hoops with kids. Fashion designers and celebrities like Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, and Tim Robbins manned the booths, and we all wore the colorful T-shirts our company contributed. I can still see Stephan walking around with alternating grandkids on his shoulders. That’s what I loved most about the day: it brought families together to raise money and encouraged children’s involvement in helping others. We raised about $1.2 million that first year (Kids for Kids has gone on to raise $26 million to date). In the process, I made so many new friends, starting with Elizabeth and Susie, my new buddies. After that first carnival, I sent each a photo of the three of us with a caption that read, “Amazing what three girls from the Five Towns can do.”
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While Anna Wintour was the first co-chair for Kids for Kids, Liz Tilberis, my friend and the editor in chief of Harper’s Bazaar, co-chaired the second. Liz was one of the kindest, least pretentious women I’ve ever known. We first met in London at a dinner party where Liz, then editor in chief of British Vogue, was seated next to me and Patti. In 1992, Liz came to New York with her family to shake up Harper’s Bazaar, which she transformed with her usual flair. The first issue announced, “Enter the Era of Elegance,” next to a striking shot of Linda Evangelista wearing one of our black sheer and sequined dresses.
Liz was good friends with Princess Diana, whom I had only seen once in Australia for the Bicentennial Wool Collection. Through Liz, I got to sit next to Princess Dia
na at a luncheon. She was the most elegant woman I’d ever met, exuding grandeur and eloquence. She was also as lovely and regular as anyone else, and that was her real charm.
The year before Liz joined us in Kids for Kids, she had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Liz believed it was caused by fertility drugs she had taken in an effort to get pregnant. Not surprisingly, she took on the disease with her usual grace and humor. Having always battled her weight, she was delighted with her newly slim figure, calling it a result of “the cancer diet.” She cut her hair super-short and chic. Liz had always been great-looking, and now she was a knockout. But she was also very sick. By this time, Stephan had had his two cancer surgeries, so Liz and I had something else in common: that uneasy combination of hope, fear, and the desire to make a difference. In 1997, Liz became the president of the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund, determined to raise consciousness and money to help battle this silent disease.
Liz came to me looking for a corporate sponsor. Patti and I sat in my office with Faith Kates, an OCRF board member and co-founder and owner of Next Models, and Jeannette Chang, senior vice president and publishing director of Hearst Magazines, which publishes Harper’s Bazaar.
“We have to do something, Donna,” Liz said urgently. “Unlike the Pap test for cervical cancer, there is no test for this disease. By the time it’s discovered, that’s it. You’re at stage three or four. We need to invent an early detection test at the very least.”
“I’m happy to be a sponsor, Liz,” I said, “but this is a woman’s disease, and we are a woman’s industry.” We agreed that the Seventh on Sale concept was great, but we wanted to do something smaller in the Hamptons, where we all had homes. That would mean introducing a Kids for Kids element of fun, because if it’s summer and you’re in the Hamptons, chances are you have kids and/or grandkids with you. Everyone loves a barbecue, we reasoned. Liz and her husband Andrew’s home was on a huge piece of property on Gardiners Bay, not far from my East Hampton house. Perfect. We grabbed our Rolodexes and called up all our fashion friends. “Come empty out your personal closets of clothes, books, art, whatever, and help us raise money for ovarian cancer,” we told them.
Held in 1998, the first Super Saturday was a far more intimate affair than Seventh on Sale. We installed an outdoor dance floor and hired a DJ and a caterer who served burgers and steamed lobsters. Eighteen fashion designers contributed, including Ralph Lauren, who set up a wooden hutch filled with sweaters. The Vogue fashion editor Grace Coddington propped up a bunch of black-and-white fashion photos against a tree. La Mer offered a table of luxe products. And per our ask, people literally emptied their personal closets—this was a true tag sale of the chicest order. There were design books, Chanel bags, vintage pieces. I wanted to buy everything but held back to give others a chance. About four hundred people attended, and we raised $400,000. We gave each guest a tote filled with fabulous donated swag, not realizing we were setting a precedent for years to come.
Sadly, Liz could only come out to say hello, after her assistant helped her get dressed. We had created something so fabulous, but Liz was only around for another year to enjoy it. She died at fifty-one. Just like Kids for Kids, Super Saturday lives on, and eighteen years later, it’s a Hamptons institution, which I still co-chair. Now it’s held at Nova’s Ark Project, a vast nature preserve and sculpture park. Hundreds of companies have booths, thousands attend, and we consistently raise well over $3 million. Every year, I take my whole family—and carry Liz firmly in my heart. I know she’s cheering us on from above.
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In 1999, Stephan and I established the Karan-Weiss Foundation to carry out our many philanthropic pursuits. Two of our favorite undertakings were artistic: New York City’s Dia Center for the Arts and the first fundraising event for Robert Wilson’s Watermill Center. Both organizations support and exhibit contemporary and emerging artists. It was great to see Stephan engaged in his passion for art. Things had not been going well: the cancer was back.
This time was especially scary. Michael Burt, Stephan’s oncology surgeon, had died a year earlier in a motorcycle accident, and when Stephan’s cancer reappeared, we felt lost without him. But Dr. Burt was a surgeon, and surgery was out of the question because this time the cancer was too close to the lining of the lung. We began seeking opinions from new doctors; once we got three in one week. At first, the cancer was considered stable, but a few months later, it was shown to be “active” and therefore spreading. We’d have to introduce a mild form of chemo, which meant that Stephan couldn’t ski or be active. Try telling him that.
I knew not to buy him any lavish gifts. He was still smarting from my last one. Just a few months after the Lamborghini, I had given him the Christmas gift of all Christmas gifts: a painting by his favorite contemporary artist, Francis Bacon. That one really got me into trouble. We had a deal now: I wouldn’t spend over a certain amount without clearing it with him first. But we were living in the black apartment at the time, and after doing my research, I found the perfect Bacon: a mostly red and orange, floor-to-ceiling piece with a yogic-looking figure in the center. I thought, How perfect, how us. Mind you, I didn’t see it in person. I bought it based on a photograph from Germany. And yes, I broke our deal. I called the bank to get my second secret million—or so (I got my first one for Barbra to invest).
When the painting finally arrived, I had it hung and waited for Stephan to come home. When he walked in, I wrapped my arms around him. “I have a surprise for you,” I sang after kissing him. There was no hiding this huge surprise, and his face lit up with wonder. “Oh my God, Donna, is that Francis Bacon?”
I nodded with joy, delighted that my great idea was working.
“It’s amazing.” He stood back, then walked up to view it closely. “Where did you get a poster this good?”
“It’s not a poster,” I chided. “It’s the real thing.”
His smile vanished. “Are you out of your mind?” he yelled. “You’re not allowed to do this. Where did you get the money?”
I tried to placate him. “Honey, it’s not about the money. It’s about the art. And it’s so beautiful. Look, see the yogi?” But the only yogi he was looking at was me, and I wasn’t making him any calmer. We kept the painting, of course, and I know Stephan loved it. I’d catch him staring at it, probably marveling that it was in our home. For that alone, it was worth every single penny.
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He had his first treatment in February 1999, and he said it made him “ache to the bones.” Unfortunately, just a few months later, in April, the doctors felt the cancer wasn’t responding and switched to Taxol, a stronger chemo drug. Stephan started to have horrific muscle cramps in his legs, neuropathy (degeneration of the nerves) in his feet, and some hair loss. He also had severe hiccups. We now had a supply of oxygen tanks at home, which he needed more often than I liked. He didn’t complain at all; he suffered quietly—but I could tell how uncomfortable he was. Ironically, my pot-smoking husband couldn’t smoke when he needed it most, so we started baking pot cookies and brownies. (Once Gabby’s boyfriend Gianpaolo came to our house in the Hamptons and ate five of our “special” chocolate chip cookies. He got so stoned we worried he wouldn’t wake up. I started feeding him ice cream, figuring the sugar would sober him up, only to have Gabby scream at me, “Stop, Mommy. You’ll choke him!”) Sadly, the cookies weren’t enough to alleviate Stephan’s symptoms, and he continued to suffer quietly.
So naturally Donna the Woo-Woo Queen got busy. By now, Ruth Pontvianne, the Brazilian healer, was living with us and administrating frequent therapeutic massages with essential oils and aromatherapy. We took him to see an acupuncturist. Lindsey Clennell, an Iyengar yoga teacher, came to Stephan’s studio to work on poses that would help with his breathing. And I practiced Reiki on him every day. We also used a slant board at home to drain the fluid building up in his chest. Maybe we couldn’t cure this damn cancer, but we could make him more comfortable.
I wanted Stephan to hav
e some fun, too. I love renting boats, so in September 1999 I threw Stephan and Barbra a joint party in New York Harbor. It was his birthday, and Barbra had just finished a series of concerts in New York. The timing coincided with Rosh Hashanah, so Barbra’s friend, the late great composer Marvin Hamlisch, led the floating dinner party in prayer. The evening was a bit schizophrenic, as we then alternated between the soundtrack from Star Wars (Stephan’s favorite film) and Barbra’s songbook. At the end of the night, the sky lit up with fireworks I had arranged. Other times, we had to accept Stephan’s health limitations. For New Year’s 1999 (ringing in 2000), we had plans to go with Linda and Steve Horn to see Barbra’s special Las Vegas concert (the one she later turned into her album Timeless). At the last minute, Stephan realized he just wasn’t up to it, and the four of us rang in the New Year in East Hampton.
Stephan still went to the studio and always had his sketchbook on hand, as well as little clay models he was preparing to turn into sculptures. As uncomfortable as he was, the artist within was feeling just fine—still engaged, still creating. His essence was intact.
—
The lease on our black apartment was running out, so I started dragging poor Stephan to see dozens of new places. Every one had something wrong with it: not enough windows, the ceilings were too low, or I hated the block. My list of rejects was endless. One day he called me at work.
“We’re done. I bought us an apartment, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he said. “You were never going to decide on one, and we need to get moving. Want to see the one I chose?”
This was a classic Stephan move: indulge me for a bit, then take over. He’d chosen one of my rejects, a space on Central Park West with a wraparound terrace. The ceilings were low, and it needed a ton of work, as it was three apartments we’d have to combine into one. But he didn’t care. It was bought and paid for. “Call Dominic and get creative,” he said. Dominic was the architect who worked on all our stores and East Hampton homes and who helped paint the black apartment.
