The idea of the French couture charging “caution fees” of one thousand dollars a head to professional buyers is totally antiquated. No more than a half dozen houses in Paris still show the talent to warrant such high prices. I’ve been in Paris four days, and you wouldn’t believe the stuff they’re passing off as “grand couture.” It’s either rank amateur or covered with provincial dressmaking details. I speak here of the smaller houses, as I haven’t seen any of the big shows. As for the young talent, I’ve seen no individual thought in the mob. Believe me, I’m not prejudiced, just mortified at what’s being labeled “Design.”
THURSDAY 9 A.M. DIOR
I found the new prestige place to view the collection. It’s no longer the grand stairway, but a little balcony overlooking the salon. I was the first one there. Half an hour later, thirty people crowded in, including the Marquesa de Portago, in a full-length sable coat and her little daughter, Andrea, looking starry-eyed at the exotic model Kouka. Down in the salon, it looked like Filene’s Basement on Dollar Day. It’s a game in Paris to make you wait and feel you won’t get into the show. And when you finally do get in, the feeling is very special. Here they left only a twenty-four-inch passageway for eight hundred people to enter the salon. Gilt chairs blocked the way, as Dior director Jacques Rouet stood right beside me, and never lifted his voice to ease the situation. Inside the salon, wisteria vines climbed over the spring flowers on the mantel. Danielle Darrieux must have felt she was sitting in the middle of a football field when five women fell right on her as they elbowed their way into the salon. The soignée Vicomtesse de Ribes was something to see, wearing a black-and-white tweed suit with a matching man’s fedora hat, black net stockings, and Toulouse-Lautrec boots. On a Louis Somebody table, all the artists of the major magazines and newspapers were standing to get a better look at the collection. Just as the mob reached a frantic height, a vulture-like vendeuse pulled Melina Mercouri to safety, all wrapped in her chinchilla hat and coat. The collection started amidst great silence. It was obvious from the very beginning that the theme of the collection was somewhat like a Louella Parsons party. Balenciaga was there in lovely coats; Saint Laurent was there with cowl-back dresses. Jimmy Galanos was there with his two-year-old jodhpur sleeves. Chanel was there, with her sweater suits, coats, short hair, and gardenias. Dior 1950 was there, in horseshoe necklines. The movie Last Year at Marienbad was there with self-fabric feathered necklines. Colette’s Gigi was there with all her big sailor Bretons and pizza-size berets on the back of the head. Lawrence of Arabia danced in and out, and occasionally Dior’s present designer Marc Bohan, plus a host of others, showed their talents.
I don’t like to kick someone when they’re down, but couldn’t the House of Dior just be themselves and forget evolution of other people’s ideas? A hundred of the two hundred models shown would have given the house success. Dior designer Marc Bohan has a definite signature, when you can get through to admire individual creations. His own personality was very creative in the draped kimono-like sleeves on suits and coats, and especially on the crepe dresses. The high, set-in sleeves, which are a cross between the Gibson girl and the leg-o’-mutton, sometimes reached within an inch of the collar. But frankly, they were too Galanos to my eye. The forty or more beaded dresses held no sparkle for me. This is why Norell is great. He knew when beaded dresses were dead, at couture level.
After the show was over, the scene looked like the rush into the subway after the Saint Patrick’s Day parade. New York fire commissioner Cavanagh would have flipped his helmet as golden chairs were tossed every which way, and the elegant ladies pushed out. Papers and cigarette butts littered the carpeted floors. Babs Simpson of Vogue was seen tossing a chair into a corner. Vogue’s editor-in-chief, Mrs. Vreeland, looked like a stone-faced chief being shoved down the stairway. The Vicomtesse de Ribes was busy passing the glad hand right in the middle of the foyer. Butlers with trays of champagne were struggling up the grand stairway against the tide.
I told John if he wouldn’t publish my apology to Galanos, I would quit, as I felt it was the only fair approach. I guess John thought I wanted a confessional set up in the office, but from that time on he and I never really saw eye to eye. As far as I was concerned, he appeared to be involved in outrageously dishonest favoritism, that pet game of the press. Of course, this is nothing new. You’d just die if you saw the press after a big show in Paris. Many of them gather together and discuss what they’ve just seen, and then write their reviews. It’s no wonder the following day even the professionals can’t make head nor tail of what they really are saying. How could the public possibly understand?
* * *
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ONE INCIDENT THAT stands out in my mind from my days at Women’s Wear was the Bonwit Teller affair. I was covering the fashion collection of Pierre Cardin’s reproductions, which Bonwit had copied for their junior department. The clothes were heralded as the latest models out of Cardin’s Paris workroom, but after seeing the collection, the truth of the matter was they were all two- and three-year-old rehashed designs. The show was embarrassingly awful, and Cardin, who was in the audience, was so upset by the degrading spectacle of his talent that he walked out saying he would never deal with Bonwit’s again. I remember writing a rather critical story on the showing, and a lot of people thought there would be a reaction.
Two days later, another invitation from Bonwit’s arrived, inviting me to review their fur collection. I must say I was slightly surprised that they’d send an invitation after my critical report. I put the invitation into my pocket and sashayed off to the third-floor fur salon, where a couple of hundred customers and press were eagerly awaiting the newest styles in furs. I took a seat on one of the gray sofas along with other members of the press. When presto! up came the president of the store, Mr. Smith, and grabbed me by the collar. He gave me a couple of quick pokes in the face, and with the third punch, a very elegant black eye. And before I knew it I was tossed out on the street! I didn’t fight back, thinking I was a representative of the press and that this might get a little bit sticky. So, after picking myself up from the Fifty-Sixth Street sidewalk, I called our publisher and related the dramatic story. He said to forget it, and added that he thought I deserved the whole incident—he thought Smith was totally in the right. Well, the staff of Women’s Wear didn’t buy John’s thinking. The fur editor had been sitting next to me and saw the whole incident, which she related in detail to the staff of the paper. The editorial people held a meeting and demanded that Fairchild put a notice of the incident in the next day’s paper, if only to protect all his other writers.
After all, it was John who wanted everyone to write very opinionated reports on the collections, and now when fists were flying, he was hiding from the brickbats. The other New York newspapers were on strike at the time, and the incident was forgotten. I wrote what I thought was a perfect column about the incident, but John would not print it. Here it is:
FASHION PUNCH
There is nothing like fashion for exciting change. You never know what is going to be in vogue next. I always want to be up to the last minute. At Bonwit’s Tuesday afternoon fur show, Mr. William Smith, the distinguished president, oozing brotherly love from every pore, oiled his way across the floor and demanded that I get out. When I showed my genuine invitation, he grabbed me by the back of the neck and dragged me out—what an exit! There hasn’t been as much beaded drama on Broadway all season. There is nothing like a refined, elegant exit when you’ve been invited. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the soft beautiful furs I was promised. Instead I saw Mr. Smith’s fist, with three quick blows in the face. You can’t tell what kind of a fashion punch is lurking behind all those satins and laces!
Of course, I really should thank Mr. Smith for putting me right at the height of fashion. Blackened eyes are the only way to look, if you follow all the advice of Bonwit’s beauty department. I guess I’m extra special; my black eyes came from the president himself. None of the fashionable society l
eaders can match that—I hope.
The most thrilling part of the fashion business is the quick change from feathers to bricks, from extraordinary tempers to “O, darlings.” I wouldn’t want it any other way, so long as we make women beautiful, through the enjoyment of creative clothes.
I haven’t heard from President Smith, and I doubt there will be a rematch, as we are both too busy wondering what will be the success of spring selling.
I hope Bonwit’s has more exciting clothes from Pierre Cardin next season, and I hope Mrs. Smith remains the enthusiastically interested fashion lady she is, and enjoys wearing the lovely daisy-lined raincoat. Fashion shows should excite women to buy right after the show—that’s a healthy business. I’ll be looking forward to seeing more of Bonwit’s shows as soon as I lose my black eyes.
* * *
—
EVERYONE WAS YELLING at me to sue Bonwit’s, but I decided it wasn’t the thing to do, and I called the president of Bonwit’s two hours after the incident. He wouldn’t talk to me on the phone—I guess he was off with his lawyers, deciding what to do, and I wanted to settle the matter like gentlemen.
Two days after the incident, Mr. Smith called me and said he didn’t feel there was any reason for him to apologize, as he thought we were even. I dropped the whole thing, but a year later rumors were spreading around Seventh Avenue that Mr. Smith was denying the whole incident, and that I had made up the story. Many people, noticing I hadn’t sued, thought he was right. So in order to save face, a year later we filed suit, which was settled out of court with Bonwit’s paying the award for one black eye: three hundred bucks. As you can see, it wasn’t the money involved, it was more setting my record straight for the future.
I stayed on with Women’s Wear through spring of ’62, but they started limiting the areas in which I was free to write, and toward the end, five people in the office were editing the column, each taking out what didn’t suit him or her. In the meantime, John held a staff meeting to which I wasn’t invited, and he told of the Herald Tribune’s Eugenia Sheppard calling him at home to tell him that I was saying all sorts of terrible things about the paper and the people who worked there. When I finally heard the stories, I knew I had never said them, as they weren’t my kind of language.
First of all, I enjoyed working at the paper, and everyone on the staff was a longtime friend. Any disagreements I had with John were personal, and certainly wouldn’t have caused me to belittle my friends. At any rate, John succeeded in turning the staff against me, but several intelligent people in the office told me not to pay any attention, as this was just another one of his tricks to get everyone fighting against each other, creating jealousies in the hope that everyone would work harder.
I immediately called Eugenia on the phone and confronted her with the story, which she denied having any part of, but John stuck to his story. One of Eugenia’s assistants at the Trib confronted her, demanding an explanation. But Eugenia denied it all, with a rather guilty look all over her face. Realizing I was the victim of typical fashion-world behavior, I asked for a meeting between John and Eugenia and the staff, but all John said was, “Forget it, William, in a couple of years you’ll never remember it.” I suppose this was his admission of guilt. After all this, I could feel very little respect for a boss who would stoop so low. I feel that beautiful success can be had without being a schemer. I would never accept a belief that only the players who throw the foul balls succeed. I feel no matter what the odds appear to be in favor of the material world, good will win out in the long run. Plus, I’ll be able to look God straight in the eye on Judgment Day and not be ashamed of deceitful deeds and people stomped on while climbing the fashion ladder.
The Top of the Ladder
Covering the European openings for a newspaper is the fashion experience of a lifetime, especially if you survive for a return engagement. The trip, which many people think is a plum reporting job, is not the luxury vacation many might imagine. The showings started in Italy, with a few minor offerings in Rome, but what really counted in Rome was the number of parties you’re invited to, as most of the leading Italian designers were located in Rome and claimed some kind of aristocratic title. You never heard so many fancy pedigrees. It always surprises me that one family could have five princes and princesses, and all of the kids in the family traded on the title, with the American fashion press falling over their rhinestone tiaras, rushing to each party in the hope of being introduced to some ex-royalty. The Italians, being no dopes, make the most of it, inviting all their royal friends. It can honestly be said that the important pages of the slick fashion magazines were decided upon during these parties, before anyone got to Florence, where the showings supposedly were unveiled for the first time. All the politicking was done days before the openings, as each year the magazines showed pages of designs from some princess who copies Balenciaga. And the poor nobody designer, who really had ideas in his head, often went unnoticed. Then, all the super-glamorous fashion press and buyers left Rome on the same luxury train to Florence, with all their furs and affected mannerisms—it was one of the best shows.
On my first trip in January of 1963, after my departure from Women’s Wear, this deluxe train was delayed in the mountains of central Italy for seven hours while a blizzard raged outside. The ladies started to fall apart, as they’re not accustomed to delays. Finally, they were thrown off the luxury train into an isolated train station in a small village. The temperature was zero, and the local farmers were standing around gaping at the strange fashion people, wearing two fur coats at a time, hats and boots, and, naturally, their sunglasses. It was a scene out of a Marx Brothers movie, with the Italian trainmen moving the swells on and off little country trains, trying to decide how to get the important press to Florence. I vividly remember the Rome editor of Harper’s Bazaar all out of sorts over the delay. There she was, leaning out the train window, hollering back and forth at the little Italian trainmen, her body wrapped in a black alligator coat lined in thick white Mongolian lamb, a foot-tall black chiffon turban towering on her head. She was passing her case of jewels out the window to the porter as her train unexpectedly pulled away from the station. I’ll never forget this stylish lady screaming her head off and frantically waving as the train left for parts unknown. It always makes me think that these fashion magazine ladies tell the public how to be chic, even in the worst crises; meanwhile, they looked pretty disheveled themselves in a jam. All the advice they hand out doesn’t work when you’re outside the comfort of your plush office.
In Florence, the showings opened with great flair. The setting was the splendiferous white Pitti Palace ballroom, where the kings of Italy entertained, until central heating came into use and they moved to less grand surroundings with more comfort. The press didn’t seem to have to worry about the cold, as they let off enough hot air to heat the whole palace. Huge ramps lined the sides of the room, where twelve rows of canvas folding chairs supported the rich buyers. A long T-shaped runway went down the center, past the eagle-eyed buyers, to the end of the ramp where it turned horizontal and faced the three hundred seated members of the press. I always got there early on opening day—part of the fun was to see the prima donnas arriving. The conniving and jostling for front-row seats was beyond description; with the buyers it was a cut-and-dried proposition: those with the most money got the best seats. Naturally, the rich Americans lined the front row. Next, the English and Germans fought it out over the next four rows, leaving the back rows to the French, Belgians, and Japanese.
Down at the press section, it was a prestige affair that could make or break editors, turning them into hysterical rages. Many a top editor had been known to send spies into the room an hour beforehand just to be sure of a proper seating. The press ladies, especially the magazine girls, made fabulous calculated entrances, with their wardrobes planned out for three and four changes a day. In the front row were the top Americans, with the Italians on the side, bitching up a storm because they were not in the
center; and the Germans were on the other side and really didn’t mind, as they were near the entrance and could sneak out during the dull shows.
At the opening blast, everyone would “darlings” and “dearies” each other, with much hand kissing, but it didn’t last long after the showing started, and the controversy over the collections put an end to the lovey-dovey atmosphere.
There were two showings in the morning, with a fifteen-minute intermission while everyone downed pitch-black coffee to glue their eyelids up, as the evenings before were always filled with parties. Also at this time the press sharpened their hatchets, and friends of the designer spread complimentary rumors. Editors making deadlines dashed out to the telegraph office to file immediate stories. These were usually the wire services, and it was amazing how little they knew about fashion. Oftentimes, I sat by them and they were forever asking the dumbest questions. It seems their only interest was in finding a sensational headline, and if there wasn’t a drastic change in the clothes, then they would invent one. Many a time I read their headlines of the hemline falling, when the truth of the matter was that there wasn’t one lowered hem.
Fashion Climbing Page 14
