Fashion Climbing

by Bill Cunningham

  The salons were always stuffed with famous and infamous private customers, movie queens, and a few duchesses for a bit of good taste. Of course, all of this provided good copy for the press in case the collection stank. I remember one year the German press ladies were sitting on the steps behind me, at the House of Dior; their noses were out of joint because they didn’t get chairs, and the show was a half hour late in starting. The two gray sofas in the main salon were still empty, always saved for the most important personages. Meanwhile, three hundred other viewers sat cramped on those torturous little gold chairs, with seats too small for the derriere. Add to this, those vulture salesladies never allowed a window to be opened, for fear someone would peek in from outside and steal ideas. In summer, it was unbelievable, as no one had air-conditioning.

  At any rate, on this particular day tempers were getting hotter, and still the two sofas remained empty. The German press ladies were speculating over who could be so important as to hold up the whole show. I thought surely they’d lynch the VIPs—whoever they were—when they did arrive. Finally, the most powerful American buyers arrived and plunked their torsos into the satin sofas, and there was a chorus of “Wouldn’t you know it’s the Americans!”

  As the show began, my legs had already grown numb from their cramped position, and I couldn’t move without kicking the already cranky Germans. All during the showing of eighty-two coats and suits, I was in severe pain, trying to write the important facts, my elbows pinned flat against my sides by an Italian journalist who wasn’t a shade under two hundred pounds, who kept shaking her head and asking God to get her out of there alive. On the other side a Swedish woman dressed like a man smoked a pack of those smelly French cigarettes, puffing up a smoke cloud that almost obscured my view of the cocktail gowns.

  The rich private customers never got their refined noses into the main salon. They had to be contented with being seated in the entrance foyer. The ex–Mrs. Henry Ford and her daughter Charlotte were flagging numbers throughout the collection, like the clothes were a dollar apiece. Charlotte circled sixty-eight numbers, while Mummy was holding on to the Ford dollars by only checking fourteen. I didn’t mean to be nosy, but my seat on the grand stairway, with the rest of the undesirables, allowed me a perfect view of every mark their crayons left. Together, the two Fords just drooled over eighty-two new coats and suits. The total would set the Fords back at least $82,000, at a conservative average of one thousand dollars an outfit. I doubt they ordered nearly that, but Barbara Hutton once ordered everything shown at the House of Lanvin, at a cost of a million dollars.

  Halfway through the Dior collection, Dior’s directress, Madame Bricard, entered. One of the three ladies who started with Dior sixteen years earlier and was now considered the dowager duchess of fashion, she was a raving beauty at the turn of the century, a very grand demimondaine whom kings, princes, and dukes showered with jewels. Madame made her appearance at the top of the grand stairway and magnetized my eyes for the rest of the collection, as this extraordinary woman, sparkling with every conceivable device that forms the mystery of fashion, stood like a vision from one of the great French novels, the Madame Bovary of the 1960s. A tall baby-blue felt cone hat wrapped in yards of spidery black veil exposed marcelled black curls over each ear, which were hung with pearls and bloodred rubies; from the hat edge over the right eye dangled a brooch with a pearl the size of a nightingale’s egg. A pearl hatpin anchored the seductive veiling, which shadowed a face so preserved by the art of cosmetics, the eyes, lacquered and painted in silver fish streaks of green, drooped under the weight of inch-long lashes that served to shade the mystic sapphire blue of her eyes. Everyone in the room was riveted to this fascinating woman, whose delicate mouth darted out like a lovebird. Her swan-like neck was circled with sixteen strands of pearls, all of matchless quality, and two badge-size cabochon rubies. As the now-historic Madame Bricard sat on one of the filigree-like gold salon chairs, the dancing lights from the crystal chandelier seemed to scorch her eyes. Instantly, a many-ruby-fingered hand flashed open a black lace fan that madame used as a shield.

  By this time the audience was in a trance over the appearance of this lady, who was drenched and preserved in the artifice of fashion to a point where men were her slaves. Certainly, there wasn’t another ruby left in all of France, as Madame Bricard was wearing them all!

  For the finale, the ravishing ball gowns were shown, and my circulation had completely stopped. When the show was over and everyone jumped up to rush out, throwing their gold chairs into corners, the designer appeared and hysterical women went into the act of crying and kissing each other. As the mob swept down the stairway, six butlers loaded with trays of champagne held high over their heads pushed their way upstairs. It was like trying to conquer Mount Everest in a hurricane. I was fully paralyzed there on the steps, and nearly trampled to death trying to straighten out my twisted body. I managed to get to the street, and a half hour later the same scene was played at another collection. I’m glad to report that after many seasons my body has become totally immune to these tortures. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’d enjoy it half as much if I were able to just walk in and sit down. The battle seems to make it all that much more important.

  * * *

  —

  THE TRIP THROUGH THE DESIGN salons of Paris often set my imagination flying, especially when I arrived at chez Chanel and saw that delicious eighty-year-plus Witch of the West, Coco herself, darting around the top of the mirrored stairway, ordering the last-minute stitches into the clothes. The following is what I witnessed in her salon as I watched the spring 1965 collection.

  The fashion gates to heaven were thrown open by the goddess of fashion, the grand Mademoiselle Coco Chanel, and to my eye they looked a bit tarnished and seemed to squeak for the need of new oil. Twice a year, Chanel opened those mythical pearly doors, and the multitudes of the fashion press took their allotted places. Several dozen people, including one Harper’s Bazaar editor, could not persuade the house’s Saint Peter to let them in. Upstairs in this paradise of high fashion, where every inch of wall was mirrored to reflect any false movements of the guests or camera clicking, huge green-shaded lights exactly like the ones used over the prize-fight ring illuminated the path of the models to show the clothes, like disciples. The opening day audience had a fetish about wearing original Chanel suits. There were so many seen I wondered if they would be the eternal robe for the hereafter. As each woman sat and crossed her legs, there appeared dozens upon dozens of those sling-back shoes, in beige with black tips. Vogue magazine, as usual, sat on the huge beige velvet Jacobean sofa. Three out of the four were wearing the day’s uniform, last season’s successful suit, with yards of tiny gold chains hanging over the flat bosoms, which is Chanel’s trademark. The salon was set up very much how I expect the Judgment Day council to look, with Vogue as the judge. You see, they were the first to support Chanel when she made her comeback eleven years earlier. Sitting on the right hand was the New York Times, and the French magazine Elle, and on the left, Harper’s Bazaar, who were banished to purgatory for not supporting the designer when she reopened. The famous mirror-lined stairway was the Road to Eternal Life for those who have sat on the steps at the feet of the great fashion goddess, who watches from the top step, hidden from the curious human eyes in the salon below. That year, as usual, it was all men (quite handsome) who sat on the stairs, but there was one casualty, a sort of fallen angel—the publisher of the New York trade paper, who usually sat only one step below the great Chanel and held her hand during the show. This time he sat smack at the bottom of the stairs, and never once climbed to greet his former goddess. Just below the stairs, three dozen gold chairs held the worshipping private customers. Seconds before the show began, the top English fashion writer who was sitting next to me jumped up and threw an audible curse on Chanel. Seems the high-powered English lady was tossed into purgatory for using unkind words. The show was three-quarters of an hour late in starting as white-smocke
d sewers were seen dashing up and down the stairs, with the clothes hidden under sheets. A few brave souls in the audience started to clap, like they do when the movies are late in starting. It was a feeble attempt, as most people are afraid to move so much as an eyeball in fear of Chanel’s wrath, which was already roaring due to the delay. She could be a hellion on wheels and would think nothing of dumping the whole chic crowd out on the street. As the first model appeared, a dead, frightening silence fell over the room, such a silence as only occurs when the pope himself enters an audience chamber. The collection moved on at a funereal pace, each new tweed suit eagerly eyed for any new detail.

  Her suits all looked very familiar, and the press didn’t show any enthusiasm until the dresses appeared. And even then the press never applauded, although the private customers applauded twenty times during the show. It was all too much of something out of the attic trunk, and by the end of the long, hot show, it was quite evident that the great Chanel had thrown us the same old bone, which fashionable women had eaten clean for the prior eleven years. Too bad there wasn’t the usual hunk of newsy meat on the bone. That night in Paris everyone was wondering out loud whether those heavenly Chanel gates would ever open as wide, or if the winds of Molyneux, whose show opened the next day, were pushing them closed, as they had once before in the middle 1930s.

  All through the night, behind the satin and velvet draperies of the elegant fashion houses, the lights burnt to the wee hours of the morning, showering rays of hope on the 650 magazine, newspaper, and advertising editors from all over the world, each demanding to photograph the most successful dress, all at the same time. As the big doors of the Paris fashion houses swung closed each night at seven and the last rich buyer had climbed into her chauffeured limousine, a near-frantic line of waiting messengers and editors invaded the office of the four or five girls who managed the publicity department at each house. At successful houses like Cardin and Dior, the line to borrow the clothes ran long, and much excited yelling could be heard as prestige magazines got first choice. It matters little how early you place your order. If Vogue wants the same design as you, you’re out of luck; even though each collection shows 175 designs, there’s always that one dress that everyone decides is “it,” and it drives the publicity girls frantic to keep peace and good relations with the demanding press, who are all too often consumed by their self-importance. The publicity girls worked from 7:30 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. the next day, with only an hour for lunch and dinner. The girls at Dior told me they didn’t make as much money as their maids at home. These jobs were prestige affairs, where young debutantes could feel the pulse of the elegant business world, and escape back to their social whirls before the job lost its novelty.

  All through this three-week siege, every press person has only one fear: sickness. Good health is the most important asset. Frankly, I live on tea and sandwiches during the ordeal. Of course, I love the perfume of French cooking, but I haven’t got the stomach that would put up with it during the nerve-wracking showings.

  Another top attraction during these showings was the swanky hotel lobbies, where big crowds of buyers and press held their secret meetings, scheming ways to get into the collections without paying, passing photographs and sketches of the clothes. After the collections of the two most important designers, Balenciaga and Givenchy, who ban the press for a month, each journalist put on his dark glasses and fake moustache and hid behind one of the chestnut trees on the Avenue George V, where he darted out and hustled his source off to a hidden location when they came out after the showing. Here all the latest news is told in detail, while someone’s undisclosed flunky sketches from memory everything that’s just been seen. The Ritz Bar was the most famous hideout for buyers and press; at any hour of the day or night you could just quietly sneak in and sit down. You were sure to hear the whole inside story of Paris fashion. After an important show, you saw all kinds of people prowling like cats through the corridors of the Ritz.

  All the press automatically received invitations to the third- and fourth-rate collections, but when it came to the best collections, like André Courrèges, who was the most daring and creative designer at this time and had the smallest salon in Paris with seats for only forty lookers, it was a near miracle if you got in the first day. Having been an active admirer of his work from the beginning, I usually got in to the second show of the first day. The rooms were all hospital white: rugs, lamps, chairs, drapes, etc. Even the sewing girls wore white hospital smocks, like Mr. Courrèges. When you got out of the coffin-size elevator, which is standard equipment in Paris, you rang the doorbell and waited what seemed a hundred hours for one of the hawk-eyed salesgirls to open that damned door. There you stood, with that sickening white invitation in your sweaty hand, as the door opened a few inches and you got a thorough looking over. Then a stern, totally unsympathetic voice demanded to know what you wanted as you waved the invite for the showing. The pair of frosty cold eyes seemed to say, “What show?” And just as you were about to drop dead from fright, thinking you’d come on the wrong day, the door opened twelve inches and you squeezed in sideways. (Thank God I’m skinny!) Inside, the pure white carpet seemed to scream, “Take your dirty feet off me!” and the white-draped walls silently glared no welcome. The leader of Mr. Courrèges’s salon, Mademoiselle Brener, appeared with a long white paper that reminded me of a jail roster. She slyly smiled like the Mona Lisa, enjoying every minute of your discomfort, and promptly took you to one of the white cushioned chairs, edged in white ball fringe. Each time I sank my fanny onto the wretchedly uncomfortable chair, I sighed as if I’d been let in to the first spaceship. This same routine was followed as the forty guests arrive, and frankly it was a riot to watch the others, especially those high-and-mighty fashion editors, as they shrink to pint size. These same editors are the ones who are consumed by their own verbosity and cause near riots at other houses when their chairs aren’t in the front row. Here they don’t dare move a false eyelash, let alone change their chair. While all this hocus-pocus was going on, one big brown porcelainlike eye, framed by a hole in the white curtain closing off the models’ entrance, watched every move of the audience. It was the creepiest feeling to sit through the show with that big searching eye never resting its glance. But this was nothing compared to other houses, where five peepholes at a time watched the crowd.

  The funeral-parlor silence of the salon was shattered by the screaming electronic music switched on without notice at the beginning of the show, and causing half those old battle-ax editors to faint from fright. Mr. Courrèges was pure twentieth century, and his models blasted out into the showroom and streaked through the salon, all in step to the cold, bloodcurdling music. They moved just like robots while Mr. Courrèges himself, hiding behind the curtain, adjusted the volume to accent the models’ turns. The models walked so fast the editors’ pens flew over their pads, desperately trying to keep up with the revolutionary clothes. Nowhere in all Paris did you feel the rejuvenating spirit of modern clothes as at this house. The white drum-major boots of the models stepping through the rooms, the skirts three inches above the knee, the silhouette always in abstract squares. When the final blast of music dropped dead and the cold, clinical white of the salon chilled your romantic nineteenth-century flesh with goose pimples, your pen just collapsed from exhaustion as your body felt as if it had been squeezed through a wringer.

  If you get the fashion message, you bolt out of your seat applauding. The old-time fuddy-duddies just leaned back and gasped for another breath. There was no soupy emotional kissing the designer after this show, as Mr. Courrèges never appeared, not even to the demanding command of Vogue and Harper’s, who wished to be presented to Courrèges. Instead, everyone was quietly and quickly hustled out of the salon. Frankly, I felt it was cruel to shove us out into the dirty sooty air of Paris, with no time to daydream, as the showings there took place one after the other. Out on the street, there was a mad scene while everyone screamed for taxis.

  The next
showing was the revival of Molyneux, who had been the great leader of the 1930s. After many years of retirement, and at the age of seventy, Mr. Molyneux, an elegant, refined gentleman, was staging a comeback. Everyone wanted to be present for his moment of triumph. There wasn’t an inch of space in his newly decorated brown-and-beige salon. The air was filled with expectation, and old ladies overflowed with the memories of beautiful gowns monsieur had designed for them in his heyday. They could hardly restrain a flood of tears at the thought of once again recapturing their past beauty. I was allotted standing room; hopefully, I snuck into the grand salon and squeezed into eight inches of space behind a vase of pink apple blossoms that I thought would camouflage me from the sharp-eyed salesgirls who sat each jealous guest according to his importance. Just as I was shifting from one foot, a hollering voice ordered me out from behind the fragile blossoms. I was relegated to the entrance foyer, where all the third-rate outcast press were causing a riot over space. I climbed over three rows of chairs, then crawled over the top of the howling head salesgirl’s desk, and finally rested my worn-out feet on a patch of the brown carpet. A huge plant of white hyacinths blocked my view and nearly suffocated me with its drenching perfume. I quickly moved the potted plant under the desk, where I discovered a famous American fashion artist was hiding for safety. Unlike the other salons, where peepholes in the curtains allow the designers to watch the press, Mr. Molyneux did something no one has ever done before: he walked out into the salon just before the show started and sat in the center of the chocolate-brown sofa. Everyone nearly died, but recovered themselves to rock the salon with their applause.