Fashion Climbing

by Bill Cunningham

  The show began with the first dress, which was a side-wrapped sarong worn three inches below the knee, in a beige-and-black abstract print, all very 1940. Many knowing people in the audience can tell whether the showing will be any good from the first gown out, as it usually represents the designer’s theme. The artist hiding under the desk poked his head up from beside the hyacinths, took a piercing look at the dress, and in an all-too-clear voice, boomed out, “It’s going to be a bomb!” and then crawled back under the desk to catch up on his lost sleep.

  The electrifying air of expectancy seemed to vanish, and just then an actual electrical fuse blew, leaving only the gray Paris light coming through the French windows that faced the Place de la Concorde, where Marie Antoinette and her gang cavorted before they lost their heads, and many of the sharp-tongued press were sitting just inside, ready to cut off the head of the designer.

  The next few dresses were more of the same: old looking, because of the long length. The audience started to fidget, and give each other deadpan glances. They couldn’t whisper, as Molyneux was sitting right in front of them. The feeling in the salon was like that of a trial. The next design was a lovely three-piece suit. The audience applauded, even though they would have ignored it at another designer’s. Under the circumstances, most people wanted Mr. Molyneux to succeed. Several times during the showing, the air of expectation tried desperately to pull itself back into the room, but never quite made it.

  The know-it-all press thought he was going to revive the 1930 softness from his heyday of stardom and that is now the overall theme of every Paris designer. But he did not. Instead, Molyneux picked up where he left off in 1950. Over at the Paris fashion library, the fashion magazines of the 1930s period have been practically worn out, as almost every designer in Paris has been flipping through the pages in hopes of recapturing the spirit of Molyneux in that era. Of course, they wasted their time, as it was his designing for the present, not the past, that made him a star. And this is why this collection should not be judged as a failure. Like Chanel when she first made her revival, everyone laughed and said to put it back in the trunk. But Chanel, with the enthusiasm and encouragement of Vogue’s editors, who believed in her basic philosophy, put her suits into the spirit of the time. Now Molyneux, who showed some wonderful ideas, and particularly oriental-inspired gowns that could be the straw in the wind, needed this same readjustment. When the show was over, crowds surged forward to greet him, gushing praises. He wasn’t fooled. As the dozens of cameras recorded these tense emotional moments, I carefully watched his face, and I could tell he knew all too well what they really thought of the collection. That same evening, Molyneux gave a huge party downstairs at Maxim’s famous restaurant. Everyone chic in Paris was invited. Lots of people got weak stomachs at the thought of celebrating his return—which by any standards couldn’t be called even a mild success. But everyone loved him, so they showed up by the hundreds, and he made them feel at ease with his gentlemanly manner.

  After the ten days of five showings a day, most of the buyers and press left Paris. The spring showings were over, except for the three most important designers who don’t show to the press until a month later. The salesgirls were so exhausted from the hysteria of those three weeks that they could hardly get their aching bones out of the Louis XIV chairs to greet the complaining leftover buyers. There was a lot of excitement the last couple of days. It seems the American buyers had, without knowing it, bought a lot of designs and materials that turned out to be imported from China, courtesy of Le Grand General de Gaulle, who wanted all our gold so he could trade with the Red Chinese. At any rate, it was all discovered as the Americans started to go through customs and were told that the clothes they had bought wouldn’t be allowed into the United States because of the Chinese materials. Immediately, there was a monumental pile of canceled orders with designers like Dior, who had to switch to European fabrics.

  While I waited in Paris for the last shows, I had three weeks to ransack all the fabric and accessory houses. It was an inspiration to see and feel the construction of the cloth that had shaped the thousands of designs I had written about. The second you feel the material, you realize why the coat, suit, or dress was cut that certain way. Everything depends on the drape and weight of the fabric. Each fabric house has what it calls a book of the models. This is a sample book showing all the materials each designer used from the firm. The button and belt houses show why Paris is the center of fashion. Here, in one city, are hundreds of artisans, all creating accessories for fashion. New York, Rome, London, and California cannot be tops as long as they don’t have the artisans to dye each sample material, create the special button, design the right flower. In New York, you had to order buttons by the gross or cloth by the bolt, whereas in Paris, designers could have just the amount to make an original. It was still an individual business in Paris, while in New York it was huge volume, with no shelter for experimentation. In Rome, the generations of fine Italian tailors were the backbone of their fashion industry. But European designers began to gear their workrooms to mass-produced ready-to-wear. The final nail in the coffin was poised to strike custom-made clothing, and a tradition started by the first couture house, Worth, in the 1800s, seemed headed for its grave.

  Fashion must be instantaneous, ready to be worn out the door of the shop, the day you want it—not four weeks later. Of course, wonderful imaginative clothes will disappear, but frankly it seems that no one really wants them. The practical way of life, with all its harsh realities, has taken a firm hold on women’s fashion. But, like the horse and buggy, life must move on, on to a rocket.

  After a few weeks, the first of the three top designers who slammed the doors on the press arrogantly opened them. I was one of the few American newspaper reporters to still be on the scene. Designer Yves Saint Laurent usually had bulging crowds of eager press people who publicized his work to the top. But then he turned on them when they failed to write kindly about one of his collections. At that day’s showing, only seventy-two people appeared, where three hundred and fifty had sat during previous seasons. Only one salon was used, and the winding stairway that usually held one hundred souls was lonely and empty. The two brown satin sofas that were accustomed to the most important press fannies were taken over by less august persons. An air of arrogant “we don’t need the press” greeted each arrival. The warm, friendly feeling of the past was now frozen-faced and formal. The designs were filled with charm, and most women would have sat hypnotized by the many creative ideas. The bride ended the show wearing, instead of the traditional veil, a big eight-inch-brimmed white sailor hat with a trellis-like veil to the floor, all dotted with white spring flowers. It’s a shame the house insisted on putting on such airs. They didn’t need to; the beautiful clothes spoke so loudly we shouldn’t have had to hear the internal feuding.

  The second designer to ban the press, Givenchy, showed after Saint Laurent. His house was one of the most imposing mansions in Paris, at least from the outside. The street-floor boutique was very elegant, with huge Persian vases and cocoa-brown leather floor-touching tablecloths holding displays of scarves and jewels. A pastel array of gloves rested fan-shaped on a cocoa-brown hand-tooled-in-gold-leather pillow. In the middle of the room, a gold Louis XVI urn sprouted spring flowers. All the anxious ticket holders climbed the grand stairway to the big, airy salon, which looked rather dull in its mousy off-white paint. The salon is obviously for showing clothes, not impressing customers.

  In the audience was America’s top Vogue editor, Mrs. Vreeland, who had flown to Paris just for this show. Seconds before the parade of models, she dashed down to the opposite end of the room, where her competitor, Harper’s Bazaar, was sitting on the gray sofa. Mrs. Vreeland gave the grand dowager editor, Marie-Louise Bousquet, an affectionate kiss. Then the show started.

  To my eyes, it was rather like an old familiar symphony that you didn’t mind hearing again. But it didn’t inspire you to actively debate. The Givenchy fashion con
cept, so well balanced with exquisite taste, was almost extinct in that day of flamboyant coloring. The two-hour show certainly wasn’t as fresh as it had been when the designer’s message was thrilling the world. But let’s face it, there was enough cool, calculated dynamite in his great new dresses to keep the whole fashion dress market sizzling with sales for the next two years. Everything in his collection looked 100 percent Audrey Hepburn, the designer’s favorite customer. Mr. Givenchy watched the showing from a giant-size peephole in the wall of the main salon. He didn’t see the fashion editors spilling much ink over his newest designs, but then he never did seem to care a hoot about the press, let alone entertaining them.

  The buyers tell a story of one of his early shows, when Givenchy stood behind a Chinese lacquered screen with a peephole cut out of it. Halfway through the showing, the screen fell over, exposing “le grand” Givenchy himself! It’s no wonder designers have little respect for the fickle press. If you could just see the rogues’ gallery of hideously dressed people who call themselves fashion experts and dictate to the world. Why, 90 percent of them look like they never had a mouthful of taste. Sitting next to me at Givenchy was a real lulu representing one of the top German papers. Five foot tall, bow-legged, with a face of wrinkled leather framed by bleached-blond hair and a tweed beret that didn’t match or blend with her yellow-gold suit and sequin blouse. She was chewing a wad of gum while smacking her messily painted red lips. A pair of chandelier-length diamond earrings swayed back and forth as her short and dumpy many-ringed fingers spelled out the elegant fashion news. Her skirt was seven inches above her knees when sitting, and her white boots reached the kneecap. All I could think was that this lady was telling others what to wear.

  Next came the most important show of all, the world-famous Balenciaga. My invitation to his showing hadn’t arrived. Knowing the house would be difficult about handing out invites, I was worried to death. I had already suffered a couple of sleepless nights wondering whether I’d get in. I gathered my courage and called the house, two days before his show, and was brusquely told there would be no ticket, as I was with Women’s Wear, the American fashion trade paper that spies on every move Balenciaga makes. Madame Vera, the press attaché for the house, who looked like a kind, motherly gray-haired woman with a memory like an elephant’s, set the rules as to how the show would be run, and just who will see it. We talked for twenty minutes on the phone, while I explained that I had left Women’s Wear two years ago. There was a lot of cross-examination, and finally I was invited to come right over to meet Madame Vera. I always felt this was so she could give me the once-over.

  When I arrived at the boutique, it was neatly arranged with tables of scarves and gloves. Two very large mink blankets were thrown over the emerald-green sofa, and a bronze deer and a few Louis XVI mirrors set the mood. The elevator that took you up to the inner sanctum was completely lined with wine-colored leather. Once inside the sacred stomping ground of the world’s most elegant women, I was surprised to see a great deal of action. Customers and salesgirls were scurrying around in an unusual rush of business. As a matter of fact, it was the most businesslike salon I had ever seen in Paris. The desks were scattered with fabric samples, and the usual too-elegant atmosphere that frightens most customers away in all other designers’ salons was absent. Instead, Mesdames Vera and Renée, the two most feared salesladies in Paris—even by the brashest buyers—watched everyone entering the room. Many a rich and famous lady had been coldly turned away. It mattered little whom you were with; once the Baroness Rothschild, one of the biggest private buyers, brought along an equally rich American friend, but was refused service. The House of Balenciaga had the upper hand. They had the biggest business in Paris, and rejected what would be considered star customers for other dressmakers.

  I must say that my cross-examination turned out to be an enjoyable half hour spent with Madame Vera. We exchanged ideas and philosophies. The house did away with all the phonies trying to get in by the use of some obscure news medium. You only got in if you represented a substantial paper or magazine. And then only one person from each journal could attend—unlike other designers who let in as many as six from one big paper. And you didn’t get back in the next season unless you sent the house a clipping of what you’d written. Luckily, it’s the most creative fashion house in Paris, so you can almost be certain to write a favorable report. In this salon, the place was ruled by an iron fist (where’s the freedom of the press?) but it’s their salon, and if you wanted to see, you played the game their way or not at all. When Madame Vera finally handed me my invitation, I had the feeling I was being presented with the key to heaven.

  At last, the day of my seeing his collection in the flesh arrived. It was a typical cold, gray, end-of-February day. The night before the show, I tossed and turned in my $1.65 per night hotel. All sorts of nightmare disasters kept racing through my head. I must have thought of every conceivable casualty that could stop me from seeing the show.

  When I finally fell asleep, around two a.m., I was awakened by a huffing and puffing and terrific pounding in the tiny radiator, causing such a noise. Usually you could sit on the radiator all day and never even feel lukewarm. The steam was blasting off, and my instincts told me something was wrong. Here I was tucked away in a sixth-floor attic room, and of course the French never heard of anything like a fire escape. I leaped out of bed and opened the door. People were hollering and running up and down the stairs. The water heater had blown up, and the landlord was near hysterics. I was about to crawl out the alcove window onto the roof, when I was reassured everything was safe. Needless to say, I never slept the rest of the night. I would have been happy just going and sitting on the stoop at chez Balenciaga to wait.

  I arrived outside his shop two hours before the show. I was the first press person into the house, and when the gendarme-like Madame Renée showed me my seat, which was an excellent one right in the middle of the grand salon, my whole body seemed to sigh with relief. I had made it!

  As the audience arrived, I had a last horrifying thought: suppose I should fall asleep during the show! The rooms don’t have a breath of air, with all the locked windows and tightly drawn drapes to keep out the eyes of unwanted Peeping Toms. Mrs. Gloria Guinness, one of the world’s chicest women, sat four seats away from me, and when the show started, I never dropped an eyelash. For two hours the designs paraded by, in one of the most thrilling experiences. The effect was that of peace, repose, or a dream—rather like opium.

  Unlike other designers’ salons, where the press are always carrying on with side remarks, everyone here was fully alert, from the first suit out, which was the trend maker, with a new long wrist-length jacket and half-dollar-size gold buttons fitting it gently over the feminine figure. The dresses were the biggest thrill of all. Balenciaga had invented a new kind of slithery, seductive, sensuous sex with his bias-cut satin crepe gowns that clung to the body as if the wearer had just come out from under a shower. They revealed the torso and thighs with new enthusiasm; the garter line showed ever so slightly as his models slinked through the gray salon, which didn’t need any crystal chandeliers to light up the room. Magnificent floor-length evening coats were made of rippled taffeta pink ribbon and lilac buds, and there were sumptuously beaded sari gowns, worn with huge diamond necklaces. The accessories were fantastically different and creative. Every hat was a dream, from the rooster-red feathered cone reaching a foot high, to the yard-wide Mae West black taffeta brim. Seeing the fashion collection of Balenciaga was like bathing in a fountain of new faith. All my life I had believed in designers being themselves and making a strong personal statement, never giving a damn what their friends had to say, or the press critics, who know only how to push status symbols. Ninety-five percent of the time, the press are trying to influence designers. Since my earliest days, I can remember the affected accents from the editors of the slick fashion magazines. Their favorite phrase was: “If we could only corral your talent!” Well, Balenciaga’s collecti
on was a real kick in the pants to all the status snobs. His designs were purely his own ideas, with no outside influence. He broke every rule in the fashion book, with new shapes and construction, then thumbed his nose at the phonies by throwing ropes of rubies over tweed suit jackets, adding two diamond necklaces at a time to an evening gown. And the final scream of freedom was when he added two big diamond bracelets, worn on the outside of long white gloves. The snobs had been telling their readers for generations that only prostitutes wore their jewels over their gloves.

  For the first time at any fashion show, I came away with something really worth dreaming about. This man believed in everything I had hoped for. My spirit was renewed; the long, hard fashion climb had been filled with constant disappointments. But when I finally reached the top of the fashion ladder, I found the rainbow pot of gold. No one will ever again be able to influence my fashion thinking, for I have seen the proof of creative design, and it’s worth every drop of hardship to climb to the top.

  On Society

  In the 1930s and ’40s, fashion revolved around the movies. In the 1950s and ’60s, fashion was inspired by society. Fashion climbing replaced social climbing with the birth of Christian Dior’s New Look of 1947. An enormous change of fortune took place during the war, leaving half the names in the Social Register impoverished. Once-swanky resorts and private clubs had sprung leaky roofs and were now in search of new fortunes to embellish their stomping grounds. The white ermine that cuddled the elegant snobs of the 1930s had turned yellow, or were being cut up to make collars and cuffs in a last desperate hold on the ladder of affluence. The Protestant-dominated social playground of Park Avenue was the scene of bitter battles. Regiments of Seventh Avenue manufacturers and Texans turned into superb fashion climbers, using the ballrooms of the Waldorf, Plaza, and Astor hotels as the most voluptuous battlefields since the days of medieval splendor, when knights in shining armor fought for the titles of Europe. The weapons of this historic battle were to be fashion. The invading army advanced in shimmering splendor, while the old guard threw up its first barricade of moth-eaten chinchilla, and tarnished brocades and sapphires. As in the days of old, the French came to the aid of the revolutionary forces, led by a Monsieur Christian Dior. He brought with him a new miracle weapon, the atom bomb of fashion, his New Look. The bomb scored a direct hit in New York City: total destruction of existing armor. The Social Register mortgaged its Newport and Southampton summer cottages, along with its mighty palaces lining the gold coast of Fifth Avenue. The invading army was sweeping across Central Park’s green lawns, and the baronial castles of Fifth Avenue couldn’t stand the barrage of new ammunition: fashion. The pedigreed family label was totally eclipsed by those of Paris designers sewn into the collars of the advancing army. The news media of the world headlined the names of Dior, Fath, and Balenciaga. At each charity ball skirmish, the big scream was, “Whose dress is it?” as reporters bolted from behind potted palms. The gossip columns were filled with the names of fashion designers. The press cared little about the wearers, so long as their gowns had a label. The old guard indulged in the new ammunition, and each party became a rivalry of fashion. It was like a superb game of chess, with all the pawns gowned by Paris.