Fashion Climbing

by Bill Cunningham

  Lurking in the background were the newly christened American designers. Their playing field was a checkerboard, slipcovered in less imposing fashions; the game was fought each day at the luncheon tables of the Colony and Le Pavillon restaurants, where the best-looking coats and suits elbowed each other for front tables. Every night a new charity ball was formed by the old guard, as the night-before party had been conquered by the invaders. The hysterical pace of thinking up new diseases to benefit from these charity balls staggered the imagination. Some people invented diseases no one had ever heard of; so long as it sounded sickening and deadly, it could have its charity ball and allow the opposing forces to don their new finery. The biggest battles that will go down in history were all fought at the April in Paris Ball, led by General Elsa Maxwell. Miss Maxwell encamped her battalion at the first party, like an English picnic, at twenty-five dollars a head, held high in the Starlight Roof of the Waldorf. The audience was mostly old guard while the fashion climbers were onstage, performing a tableau. Mr. John, the milliner, portrayed Napoleon. Each year the battlefield enlarged, with the invaders being seated next to kitchen doors and in Siberian corners. The price of tickets steadily climbed. The arrival of the invaders’ fashion armor eclipsed the badly wounded old guard’s satins and laces. The newcomers were being splashed over the photo pages of the next day’s papers.

  Each succeeding year the invaders advanced on the ringside tables in more ravishing plumage. The old guard’s social bigwigs counterattacked successfully in 1958. Their leader wore the first solid gold beaded gown. The invaders were shocked, and totally defeated in their tulle and brocades. Every newspaper headlined the gold-beaded socialite. The following year, the Waldorf ballroom was dynamited by the invaders, wearing a blizzard of beaded gowns. This was the year that the fashionable women adopted the wearing of sunglasses in the evening. The trillions of sequins and beads wiggling over the fannies of the fashion-climbing warriors nearly did in the opposition, but with one last gasp, the Social Register crowd went back to its exhausted sewing machines, reappearing the following year as the understated maid. Not since the days of the Puritans had anyone seen such dull clothes. The advancing army appeared with diamonds on diamonds, and solid beaded gowns became three-dimensional, hanging like icicles all over the body. Television followed the new conquerors onto the battlefield in 1963, to record the hardest fought battle of the fashion-climbing war. The old guard just faded away. The ladies who once sat by the kitchen doors now found themselves at the ringmaster’s table, with no one to crack their whips at. The invaders would now have to look at each other, as Valhalla had been destroyed in the battle.

  Out of the old guard, a new young guard emerged with a strategy that was to change the fashion world. Their formula was a striptease. After years of their elders competing with the waterfall of new clothes worn by the rich invaders, young blue book society turned Park Avenue into an elegant burlesque stage, where each new fashion weapon of the invaders was removed; as the invaders came swirling up the avenue in tent coats, the new guard marched swiftly down in the skinniest, hungriest coats you’ve ever seen. The invaders wore their status mink coats as long as they could—the more the better, was the motto. The new guard shortened theirs to three inches above the knees, and many a climber nearly died having her mink coat shortened. This was the most genteel striptease act the fashion world had seen, reaching alarming proportions by late 1963, in the form of slip dresses and topless bathing suits, which finally drove the fashion-climbing weapons off the world’s stage.

  American designers were used as effective new weapons for a short time. The names of Norell, Sarmi, Chez Ninon, Mainbocher, and Ben Zuckerman were a surprise, and this attack by the invaders flourished. But it didn’t last long, as the designers climbed too fast themselves and were soon sitting at the best tables for lunch and dinner, thus putting them in the firing line of the invaders: Seventh Avenue, which marched on the coattails of the women they dressed. The designers got caught wearing the customers’ coats too often, and no general likes to be seen in the same uniform the buck private is wearing. The opera and the Easter parade were other colorful fields of battle, but these were destroyed by a bomb more powerful than fashion: television, which has never been kind to fashion. Since its orbit into life, TV has wounded fashion climbers in each combat.

  Indulging in fashionable society is quite a deadly game. The sidewalks of the fashionable East Side are covered with the footprints of slain invaders. The party pace is faster than a squadron of jet bombers, and equally as devastating. You’re only wanted while you’re news or new; once the social leaders have raped the message or news you represent, you’re a dead duck. The only way to last is never to let anyone really know you, for society is only friendly to new faces, out of fear that you’re better than they. It’s that old insecurity of American climbers. At all those fabulous parties you read about, 85 percent of the guests don’t go to enjoy themselves, but to rub shoulders and climb, and show off their wealth. These poor devils go out on the town not for relaxation and fun, but as a challenge known only to army generals in the heat of combat. When one stops to remember all the glamorous fashion climbing that was achieved under the banner of humble, poor charity—the sole cry of each of the thousands of luncheons, balls, and theater parties that set the battlefield—oh, how I yearn for my youthful days, when women wore lovely clothes for the sheer pleasure and joy of pleasing their friends.

  On Taste

  Taste is something very few people have in large quantities, although Madison Avenue advertising would have you believe each time you buy one of their products, you automatically get an overdose of taste. Now, enough of that nonsense. No one is ever going to bottle taste. It’s a sense you are born with, and if you’re smart, cultivate like a rare flower all through life. Taste comes from both sides of the tracks: the environment during the growing years, and parents who know when to expose a child to fine music, books, art, and the association of friends. And God’s graces are just as abundant to the poor. Many of the world’s greatest artists and musicians came from humble surroundings. It’s all very true: high fashion does gravitate around society, who claim to have taste. It’s only because they have the time, money, and places to wear trendsetting creations. It’s a ridiculous belief that money brings taste; it definitely doesn’t. As a matter of fact, it often merely allows one to enjoy bad taste with louder vulgarity. If a large number of society women appear to have fine taste, it’s not necessarily so, as these groups all follow the mold established by a couple of leaders. This crowd is scared to death to ever express its own personality or taste, out of fear of criticism. Women outside sleek social cliques often enjoy more freedom expressing personal taste; that’s why the cities of Chicago, Dallas, and San Francisco have larger numbers of individually fashionable women who are not dominated by the rigid rules of a few leaders.

  The international group have no more taste than the average woman, but they do have the good sense to put themselves in the hands of capable fashion advisors. When these ladies of international society pay thousands of dollars for their clothes, it’s not just for the cloth and workmanship, but rather for the quality of taste the designer has built into the clothes. Even with these gilt-edged million-dollar advantages, you still can’t buy taste, as it’s in the actual wearing; how the body moves, the quality hidden deep inside the wearer’s soul, speaks so loud you can’t see what they’re wearing. That’s why people often remark, “What a ravishing lady!” but fail to realize each effect, as the quality of the woman’s personal taste is so strong it eclipses everything being worn. Taste is never limited to just one style. Hollywood flair can be done with great taste. A servant can have superb taste in tying her apron. Taste is constant; style varies from season to season. It’s all in how the wearer adjusts the new style to her proportions. Most mistakes in dressing are committed with proportion of clothes to the body, and the hideous mixture of screaming textures and colors. All this is the reason why women sh
ould never go to a designer simply because the newspapers and magazines are raving how marvelous he is. Women should stop and think, selecting the designer’s work that best suits their temperament and personality. It’s the same with interior decoration. You choose the designer whose taste resembles your own.

  This is how chic women get themselves together. They never run around buying odds and ends, which howl bad taste when put together. Rather, they assemble each costume individually, with the exception of sports clothes, where the mixing and blending of unusual styles form a pleasing composition. After observing hundreds of openings, restaurants, and balls, I believe there are very few people born with fine taste. Most people acquire style for status, which never truly satisfies the personal desire to be your real self. This is why really new fashions are so long in catching on, as so few women have the authority of their own beliefs to wear something before everyone else. At any time, in any city, only a few dozen women can be said to have total taste. The ten-best-dressed list is the most outrageous lie of our times. How could a few editors pick women they have never seen to be the winners? It’s merely the stunt of publicity operators, promoting the egos of customers or yearly celebrities.

  There’s no question that different types of clothing change the personality of the wearer. A woman in sloppy, untasteful clothes is always complaining without knowing why. Her spirit takes on the same appearance as her outer armor. Just look at the glow in the eye of most women when a mink coat is slipped over her shoulders. Her mood becomes sophisticated and elegant. Give the same woman a worn-out muskrat coat, and she would sneak along all the back streets so no one would see her. How many times have I witnessed a fabulous fun party ruined because the guests are asked to wear formal clothes, which they’re not accustomed to and feel over-ritzy in, all because their hostess wants to put on the dog. She should consider the lives of her guests and not put them into a costume. One of the Vanderbilts wouldn’t ask their swanky dinner guests to appear in bohemian clothes unless it were a masquerade. People definitely feel odd wearing clothes they’re not accustomed to. It throws a stiff, unenjoyable atmosphere into the occasion, and the guests don’t feel free to let their hair down, as they’re trying too hard to be something they’re not. Real sophistication takes a long time to acquire, although elegance is inside a person.

  Often the well-dressed rich enjoy playing the beatnik, wearing their black stockings and turtleneck sweaters. It’s rather fun, so long as they can change back to their glad rags by the next sunrise. Think of all the formal wedding parties where bridal consultants scare the fun out of the whole affair by imposing a lot of passé traditions on the unprotected family, who just want to do it right. Why, many of these affairs would turn into funeral atmospheres, if it weren’t for the colorful clothes. It’s only after the guests have started to lap up the champagne that they finally forget all the nonsense and relax. I think they should chloroform those damned bridal consultants, with their snobbish books of rules.

  Just look what happens to men and women in the army and navy uniforms—their whole attitude changes; a feeling of superior power emerges when they don the spit and polish of uniforms.

  Most women stumble over a few basic elements of fashion when it comes to choosing their own clothes. Usually they are so busy imitating a friend or celebrity that they never really see themselves in the mirror; all they can visualize is the glamorous image they’ve seen in the picture. They don’t seem to understand the proportion of their own body to the lines of the clothes. They allow the sleeves, neckline, tunics, and jackets to cut the figure in the wrong places. Unfortunately, the salespeople selling don’t know what they’re doing either, and couldn’t care less, so long as they sell. Colors should be complimentary to the skin tone and change all during one’s life.

  The wearing of clothes at the proper place and time is so important. How many times have you seen women trotting off at nine a.m. dressed like they’re going to a six p.m. cocktail party? And those luncheon parties are forever looking like an English tea party, with hats that should be kept inside their boxes for late afternoon, or Easter Sunday. And the idea of wearing classic, simple clothes to play it safe is equally in bad taste. To be seen at the opera or a concert in a tailored suit or day dress is just as awful as the wrong feathers at the wrong hour of the day. When it comes to great individual fashion, as often shown in Vogue and Harper’s, the general public—even if they were given the high styles free of charge—wouldn’t know what to do with them, or have the slightest idea how or where to wear them. These high fashions, in their pure form, are meant for only a few women. It’s only one in ten thousand who could successfully wear furs, feathers, jewels, and satins all at once and not look like a streetwalker. Incidentally, speaking of streetwalkers, prostitutes are very fashion conscious. You’d be amazed at how chic and elegant they carry themselves off. No more of those black satin dresses and the swinging beaded handbags. As a matter of fact, one of today’s most elegant women was a lady of the night not so long ago, and now she’s leading the whole western world of fashion. Did I hear the ladies of the Southampton beach club burp? It takes superb posture and carriage, plus exquisite manners and generations of good breeding, to carry off high fashion. You can’t slipcover a pig and expect it not to grunt. Well, it’s the same formula in high fashion—it’s rarely an art, as most people don’t have the taste, money, or time.

  But let’s hope the fashion world never stops creating for those few who stimulate the imaginations of creative designers, and on wearing their flights of fancy, bring fashion into a living art. There’s only one rule in fashion that you should remember, whether you’re a client or a designer: when you feel you know everything, and have captured the spirit of today’s fashion, that’s the very instant to stand everything you have learned upside down and discover new ways in using the old formulas for the spirit of today. Constant change is the breath of fashion.

  Laura Johnson’s Philosophy

  To anyone designing for her, her advice was: “Don’t walk while designing for me; run, run, run, till you’re out of breath! Then throw out all your timid thoughts, and give me emotion.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Bill Cunningham, the iconic New York Times photographer, was the creative force behind the columns On the Street and Evening Hours. Cunningham dropped out of Harvard and moved to New York City at 19, eventually starting his own hat design business under the name "William J." His designs were featured in Vogue, The New Yorker, Harper's Bazaar, and Jet. While covering fashion for publications including Women's Wear Daily and The Chicago Tribune, he took up photography, which led to him becoming a regular contributor to the New York Times in the late 1970s. Cunningham was the subject of the documentary "Bill Cunningham, New York." His contributions to New York City were recognized in 2009 when he was designated a "living landmark."

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Contents

  Preface

  The Doors of Paradise

  Becoming William J.

  My First Shop

  A Helmet Covered in Flowers

  The Luxury of Freedom

  Nona and Sophie

  The Southampton Shop

  Fashion Punch

  The Top of the Ladder

  On Society

  On Taste

  Laura Johnson’s Philosophy

  About the Author

 

 

 
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