When she returned home late that night and picked up the ringing telephone, he was breathless with panic. “Get a ticket!” he cried. “You’re coming to New York! We have to talk.”
By the time she reached his apartment in Manhattan, he was figuratively on his knees. “I’ve been an utter fool!” he cried. “I lavished money and gifts on someone who wanted me more for the things I could offer her than for who I was. When she insisted I leave you, I was horrified and told her, ‘No! Bruna is a part of me, like an arm or a leg. I can never leave her!’ ”
He assured her his affair was over. He promised to remain true to her forever. His words seemed heartfelt and Mamma longed to trust him. As always, though, her abiding concern was our security in case she couldn’t. “You must promise me that Patricia will always be your priority,” she told him coolly. “I don’t care about me—you don’t have to leave me a thing—but you must vow to provide for our daughter in the same way that you would provide for your sons.” He gave her his word.
My father then became “an angel overnight,” according to my mother. Struck by her tenacity and besotted with her all over again, he even lived up to his oath to be a better “husband.” Spontaneously, she’d telephone him at the office to say, “Aldo, I’m making spaghetti. Would you like to come home and have some with me?”
My father would listen in silence before readily accepting the invitation. “Sì, certo,” he would say, replacing the receiver and making up some excuse about an emergency he had to take care of. He’d then abruptly end his meeting just so they could have lunch together. This was the Dr. Gucci few could have ever imagined. As my mother said, “He was a man of many faces but the moment he walked through my door, he took off his mask.”
He opened up to her in ways he hadn’t since he penned her all those letters. “I’ve never known a woman like you,” he told her over and over, “I owe you everything.” No one else had the same hold over him. No one else understood him so profoundly. He continually expressed his regret for all the pain he’d caused her, adding, “I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
He was convinced that the unshakable connection between them was what he called “miracoloso” and that they were being driven together by something “supernatural” and bigger than them both. “It’s absurd. Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t!” he declared.
To my mother, it was anything but absurd. Sari Nandi’s prophecy that she had a higher purpose in life had come true. Her prayers had been answered. Though it must have taken her a long time to trust my father again, no matter who or what came between them, their love for each other would prevail. His mistress may have temporarily borrowed Papà’s heart, but it would always belong to Mamma.
In the words of George Bernard Shaw, “Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and, at last, you create what you will.” My father was first and foremost a businessman but he drew inspiration from his surroundings, which imbued him with a sense of culture and appreciation for the finer things in life.
Having grown up in the giant art gallery that is Florence, he lived and breathed architecture, sculpture, and paintings—an experience only amplified when he moved to Rome. I may not have inherited his flair for business but I like to think that some of his qualities have rubbed off on me—the ability to see the bigger picture, to innovate, and to find creative ways to express myself.
Of all his sons, I think Paolo was the most like him—prolific, restless, and with little regard for authority. Above all, he was talented, although my uncle Rodolfo didn’t seem to think so. Their relationship had deteriorated to the point that Foffo fired him as chief designer and had him physically removed from the Scandicci factory. A handbag Paolo had been working on had been the catalyst and was so detested by my uncle that he’d hurled it from a window—where it landed at the feet of startled employees taking a cigarette break.
Papà stepped in to broker a truce just like he had with Maurizio and, as with him, suggested that Paolo move to America to work under his supervision. My uncle was delighted to have him out of the way and Paolo saw this as the opportunity he’d been waiting for. He was given a series of grand new titles, including managing director of Gucci Parfums and Gucci Shops as well as vice president of marketing. The position would involve creating new campaigns and coming up with bold concepts for displays. It came with a higher salary and a number of perks, including an office of his own in the Fifth Avenue headquarters.
Middle-aged and with a second wife in tow, Paolo believed he was getting the recognition he deserved at last. Eager to show my father what he was capable of, he set about implementing his plans, which he didn’t like anyone interfering with. Whenever they tried, Papà witnessed how temperamental his son could be—attributes he couldn’t tolerate in others. Then Paolo proposed a massive budget increase to promote Gucci far and wide. My father had never seen the need for too much advertising. Since the end of the war word of mouth had been sufficient to create brand awareness and when Paolo insisted on extra funding my father laughed in his face and told him not to waste money.
Feeling thwarted at almost every turn, my brother reverted to “Plan A”—Gucci Plus, his concept for a younger, trendier ready-to-wear line that had already been blocked once by the board. He was determined to find a way to bring about his vision, even if it meant resorting to an independent manufacturer.
Papà had a vision of his own—to elevate the Gucci image by combining art with fashion, two worlds he’d always felt were intimately connected. The Gucci Galleria was his way of expressing that. When the first one opened in 1977 at the Beverly Hills store to critical acclaim, a thousand patrons were each given an eighteen-karat chiave d’oro, or golden key, to unlock the door to the members-only area on the second floor. After gaining access via a dedicated elevator, the privileged few were introduced to luxury on another level.
The Galleria truly had the wow factor. VIPs were greeted with champagne as they marveled at the works of art displayed between rosewood and brass cabinets filled with precious gems, limited-edition jewelry, and crocodile and lizard handbags. Artisans from the factory were flown in so that potential customers could witness their skills. The space maintained a timeless elegance, warm and inviting, where guests could linger without feeling obliged to make a purchase. Whether they’d been invited or just dropped in to enjoy the ambience, the moment they stepped out of that elevator they felt like they were part of something special.
In an industry where trends are soon outmoded, especially when a brand becomes so ubiquitous, my father knew he had to keep ahead of the pack and offer customers something even more aspirational. The Galleria was a direct attempt to reinstate that cachet. Once it was declared a success, he set his sights on replicating the concept in New York in what would come to be considered the most astounding retail space in Manhattan—Aldo Gucci’s message to the world.
It was around then that my father thought it was time to include me in company events. Aged just fifteen and on a school break, I accompanied him to Singapore, Hong Kong, and Japan—the first of my many trips to Asia on behalf of the company. Then, in the summer of 1979, I flew to Los Angeles to be his official representative at a major Hollywood benefit he’d sponsored at the famed Beverly Wilshire hotel. I sensed that this would be an audition of sorts so I had my hair done and wore a beautiful yellow off-the-shoulder chiffon Halston dress. I was placed at the top table with June Allyson and Rita Hayworth, in her day one of the most stunning actresses in Hollywood. Even in her sixties and with early Alzheimer’s, she had the kind of beauty that never fades.
The evening went without a hitch, as I tried to speak with everyone present without appearing overwhelmed. For a teenager, I suppose I did okay. “Your father said you were brilliant!” my mother told me later. Praise from him meant more to me than anything else.
In June 1980, he asked if I could be given special leave from Aiglon to attend the grand ope
ning of the new US flagship and Gucci Galleria in New York. He wrote to the headmaster that it was “imperative” I attend, adding, “The Gucci families will be here.” Even my mother was going. She rarely attended these kinds of functions but I was glad she’d decided to make the effort. During my four years in Switzerland, she only ever came to visit me on occasion. I spent the summer holidays with friends, which meant we didn’t see each other very often. The only time we were really together was when my father organized something special.
The New York opening was one such time and he insisted we both be there. It was especially important to him that he be seen with the woman most Americans assumed was his wife. His real spouse remained firmly ensconced in Italy. In her seventies with failing health, she was rarely seen in public.
My mother looked stunning that night but kept a low profile. Although she’d met Giorgio, Paolo, and Roberto before, she wouldn’t have been comfortable with them in such close proximity. I’m sure she turned away when Patrizia posed for photographs in some outrageous getup and Maurizio held court, sending the message that Gucci would remain in family hands long after my father had passed on the mantle.
The plaudits for the latest Galleria were extraordinary, even by American standards. “New Gucci out-Guccis itself!” said the New York Times, which described it as an “oasis of hushed but opulent luxury.” It certainly was. The glass elevator ride to the hallowed space gave customers a bird’s-eye view of a vast sixteenth-century seven-by-five-meter tapestry called The Judgment of Paris woven in silks and wool that had been commissioned by Francesco de’ Medici. It took up an entire wall, as did a five-by-two-meter painting called The White Tree that my father had commissioned from the artist Roy Lichtenstein. The sheer scale of these pieces set the tone for what was about to unfold, as guests were able to stand before works by some of the biggest names in Italian contemporary art as well as others from around the world.
“I love to be surrounded by beautiful things,” my father said, showing off the unique collection he’d put together. “And contemporary art speaks a language of its own.” It was a language he understood and appreciated far more than yachts or other such status symbols. Fine art touched something deep inside him—his creative core.
Though dazzled, the media were quick to suggest he was being reckless in opening twenty thousand square feet of retail space during a recession. Shaking his head, he reminded them that the Galleria was reserved only for Gucci’s most loyal customers—“the five percent who can afford it.” He added, “Luciano Pavarotti wouldn’t dream of singing in a café for all the money in the world. Pavarotti has a voice and an image…This is our voice—the voice [with which] we sing.”
Of all the images I have of my father in my mind, the one of him that warm June night is among the fondest. Impeccably dressed, the man dubbed “the Michelangelo of Merchandising” moved energetically through the eight salons filled with orchids, art treasures, and—of course—plenty of Gucci merchandise. With a smile for everyone, he greeted society hostesses, politicians, celebrities, and movie stars with equal warmth as classical music played discreetly in the background. Looking twenty years younger, Papà was the master of his domain.
Whatever lay ahead for him and for Gucci, he couldn’t have helped but be delighted at how far he’d come. My mother was at his side and I was playing an increasingly important role in his world. His family seemed to have settled their differences momentarily and the future looked brighter. That night represented decades of hard work and tireless dedication but I think even he would have stood with a glass of champagne at the end of it all and reflected on the magnitude of his achievements.
What he hadn’t counted on, however, was the reckless ambition of my brother Paolo. Uncle Rodolfo had been keeping close tabs on him and when he discovered that he’d secretly gone ahead with his plans to launch Gucci Plus, he was incensed—as was my father. Four months after the Galleria opening, Paolo was summoned to the boardroom to explain. When he refused to apologize and tried making further demands, he detonated my father’s temper. In a fit of rage, he fired him on the spot and sent him packing with a dismissal letter from the board.
Paolo had underestimated Papà. If he’d waited and then backed down, he might have been able to ingratiate himself. Instead, the hotheaded fool went to his lawyer and lodged a petition to establish the Paolo Gucci trademark. The move directly contravened a shareholder’s agreement that specifically forbade the use of the Gucci name “for the exercise of any further industrial, commercial or artisan activity.”
Nothing angered my father more than disrespect, and the idea of a sideline under the “GG” banner sent him into the kind of fury normally reserved for counterfeiters. He launched an immediate lawsuit citing trademark infringement, then threatened to blacklist any supplier who dared do business with his son. This would have sounded the death knell for those who didn’t comply, most of whom relied on Gucci for the bulk of their trade. That ended the whole affair and Paolo’s bitterness toward Papà soured their relationship forever.
Contact with my other two brothers by this time was a little more amicable. The atmosphere between us softened, although they always felt more like uncles to me than siblings. Ultimately, they remained largely as I had assessed them in our first encounter.
Giorgio was never too comfortable in a crowd and only when we were on our own, away from Papà, was he able to be himself. He hardly even stammered with me. I also discovered that he had a quasi-British sense of humor and that far from being timid and mild-tempered, he could be razor sharp.
Roberto, with his hair slicked to one side and his trademark rounded shirt collars, remained aloof and never once lost his sarcastic tone with me. I hadn’t warmed to him. Nor did I trust him. He pretended to be nice to me in front of Papà but when we were alone, he was snide and rather cold. He and his wife started referring to me disparagingly as “la lava” because of what they considered my eruptive personality, which I took as a compliment. Not that I was eruptive, per se, just bubbly, I suppose.
His eldest son, Cosimo, was the only one from that side of the family I really liked. He would invite me to dinner with his fiancée and always showed the greatest respect for my father, so we had an immediate bond. Having worked in the business for a number of years, he also knew how everything came together, so whenever I was in Florence he took me under his wing and showed me around. He felt more like a brother than all of them put together.
On a visit to the Scandicci factory with my father when I was seventeen, I was taken to view the latest collection, which was being unveiled to buyers from around the world. By now, all my childhood nervousness had gone and I felt quite at home surrounded by family and long-standing employees. With the growing confidence instilled in me at school from a young age, I introduced myself in Italian or English to our franchisees from Japan and North America, as well as representatives from our stores in the United Kingdom, France, and Italy.
Watching the show from the back of the room with Cosimo as models paraded the new season of ready-to-wear, shoes, bags, and accessories, I saw how the buyers made their selections and it gave me an early insight into the complexities of the retail trade. Roberto was in charge of the proceedings that day, and taking the microphone, he announced we would all be adjourning to the canteen for lunch. In a final quip, he added, “Everyone except you, Patricia!” singling me out from across the room. His failed attempt at humor only served to embarrass us both.
As happy as I was to be included in the day’s activities, I never seriously entertained thoughts of working in the family business. Like my uncle Rodolfo before me, I had dreams of pursuing a stage career. I’d loved studying drama at school, most recently at Aiglon, where I was regularly cast in leading roles, including Maisie in the musical The Boy Friend. Incredibly, my mother was able to attend. “Brava, Patrizina! You were amazing,” she told me afterward, before taking me out for dinner with some friends. It was another happy memory.
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p; I would have loved for Papà to see my starring debut but he was, of course, on the other side of the world. As disappointed as I was, I soon got over it—especially as none of my friends’ fathers came either. At least my mother had come. Papà did send me a note that I still have to this day, along with other encouraging letters he sent me over the years. In this one he wrote: “I am sending you all my best love and always thinking about you and how proud I feel of my daughter.”
In the summer of 1980 it was time to leave Aiglon and return to city life. With my parents’ blessing, I moved to London to prepare for my A levels and then university, where I hoped to continue my drama studies. Having a flat all to myself right opposite Harrods was a truly liberating experience. At last, I was free from rules and regulations and able to taste real independence for the first time. I certainly made the most of my newfound freedom.
London was an exciting place to be. Most of my friends lived there, including many who’d recently moved from Aiglon. There was my dear friend Maria Dahlin, as well as Enrico Marone Cinzano, who refers to me as “ninety percent perfect and ten percent mad.” In those days, the ratio was definitely inverted. The three of us would stay out all night in clubs like the Blitz or Heaven, catching a taxi home at sunup with the sounds of Ultravox, Visage, and the Human League still ringing in our ears. On little sleep and with no one to make me knuckle down, I did virtually no studying and inevitably my grades suffered.
My mother and I were leading separate lives. We spoke periodically on the phone, especially when I needed new pasta recipes after growing tired of eating spaghetti with butter and Parmesan—the best cure for my all-too-frequent hangovers. “How do you make your penne all’arrabbiata?” I pleaded. “I have people coming over and it would be perfect.” We still had our differences but when it came to food we were always on safe ground.
In the Name of Gucci Page 17
