by Iris Apfel
In spring 1933, Easter was coming and I had no new finery suitable for walking down Fifth Avenue in the Easter Parade. My mother was too busy working to accompany me—she felt truly sorry about that. But she did give me the magnificent sum of twenty-five dollars to go out and assemble an outfit by myself. I spent my first five cents on the subway ride from Astoria to Manhattan’s S. Klein on the Square, probably the granddaddy of discount shopping and one of my mother’s regular shopping spots.
I walked into the store and fell madly in love with a dress I saw on the first rack. I wanted to buy it very badly, but heeding Mama’s advice to never buy the first thing I saw, but to comparison-shop instead, I headed for the department stores uptown, where I saw nothing I liked. Suddenly, it occurred to me that someone else might’ve bought my dress. I panicked and headed back downtown to S. Klein, where I embarked on a breathless search for my prize, which was no longer in its original location. I found it on another rack fairly quickly. I grabbed it and gave thanks to God and $12.95 to the cashier. I then trucked down Fourteenth Street to A. S. Beck, the leading shoe emporium, where I selected a lovely pair of pumps for $3.95. That left enough money for a straw bonnet, a very light lunch, and five cents to get back home to Astoria.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
My mother approved my fashion sense. My father praised my financial skill. Only my grandpa, who was an old-school master tailor, fussed and carried on about the button holes. All in all, it was a big success and the beginning of my career as a black-belt shopper.
I buy clothing to wear it, not collect it. I’m always asked about my “favorite” this or my “favorite” that. I hate that question! If I like something, I just like it. It’s a gut feeling.
I didn’t set out to build a wardrobe, either. I bought pieces when I found them—and when I could afford to buy them. I built my wardrobe slowly. I’ve been fortunate to have assembled a collection of couture pieces, beginning in the 1950s when I often traveled to Paris for my textile business. I’d go to the ateliers of the haute couture at the end of the season and ask whether there might be any runway pieces available for sale. I discovered the houses—Lanvin, Nina Ricci, Christian Dior, and Jean-Louis Scherrer, for example—who used mannequins with torsos similar in dimension to mine. I couldn’t afford to have a one-of-a-kind piece made for me at a couturier. I also buy what I like: if a bracelet is fantastic and it’s only five dollars, all the better.
European flea markets were also a favorite haunt, and I found a lot of great pieces—not the usual ready-to-wear. One day while shopping at one of my favorite textile stalls, I stumbled upon this eye-popping nineteenth-century chasuble in its original box. It had never been worn and was perfectly preserved. It was the typical outer vestment that a priest would wear during mass, except this one had sleeves. It looked like a magnificent tunic: ruby-red silk Lyonnaise velvet with a whole panel of silk broché and a border of handcrafted passementerie. Beautiful.
Photo Credit: Atelier Management: Roger Davies
I wanted to buy it, which made Carl hopping mad.
“Absolutely not!” he said.
I think he didn’t want me to buy it because he believed people would think he couldn’t afford to buy me regular clothes. We were about to have one of our rare combustions, when the good Lord sent the renowned fashion journalist Eugenia Sheppard our way. She saw the piece and swooned, “Oh, my. How gorgeous!” In the end she was much better and less expensive than a marriage counselor: Carl turned green and gave in.
I duplicated the fabric in our Old World Weavers line, and had pants and slippers made to complete the outfit. I never wore anything so much in my life, and I still have the outfit. Actually, I found a number of chasubles in France—all nineteenth-century, well preserved, and never worn. I started to collect them, which, I suppose, is one avenue to building a wardrobe.
I will admit that I should get my closets in better order. I have a lot of pieces, and they’re all over the place—but who has time to organize? Certainly not me.
I just hang things up on pipe racks.
Most of the time I’m in such a rush that I can’t find things. I’m on this shoot, I’m on that shoot, I’m traveling. I don’t have time to unpack properly when I get home, and then I’m off again.
Photo Credit: Art Department: © 2017 Bil Donovan/Illustration Division
I’m often asked by my guests if they can see my closets, and I’ve had a hundred editors from big-time magazines ask if they can come over for a tour. That’s never going to happen.
You don’t find out who you are unless you work at it.
One Size Doesn’t Fit All
Photo Credit: Luis Montiero. Styling by Damian Foxe and makeup by Marco Antonio.
I NEVER TRIED TO FIT IN. It’s not that I went out of my way to be a rebel or do things that were not socially acceptable—unfortunately, I did have to learn how to play bridge when I was younger—but I learned early on that I have to be my own person to be content. If you try to be all things to all people, you end up being “nothin’ to nobody.”
The way I dress may be “different” or “eccentric” to some who feel the need to label, but that’s of no concern to me.
I don’t dress to be stared at; I dress for myself. When you don’t dress like everyone else, you don’t have to think like everyone else.
Here’s the critical part: I know I’m not an island, but rather part of the main, to paraphrase Mr. John Donne. I fit in, but in my way. I have never been much of a conformist on any front, actually, and it hasn’t hurt me yet in my ninety-some years, so I think I’ve been doing something right.
Somehow, I learned about the importance of fitting in very early in life. When I was six, my parents sent me off to summer camp in upstate New York for two months. I was the new kid and I learned very quickly not to voice my opinion too strongly in a group. I can’t remember what happened, but I must have seen something that someone did backfire on them. Whatever it was, I learned that if you make a point of bonding with the group and they accept you, they will actually like it when you do something original.
But if you don’t try to be part of things, forget it. That’s when your originality is going to work against you. Fit in first and then step out. There is a difference between being perceived as original and being accepted, even loved for it, and being perceived as different and resented for it. You can have your cake and eat it, too.
Mother Knows Best
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
WHEN I WAS ABOUT four years old, my parents and I went on a summer vacation at a resort. My mother loved dressing me up for the various events of the day, pulling together ensembles for swimming, lunch, dinner, and whatever happened to be going on in between. As she dressed me and made her final adjustments to my outfit, she would stand me on an orange crate she must’ve found somewhere on the premises.
One night during this ritual, as I was later told, I began to scream, howling my head off, which led to all these people running into our room to see what sort of abuse my parents were doling out. I was shrieking like I was being attacked by a madman with an ax. Yet fellow guests and resort staff found me alive and well and dressed beautifully, as usual.
“It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match! It doesn’t match!”
My mother had put a ribbon in my hair that didn’t match the rest of the outfit, and I just went bananas.
Later I realized, as usual, that Mama knows best, because now I hate matchy-matchy. But I didn’t know any better then.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
Photo Credit: One Kings Lane
I don’t like a minimalist look for myself. I like stuff; I like being surrounded by a lot of things that give me pleasure to look at.
Style Versus Fashion
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
Photo Credit: Courtesy of I
ris Apfel
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
FASHION CAN BE BOUGHT.
STYLE ONE MUST POSSESS.
–EDNA WOOLMAN CHASE
Editor in Chief, Vogue, 1914–1952
That says it all. And that’s why I say: You can LEARN to be fashionable. You can BECOME fashionable.
But as for style . . .
EITHER YOU GOT IT
or
YOU AIN’T.
Photo Credit: Beauty & Photo: Blue Illusion Fall/Winter 2016/Photograph by Daniela Federici
Style Is in Your DNA
Photo Credit: Alique
I’M CONSTANTLY ASKED for style advice. I hate to give guidelines because what works for one person is not necessarily going to work for another. But here’s what I believe. The worst fashion faux pas is looking in the mirror and seeing somebody else.
You have to
KNOW YOURSELF
before you can find your own style.
If I tell you what to do, it’s not your style anymore. It’s mine. Your style has to come from you. Style cannot be bought or learned—it’s in your DNA. You can get help to bring it out; you can learn how to be better dressed, but in the end, style is inherent. A personal shopper or stylist can’t give it to you, either.
Style is
ATTITUDE, ATTITUDE,
ATTITUDE.
Style is not about wearing expensive clothes. You can have all kinds of money and have no style at all. You can be dressed in the latest couture, shod in ten-thousand-dollar shoes and be baubled to the nines, and look like a Christmas tree.
It’s not what you wear but
HOW YOU WEAR IT.
I’m just as happy to wear bangles that cost me three dollars as I am to wear valuable pieces—and I like to mix high and low, putting things together to wear as the spirit moves me. When you try too hard to have style, you look uncomfortable, like you’re wearing a costume, like the clothes are entering the room before you do. If you’re uptight, you won’t be able to carry off even a seemingly perfect outfit. If that’s happening, I say abandon the whole thing. It’s better to be happy than well dressed.
My mother worshipped at the altar of the accessory.
I GUESS I INHERITED THE BUG.
SHE TAUGHT ME a simple but invaluable lesson. She always said that if you invest in a few well-made classic pieces in good fabrics—like a little black dress—and put your money into accessories, you’ll have a million different outfits.
I’ve always followed that advice, perhaps to what some people might consider an extreme, but I dress for myself so I’ve never given other people’s opinions a second thought.
Photo Credit: Neiman Marcus Christmas Book, 2015
Photo Credit: Monica Schipper/Getty Images
Young Ladies Don’t Wear Jeans
I WAS ONE OF THE FIRST women to wear jeans. I love denim and have never tired of wearing it. When I was in college in Wisconsin in 1940, women couldn’t buy jeans like they can now. Jeans were not a fashion item. They were only sold in stores that carried work clothes for men sized like Paul Bunyan. You couldn’t buy smaller sizes, and certainly not anything that would fit me.
Nonetheless, I was wholly dedicated to the pursuit of indigo; I had a vision of little old moi in a checkered cotton turban, oversize gold earrings, and a crisp white shirt, anchored by a pair of classic work jeans that I couldn’t get out of my head. I entered the local army-navy store and inquired about said item. My inquiry was met with a strange look, both quizzical and dismayed. If I recall correctly, I may have even detected a whiff of disgust.
“Don’t you know? Young ladies don’t wear jeans.”
I didn’t care if young ladies didn’t wear jeans—I wanted those jeans.
I begged the shopkeeper to help me. He kept saying that they had nothing. I asked him to size down a pair for me. To no avail. He did everything but kick me out.
I went back the following week, and we repeated the routine. And I went back again the week after that. I did this for several weeks. I was Little Girl Blue, but I was determined to triumph.
One day, the shopkeeper either came around and pitied me or decided he couldn’t bear the sight of me again, so he mail-ordered a pair of boys’ jeans for me. When I got the call, I was delirious with joy, visions of my ensemble to come dancing in my head.
Photo Credit: Willy Soma
FROM THE DESK OF
IRIS APFEL
TO: THE READER
FROM: IRIS APFEL
SUBJECT: THOUGHTS ON LIVING AND DRESSING
If you’re not risking, you’re not living. It never hurts to take a risk, to try something new.
You only fail if you do not try.
I never thought that I couldn’t do something because I was a woman. I wanted to start a fabric business, so I just figured out how to do it. If I had thought about opening Old World Weavers too much, I probably would have thought only of the pitfalls and then I probably wouldn’t have pursued my dream. Sometimes you just have to take action, even if it’s a small step.
In my ninety-some years of walking planet Earth, I have applied this philosophy to living—and dressing—and it has never steered me wrong.
Dress for YOURSELF.
Listen to your inner muse and take a chance.
Why not wear something that says, “HERE I AM TODAY!”
Besides, if you make a mistake, it’s okay. It’s just clothes. The fashion police are not going to come and haul you off to jail.
ADDENDUM
TO: THE READER
FROM: IRIS APFEL
SUBJECT: FURTHER THOUGHTS ON LIVING AND DRESSING
Be curious.
Have a sense of humor.
Have a sense of wonder.
Think before you speak.
You are never sorry
for the things you don’t say.
And don’t procrastinate!
Iris Apfel keeps the front row guessing.
Photo Credit: Donald Robertson
Improvisation
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
AFTER I FINISHED COLLEGE, I thought I’d try my hand in fashion journalism. The year I graduated, I was in contention to work for Vogue in Paris as part of the magazine’s Prix de Paris contest, but the offices closed during World War II. Determined to become a fashion editor, I took a sub-entry-level job trafficking copy at Women’s Wear Daily on Twelfth Street in New York City. It paid fifteen dollars a week—a paltry sum to say the least, even in those days. This was well before the age of hypertechnology, of course, and pneumatic tubes were few on the premises, so with the latest stories in my hot little hand, I would run up and down the stairs, from department to department, delivering the news to one editor after another. I ended up learning nothing about the fashion business, but I did get into the best shape of my life.
After several months, it became apparent that I’d get nowhere in the establishment, as ninety-eight percent of the editors were too old to get pregnant and too young to retire. I moved on, landing a plush gig working for Robert Goodman, the eminent men’s fashion illustrator of the day. Ensconced in very swanky digs in a penthouse across from Saks Fifth Avenue, he had many illustrious clients, and I began to meet new people, including interior decorator Elinor Johnson. Elinor was involved with Jack Heinz (and his “57 Varieties”), and he bankrolled her decorating forays into luxury old-world apartments near Grand Central Terminal, like the Louis Sherry, the Marguery, and other beautiful buildings. She’d buy some apartments and take long leases on others, then decorate each one for an imaginary tenant, a particular person she’d craft in great detail, just like a Method actor. She was a Method decorator. Lee Strasberg would’ve loved her.
Elinor couldn’t decorate a paper bag, but she put together a crackerjack team of interior designers, all of whom were either on their way up or down the ladder. She brought me onboard because she said she believed my career was on an upward trajectory. On one occasion, we were working on an
apartment that needed a coffee table. But there was no furniture delivery, as we were in the middle of World War II. So we went down to the Bowery and found old columns and had the capitals cut off, which we took with us. We also picked up a stunning piece of thick glass. Once back in the space, we put the glass on the capitals, and voila! We had a cocktail table. That particular piece came together through improvisation alone.
But it wasn’t long before I took up the pen again. As fate would have it, by doing so I was able to parlay a stint as a reporter at Grossinger’s—the iconic Borscht Belt resort in Ferndale, New York—into my earliest work as an interior designer.
Founded in 1914 by Austrian immigrants Asher and Malke Grossinger, the hotel published a daily newspaper. Its mimeographed sheets covered happenings at what was becoming a sprawling destination. Grossinger’s was known not only for its top-rate entertainment—performers included Sammy Davis Jr., Milton Berle, and Shecky Greene, to name a few—but also for its VIP guests, who delighted in the many social engagements, strictly kosher menu, and sports facilities. It was the glory days, when no one could travel because of the war. Everybody was there.
Graduation from the University of Wisconsin was still in my not-too-distant past, and I knew the Grossingers, who knew I was interested in writing. They asked me if I’d like to fill in for a reporter who was taking a month’s leave from the paper.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel
Upon arrival, I was shown my digs in the help’s quarters. Not such glamorous accommodations, but I hit the ground running: I covered virtually all the events taking place at the resort. I interviewed guests, reporting on their experiences. People love to see their name in the paper. My efforts were rewarded when the family moved me into a little apartment on the top floor of the beautiful house they lived in on the property.
