by Karen Karbo
Coco Chanel is the only fashion designer to appear on Time magazine’s 100 Most Influential People of the 20th Century. It’s not a stretch to say that almost every modern style can be traced in some way to her. Boxy jackets. The Little Black Dress. Pencil skirts, twin sets, trousers. That dress you love because it has pockets. Every dress that begs to be madly accessorized—along with the accessories themselves. (Coco gave us costume jewelry, believing it offered every woman the chance to jazz up everyday life.) The foundation of Coco’s radical genius was that clothes should make a woman feel beautiful—and if she felt beautiful, she was beautiful. This seemingly simple philosophy dared to disrupt the primacy of the male gaze. Which made Coco très difficile.
A disclaimer concerning French women: They are born difficult and raised to be difficult. What’s more, they’re celebrated for it, which makes life easier for them in many ways. For example, they experience no cultural imperative to be “nice” in the way American women do; they feel little compunction to smile or be agreeable or do anything to suppress their eccentricities. They have no problem with saying non, merci (particularly to another slice of tarte tatin—because although they’re not required to be nice, they are required to be thin). All those books about how to be more like French women? What they’re really about is how to be difficult.
Coco Chanel was an extreme French woman: a super française, more imperious than most. She possessed an almost fanatical respect for her own time, refusing to make herself available to just anyone. She was a perfectionist, slaving away in her rue Cambon atelier for long hours on every garment (so as to make good on her theory that a dress should be as flawless on the inside as it is on the outside). And yet she made herself maddeningly unavailable to even her best clients: the better to shroud herself and her process in mystery. Perhaps the concept simply doesn’t hold up in the digital age, where we’ve come to expect that every email and post be answered tout de suite. But I’m determined to think Coco had it right: Withhold a little. Be unavailable. Let people wonder.
GABRIELLE BONHEUR CHANEL was born in a poorhouse, in Saumur, Maine-et-Loire, France, on August 19, 1883. The city was ancient, boasting a château that dated to the tenth century, a military cavalry school, and a host of picturesque houses cut from the same pale stone (the excavation left tunnels in which the local wine was stored). Gabrielle’s mother, Jeanne, was a laundry woman; her father, Albert, was a traveling street vendor. Apparently, the two had a standing arrangement, having five children together although Albert was rarely in town.
In 1895, Jeanne died of bronchitis at the age of 32. Albert, unable to cope with parenting, sent his three sons to farms, where they were given a place to live in exchange for labor. Gabrielle and her sister were sent to an orphanage, at the convent of Aubazine. There, she learned to sew.
Only girls who intended to join the order were allowed to stay at the convent after the age of 18. In 1901, Gabrielle drifted to the garrison city of Moulins. She worked as a seamstress and, like all modern girls, harbored vague aspirations of being a “café-conc” singer, that era’s version of a rock star. She managed to land a gig at La Rotonde, singing between the appearances of the headliners. Even though Coco, as she came to be called,*1 was childlike, winsome, and innocent looking, café concert singers inhabited the demimonde, along with prostitutes and courtesans. I’m sure this shady future was not what the nuns at Aubazine had in mind for little Gabrielle, but Coco, deep in her DNA, didn’t care about rules, aside from the ones she made for herself. “I don’t care what you think about me; I don’t think about you at all,” she once said. (Possibly it sounds less harsh in the original French, but I admire her certainty.) Imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to hold that view, to be a woman free of the shackles of judgment and expectation of others.
In 1903, at the age of 20, Coco caught the eye of Étienne Balsan, a onetime cavalry officer. Balsan, a horse breeder and heir to a textile fortune, spent most of his time raising horses at Royallieu, his château in northern France. When Coco was 23, he officially installed her there as his mistress. It was a little boring, frankly, and Coco spent most of her time at the stables, learning to ride. Balsan also had other, more traditionally appealing mistresses—think of the voluptuous, corseted beauties in a Renoir painting. Coco’s flat-chested, boyish look was entirely different; she knew she would have to find a way to distinguish herself from those pink, bosomy ladies. She kept Balsan interested by showing off her excellent horsemanship and developing ambition: She wanted to be a milliner. (She became known as the offbeat mistress who could be found galloping off into the forest on a young stallion, and who had a talent for creating fetching chapeaus.)
Even with no money, no connections, no reputation, or anything to rely on but the benevolence of her paramour, Coco embodied what would later become her philosophy: “How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone.” A female who is someone in her own right is a woman who has resisted being defined in relationship to others. You know those movies where there’s a missing nuclear warhead and everyone in the Situation Room is panting with panic and fear? A woman who insists on being someone engenders the same sort of hysteria. Coco was always that kind of woman.
Although Coco loved Balsan, she wasn’t “in love” with him. Also, she was tired of living the kept-woman life. Thus, after a few years, she fell in love with Balsan’s good friend Boy Capel, owner of the aforementioned legendary pullover. Capel was of the British upper class, an intelligence officer and captain in the military, but also a self-made tycoon and polo player. It doesn’t seem as if there were many tears shed or wineglasses smashed over this turn of events. In 1908 Coco left Balsan and Royallieu and moved into Capel’s apartment in Paris. Like Balsan, Capel was captivated by Coco’s ambition, and financed her first millinery boutiques. Two years later, she opened her first shops—one in Paris, at 31 rue Cambon, and the next at the haut-fancy watering hole of Deauville.*2
Timing is everything, and part of Coco’s genius lay in knowing it was time for women to dump the 20-pound platter hats and upholstered dresses of the Belle Époque. She is routinely credited with getting rid of the corset—but that was actually Paul Poiret, who was on the scene a good 10 years ahead of her. But Coco had the perfect historical moment on her side.
In the summer of 1914, Germany declared war on France. Men departed for the front lines. Women of means fled Paris for Deauville, where Coco’s shop sold simple shirts and skirts in comfortable fabrics. The men were gone. There was no one to overdress for. Women were raising money for the war effort, or hopping on their bikes to ride to the hospital, where they would roll bandages. It was a new age, and Coco was leading the vanguard of fashion modernity. Just like that, the overelaborate trimmings, unnatural lines, and uncomfortable fabrics became a thing of the past.
Although she would go on to have many more suitors, Boy Capel was the love of Coco’s life. (Give him a quick Google and you’ll see why.) He taught her to read and to think. He believed in her talent and vision. They lived together discreetly—and for the most part, happily—in Paris for nine years. But in 1918 Capel jilted her to marry the Honorable Diana Wyndham, a British noblewoman considered to be more worthy of his social stature. Although Mademoiselle Chanel, now 35, had opened more successful boutiques in both Biarritz and Paris, was wealthy in her own right, and was on her way to becoming famous, she was still an orphan from the lower classes. And that simply would not do.
This didn’t mean Coco and Capel couldn’t keep seeing each other on the side. (You know, in the French way.) But in December 1919, on his way to visit Coco before spending Christmas with his family, Capel was killed in a car crash. Coco was devastated, and something inside her hardened. Like a man (or a difficult woman) she turned to her work for solace.
THE 1920S WERE COCO’S DECADE. Every society woman wore Chanel, and wealthy clients from London to New York found their way to her maison de coutu
re for a fitting. Watching her work, her friend, the writer Colette, observed: “If every human face bears a resemblance to some animal, then Mademoiselle Chanel is a small black bull. That tuft of curly black hair falls over her brow all the way to the eyelids and dances with every maneuver of her head.”
Before Chanel, couturiers were viewed as skilled service people, necessary to one’s stylish existence but no more esteemed than shoe salesmen. Through her friendship with the renowned art patron Misia Sert, Coco changed that perception for good. Chanel’s modern aesthetic was a perfect match for the avant-garde, and Misia made a point of introducing her friend to the cutting-edge artists of the day. Coco went on to create costumes for the 1920 production of Diaghilev’s radical Ballet Russes and Jean Cocteau’s play Orphée; she befriended Stravinsky and Picasso. In Hollywood, she spent a brief sojourn designing costumes for Samuel Goldwyn—which she despised, because she really hated being told what to do.
I’ve no doubt I’m romanticizing aspects of Coco’s difficult character. She could be stubborn, opportunistic, and combative, and not in a kicky, spirited way. Frankly, I don’t care. Men with those qualities become celebrated leaders, innovators, and TED talk–givers. They are no nicer than Chanel was.
In the early 1920s Coco, working with master perfumer Ernest Beaux, concocted Chanel No. 5. To finance the production of what would become the world’s most popular fragrance, she licensed the rights to Pierre and Paul Wertheimer, joint CEOs of the esteemed perfume house Bourjois. The Wertheimers provided full financing in exchange for 70 percent of the profits. The gentleman who brokered the deal received 20 percent, and Coco retained a mere 10 percent.
Though Parfums Chanel would make her rich—much richer than she would have been had she stuck solely with couture—Coco felt she was being exploited. In fact, she was being exploited. But as a woman, she was expected to set aside her concerns and be grateful for male patronage. For her, this was not an option. So instead, Coco spent pretty much the rest of her life suing and countersuing the Wertheimers, referring at one point to Pierre as “the bandit who screwed me.”
It was an epic, contentious battle of wills and attorneys. During World War II, when Jews were forbidden to own businesses, Coco even tried to wrest control away from her partners. (She was outmaneuvered; with keen foresight the Wertheimers had temporarily transferred ownership into the hands of a trustworthy French businessman, Felix Amiot.)
But the most interesting part of the story is that this endless, Coco-generated fiasco didn’t cause the Wertheimers to dislike her. This raises a key question: If we’re to be difficult, do we really have to give up being liked? If we’re argumentative and keep advocating for our own interests long after people wish we would just go away, will we wind up dying friendless?
If the relationship between Coco and the Wertheimers is any indication, the answer is no. Pierre Wertheimer became one of Coco’s oldest friends (in addition to sharing the ongoing dispute over Parfums Chanel, they also bonded over a love of thoroughbred horse racing). In the 1960s he became the primary owner of the House of Chanel, and supported her in her old age. (Pierre’s kindness paid off for his grandsons; Gerard and Alain currently own the Chanel luxury brand, and are said to be worth a breathtaking $19 billion.)
BY 1927, COCO HAD TRULY BECOME one of the most famous women in the world, beholden to no one. There was nothing she “needed” to do, other than what she chose to do. And tout le monde hung on her every fashion directive. When everyone else was wearing real pearls, Coco designed costume jewelry and decreed it be worn with sportswear. Then, at the height of America’s Great Depression, when everyone was draped in costume jewelry, she debuted a fine jewelry collection, featuring diamonds set in platinum—because it amused her.
Coco never truly got over the death of Boy Capel. But life goes on and she was hardly ready to forego love completely. In 1923, she was introduced to Hugh Grosvenor, the second Duke of Westminster and, not incidentally, the richest man in the world. It seemed to be a good match, consisting of a lot of hunting, riding, fishing, and other outdoorsy things royals seem to live for, which Coco had enjoyed as a young woman at Royallieu with Étienne Balsan. Bendor, as the duke was known, showered Coco with jewels, gave her a parcel of land in the South of France on which she built her renowned villa, La Pausa, and introduced her to Winston Churchill, who found her to be a suitable mate for his friend. Still, when Bendor asked her to marry him, she said, “There have been several duchesses of Westminster, but there is only one Chanel.”
Ten or so years later, before the relationship with the duke ended for good, Coco took up with fashionable political illustrator Paul Iribe. Sophisticated and witty, he shared Coco’s modern sensibility. (Bendor, for all his wealth and influence, was definitely a man of the previous century—the kind of old-fashioned rich person who employed a man to press his morning newspaper.)
Coco was now in her late 40s, and as beautiful as ever. But she was aware of time passing. Children were not going to be part of her life—but would she remain unmarried as well? The gossip among the friends who came to stay at La Pausa was that an engagement announcement was imminent. Then, one day in late September 1935, Coco and Iribe were playing tennis. As she looked on, he staggered on the other side of the net, before dropping dead.
The loss of Iribe mirrored the loss of Capel so many years before. Coco would have found the idea of being retraumatized to be utter nonsense. But it’s likely that her lover’s death rekindled her grief. To make matters worse, her designs weren’t as fashionable as they once were. She was in danger of being eclipsed by her rival, the spirited, playful Italian designer Elsa Schiaparelli, who popularized sportswear, the zipper, and “shocking” pink. In 1937, Schiap had collaborated with Salvador Dali on her “lobster” dress, lamb-cutlet hat, and a dress with pockets that looked like a chest of drawers: crazy, cheeky, and completely against Coco’s more disciplined aesthetic. Her simple suits were starting to look drab by comparison. I imagine she was a bit depressed.
In 1939, at the beginning of World War II, Coco began an affair with Baron Hans Günther von Dincklage. His mother was English, but von Dincklage, an attaché at the German Embassy, was working for the Nazis. Coco was 56 when he moved into the apartment she kept at the Ritz. Von Dincklage was 43: a much younger, handsome man who made her feel desirable. At this stage, she had decided to close her shops, fire her employees, and hole up in her apartment to wait out the war.
After France was liberated, the government took a dim view of collaborators, especially women who had literally slept with the enemy. Bands of roving self-appointed tondeurs (head shavers) chased down female Nazi collaborators, shaved their heads, then marched them through the street, often tarred and naked. Coco escaped such treatment—most likely due to her friend Churchill’s influence—but she was exiled to Switzerland in 1945. There she lived a quiet life.
In the late 1940s, part of France’s recovery after the war included embracing the luxe designs of Christian Dior. Yards and yards of fabric—no more rationing!—were required to make his enormous dresses with their boned bodices, cinched waists, and padded hips.
“Oh mon dieu,” I imagine Coco thinking. “Do I have to come back and teach everyone, again, that women must be comfortable in their clothes? That a woman must be able to stride along a city street in her skirt? That elegance is refusal? That luxury is simple, the opposite of complication?”
Back she came to Paris. She was more than 70 years old. In 1954, she put out a few collections, underwritten by her old frenemy Pierre Wertheimer. Parisians didn’t love her new designs, which they felt looked a lot like the old designs. But by the early 1960s Americans, including Jackie Kennedy, discovered her easy suits, with their straight skirts and cardigan jackets. Coco was back on top. She returned to her workaholic ways, returned to creating fabulous pieces for fabulous women who could afford her prices.
On January 10, 1971, she was busy finishin
g the fittings for her spring line when, after a day’s work she decided to go to sleep early. She lay down on her bed in her apartment at the Ritz and died.
IN 2009 I PUBLISHED The Gospel According to Coco Chanel, a celebration of Coco’s life, style, and philosophy. During the Q&A after every reading, someone would always make the observation that Coco Chanel didn’t seem very nice.
I would say, what does that have to do with anything? Or, she was nice to the people she cared about. Sometimes I would say, Chanel was a complicated, stubborn, ambitious visionary who transformed the way we dress, view ourselves in clothes, and walk through the world. You need her to be nice on top of everything else? What’s wrong with you?
Then I would laugh, to diffuse the sting. Coco would never have done that, of course. She adored being thought difficult. And so should we.
*1How did she get the name Coco? There are competing theories: Either it was short for cocotte, a kept woman, or referenced her signature song “Qui qu’a vu Coco.” I cannot imagine Coco allowing herself to be slapped with a generic, dismissive nickname that could belong to anyone. Decide for yourself.
*2After she made her fortune, she paid Capel back in full.
CHAPTER 9
MARTHA GELLHORN
Brave
I WAS A COLLEGE STUDENT with a backpack, a Eurail Pass, and a head full of dreams about being a writer in Paris when I discovered the brilliant 20th-century war correspondent Martha Gellhorn. I picked up a copy of her celebrated memoir, Travels With Myself and Another, at Shakespeare and Company late one summer afternoon. It was obvious to me even then they’d stocked the book because Gellhorn had been the third wife of Ernest Hemingway, the most famous habitué of the bookstore. Martha would have hated that. “I was a writer before I met him and have been a writer for forty-five years since,” she once groused to a reporter from the Chicago Tribune. “Why should I be a footnote to someone else’s life?”
