Texas’ link to fashion’s most revolutionary transition recalls the remarkably intriguing life of the almost-forgotten French designer Lucien Lelong, who made it possible, according to our vintage fashion chronicler, Gordon Kendall
PINCUSHION WAR
The major design houses of Lelong’s era shared close physical proximity to each other. From a reasonably small, contained area of Paris, the fashion powers Lelong, Chanel, Patou, Schiaparelli, Lanvin, and so many others, wielded was worldwide. Think of so many color-topped dressmaker’s pins, all going away from a center. The world of French couture was much like a pincushion itself in terms of these far-pointing influences. Each design house, or pin, represented the power it had to attract and collect from private, wealthy clients, and department and specialty stores with ample open-to-buy budgets, and lucrative licensing deals. Such far-reaching influence extended, not surprisingly, to neighboring Germany. However, that influence was not received as positively there as in other parts of the world.
When German forces invaded Paris in June of 1940, it did not take long for them to make their way to the very center of fashion’s pincushion: the offices and files of the Chambre, which they confiscated in due course. Motives for this plan of action have been ascribed to various reasons. Ideologically, the Nazi regime professed the desire to subjugate other nations’ cultures; to suppress them in favor of their own. To that end, French fashion, especially that emanating from the leading couture houses, was considered frivolous, an anathema to the sensible ways of women’s dress proposed by the Third Reich. Historians note their goal, ultimately, was to move the center of fashion from Paris to Berlin and Vienna, already home to more acceptable fashion makers. Raiding the Chambre was the first step in that plan.
The invaders are thought to have wanted to take advantage of the power of the pins.. That is, to tap into and exploit the trove of financial and political information gathered by the fashion houses over the course of years of doing business. This one event began Lelong’s pincushion war. It was to be his and his fight alone to keep French couture, French, and profitable, as well. Here’s where history grows increasingly silent. No one is sure, exactly, how the dapper Frenchman managed to do this.
What is known are Lelong’s accomplishments. He persuaded the invaders to forgo their plans to move the entire French fashion industry, couture included, to Germany, or Austria. This he achieved after traveling under heavy guard to Berlin to speak directly with various Reich ministers and committees. For this feat, however, few records appear to have either been made or continue to exist. He saved an estimated 12,000 lives by preventing their deportation. Again, there are few written explanations as to how he accomplished this incredible task.
Further, he obtained, despite rationing and requisitions, enough fabric for the couture houses to remain in operation during the entire length of time the Germans occupied Paris. He obtained passes for foreign buyers to attend fashion shows in non-occupied France. These, too, appear to have been the result of his persuasive appeal to the Germans. Yet few documents detail exactly how he managed to accomplish feats that rivaled the best efforts of any of the Allied nation’s diplomats.
OLD INTO NEW
Perhaps it is the fate of a successful diplomat to leave behind accomplishments with few traces of themselves, with only their persona remaining. That certainly appears to be the case with Lelong. While his own fashion house has not existed since 1948, and his name now only appears on a scant few perfumes made under license by a New Jersey-based chemical company, the names of designers he mentored, like Dior, now stand prominent in international fashion. Lelong will always be credited with saving French couture and protecting the lives of thousands. He was, for this reason, the ultimate, but understated, patron of his industry. Could any one person in fashion today yield such professional, financial, political, and, yes, cultural power? Bernard Arnauld, current chairman of luxury behemoth LVMH, might be Lelong’s closest contemporary. Perhaps.
Unfortunately, Lelong was powerless when it came to his own health. Long afflicted from wounds dating back to World War I, illnesses, and a list of infirmaries forced him to retire from the rigors of running a business at the time of Dior’s ascent. Accordingly, he missed the Dallas ceremony hosted by Neiman Marcus and Stanley Marcus. But fashion had moved on, as the Neiman Marcus award recognized and underscored. When Lelong died later in 1958, his name had already faded into fashion history. The New Look of fashion heralded by Dior was not just in style, but in newer ways of doing business. Methods became much more under corporate control than paternal protectionism.
In today’s quest for authenticity and brand-controlled storytelling, it seems ironic that any remaining story of Lelong may never be fully known, much less recounted. This year will mark another year since Lelong’s passing. What will start, too, is another year of unanswered questions as to how one of fashion’s most remarkable players accomplished what he did, only to end up what may be the most dreaded of all of fashion’s fates: forgotten.
The legend and legacy of the top 80s designer Emanuel Ungaro, a Texas fashion favorite for his French flair and eye for color, continues today, according to our global fashion expert Gordon Kendall.
COLOR ME BEAUTIFUL Those 1980s styles were when ruffles flourished…ruching ruled…and neon-brights were just right when it came to the tonal palette. The fashion world recently said goodbye to Emanuel Ungaro, the French designer who came to prominence during the era that came to be known for female power dressing. In a sense, that very same empowerment and homage to the 80s is back in this season’s ballroom and red carpet dressing.
He loved women as much as he loved to dress them―in shapely, body-conscious clothes, rich in details, embellishments, attention-grabbing colors, and arrestingly contrasting prints. Images can only capture the impact of his clothes at the time which inspired each collection. Their exuberant aspect, from the seemingly simple, but saturated chrome yellow sheath, to the over the top and then some black ball gown were works of pop art on fabrication.
Emanuel Ungaro, the designer, however, was much more complicated than even the most lavish of his gowns. Houston philanthropist and International Best Dressed Hall of Famer, Lynn Wyatt, an early Ungaro fan and frequent attendee at his Paris couture shows, clues us into what he was like when she says, “He was truly ahead of the game. He loved using color. And he was such a nice man, too.”
To become ahead of the game, Ungaro first learned the French fashion game of over 50-years ago, a time before designers’ houses had become the big commercial brands many are today. He came from the quaint and arcane world of traditional haute couture with its many rules and countless demands placed on designers and clients. It would be difficult to find any designer with credentials more traditionally impeccable as his. In fact, it was in his blood. He was born the son of a tailor in Aix-en-Province in 1933 from whom he learned the trade of cutting, sewing, and, fitting garments. To that end, he was master of both those extremes of garment construction: le tailleur, or structured work and le flou, to make flowing. He didn’t just sketch; he often preferred to drape onto live models.
SURROUNDED BY GREATNESS Ungaro went to Paris, where by 1958, he was working with the one and only Cristobal Balenciaga, where he stayed for six years working directly with the master couturier. He briefly worked in 1964 for just two collections with his mentor, Andre Courreges. However, he was always destined to be out of the shadows of others. Ungaro was now ready to define fashion on his own terms, to be ahead of his peers and how they perceived fashion, but most importantly how they expected, even demanded, their fashions be worn. His genius was to design clothes that would appeal to a new generation of women who, themselves, defined fashion in their own way, not just on the terms set by a cabal of designers with their constantly changing seasonal dictates of what it meant to be fashionable. By the 1980s, his heyday, he had hit his professional stride, both in his fashions and what they meant to those who wore them. His fame was global.
The Ungaro lady knew she was a respected lady. He only sought to dress, never to tell her how to dress like many of his contemporaries. These worldly, sophisticated women who became his loyal customers, it was they who chose to be as outrageous as outré as they wished, whether it be in the boardroom, the ballroom, or anywhere else for that matter. Ungaro only offered how it might be done through his own take on color, print, silhouette, and style ideas found in both his couture pieces or, later, sent out under his Parallel ready-to-wear label.
His clothes were as bold as his respect for those who wore them, an attitude that came exuded and was understood by his legion of fans. Images of Ungaro’s clothes may speak to a particular period in fashion, but along came Ungaro with the timeless message of a fashion designer’s respect for the women who wear his designs.
In the oft-beaten trail of V.I.P. Italy, our transcendent traveling reporter Gordon Kendall winds his way into the most authentic parts of the country that visitors seldom explore.
Our little car, resembling nothing more than a collection of suitcases on wheels, crept mid-morning into the empty village of Casanova Lerrone, located in the province of Savona in the northern Italian region of Liguria, about 50 miles southwest of Genoa. If it were to have eyes, the coupé would have been casting bold glances around its church square and few shops wondering, as were we, “Where was everyone? Were we in the right 18th-century Italian hamlet?”
ITALY THIS MORNING
In the Ligurian countryside, there were quite a few paths from which to choose, or, as we feared, inadvertently wind up on, leading us way off course. Like all “visitors”, we did not want to do anything wrong. Yet, even with no one to be found in the streets, in any of the forlorn appearing shops, and the darkened businesses seemingly abandoned, we had that feeling of being watched. Bashful, we and our little car, stopped at a signpost full of markers, like a multi-fingered hand, with each blue digit route marker pointing its own way and distance.
Keep Going, it seemed to whisper.
Don’t Yet Turn, it beckoned.
Then, a text came through the mapping on our phones, jolting us forward into action. We sauntered out of the village and made our way up the hillside of curves and turns, climbing higher and higher into the mountains until we reached what appeared to be the ultimate dead end: a garage door with 13 ominously painted upon it. Nothing more than a pebbled path ran alongside it. We stopped again.
Make Sharp Turn Right, the screen screamed.
Cautiously, we inched forward and saw the road actually continued going higher toward the clouds. Both car and passengers took deep breaths and held our sides in, then maneuvered a hairpin turn in the truest sense of the word.
Watch Out For Goats, we learned on our own from observing.
As if on cue, a few goats soon meandered in front of us after we cautiously passed another turn. We paused as they moseyed and munched their way along, soon joined by the rest of their goat gang and herders, human and canine. Clearly, we were the visitors in this crew’s estimations―time and goat wait for no one.
Then, as with all journeys, we were there. But where, what precisely was our destination?
Our friends, who had been tracking our progress, had already opened the gates to Villa Barca as a welcome. Across the gravel drive, an orange stucco house built successively over several centuries, with multi-level gardens and sweeping terraces and patios awaited us. On a table, binoculars and its owner’s cell phone confirmed: we were, indeed, being watched; our automotive hesitancies as we made our way was the lunchtime entertainment. Away from the hurly-burly of corporate life, and, yes, the deadlines that follow every writer, to what would be our home for the next two weeks.
And so we were to find and fall in love with the rhythm of what I’m sure some marketer would term as the villa lifestyle. For us, it was a respite to do absolutely nothing at all if we wanted to. Our hosts had retired from owning a popular and highly successful bed-and-breakfast in a prominent r Northeastern resort town. They, then opened Villa Barca their Italian venture, on something of a referral-only basis to truly just friends and family gleaned from their previous venture.
Each day began with not one, but two roosters in chorus. Perhaps the younger of the two was first, then echoed minutes later by one likely of a certain age, proclaiming his was still the valley’s morning call to wake. Maybe we’d follow their twin advice to face the day with them. Well, perhaps tomorrow. What followed after a light breakfast was the difficult choices of whether to soak up the sun on the terrace, or venture to the beaches thirty minutes away in Alassio or Cervo. Maybe even help in the many gardens the owners planted to make the villa as sustainable as possible and save a trip back down the hillside to the not-nearby grocery store? We opted to view the agricultural activity from a potting shed, turned into a breeze-cooled sitting room. The only thing we absolutely were not to do was disturb the ghost of a prior owner whose remains and impressive marble bust resided in the villa’s very own chapel. Yes, we could handle that.
Affable dogs, both world travelers in their own right, one being rescued from a stray pack on the island of La Reunion, were our only distractions when reading the pile of books we had lugged across the globe. The dogs were just as likely to join us under our chairs in the potting shed to cool off. The villa cat, who greeted us upon arrival, slept outside our door, keeping her own company, never really venturing too far from the center courtyard of the villa. She and we knew that doing nothing never felt so good.
Nothing except eat. Would a trip to Italy be complete without food? When we roused ourselves from watching lettuce grow…and the odd thousands of tomatoes…, or finally finished that book, we ventured to the towns of Albenga and Allasio. It was deep in the heart of old town, the center of Albenga where we stumbled onto the treehouse-like restaurant of La Cantina di Re Carciofo. Technically, this is a small plates establishment, but, what small plates. Prosciutto, rich local cheeses of every description and the truffles, the kind you can smell two tables away, were so earthy fresh. Then, there’s the saber. In one fell stroke, the saber decapitates the bottle of prosecco, cleanly, with nary a drop spilled in a movie-worthy scene. Then the saber is put under lock and key…just in case you’d like to try it for yourself. Every bottle of prosecco is opened by not a server, but by the patron himself with elaborate twists of the wrists and tentative cork pops.. That same proprietor wields as well an industrial-sized pipette to extract the last of the locally-made gigantic size bottles of grappa.
An ideal day in Liguria perhaps would begin with a trip to the beach and a chaise in a bagni (beach club), complete with sumptuous towels, changing rooms, and showers. If you want to go to the beach, it may be the only option to pay the fees charged by these many places that dot the boardwalks. The public beaches, when you can find them, seem no bigger that the few beach towels that inevitably will already be there.
EATILY FOR A REASON
You’re doing something wrong in Italy if you don’t eat well. One place we found to eat and rest with our newly acquired sun tans was Clapsy, a casual dining experience on the Alassio coast. But don’t think too casual. Change into something smart at your bagni, if you want to join the crowd. Then dine on the perfect pulpo con patatei and tonno.
If it is to be a big evening, perhaps because it’s a special occasion, or just a Wednesday, do dress for Ristorante La Prua. Placed on the boardwalk, we asked for a table overlooking the beach here at the Hotel Savoia’s signature restaurant. We wondered which yacht belonged to the Russian-speaking gent holding voluble court at the next table, wearing head-to-toe Stefano Ricci. But the food captivated our attention even more: branzino cooked the best way, simply.
The night of La Prua marked our last before the much-dreaded return home. On the terrace of La Barca it was easy to reflect on the need we all have to disconnect from our daily world of constant activity. But not from that reality highlighted with visits to good friends in a welcoming environment and the villa dogs wanting to play another game of catch well into the night. We say ciao to Italy until the next visit, which we are already planning.
Our Native Texan style bon vivant Gordon Kendall, who spends plenty of time in Manhattan, recalls his encounter being photographed by the late Bill Cunningham of the much beloved New York Times’ On The Street fashion column.
We all have our quirks. I’m a “shoe guy” and always have been. Judging from the number of other well-shod gents I see; I know I’m not alone. It won’t, then, come as a surprise that I’ve ended up with lots of shoes: sneakers, loafers, slip-ons, sandals, boots, drivers. Over time, though, my shoes have done more than just get me fashionably from one place to another: they have become my calling card, introductions to new friends and invitations to unexpected fun. My shoes have even helped me step into fashion near immortality.
I got to thinking about that recently after receiving a copy of Fashion Climbing: A Memoir with Photographs, by the late Bill Cunningham, of The New York Times’Style section, photographer of On the Street and Evening Hours. One of fashion’s legendary photographers, he was at every fashion and fashion-able event in New York City for decades, camera at the ready, clad in his signature blue workman’s jacket with multiple pockets to house his camera gear, no matter how swank the affair. His images captured not always the entire person, yet perhaps a specific item of clothing, accessory, or piece of jewelry that captured his unlimited imagination and fashion knowledge. It was this very sense of having caught the master’s eye that came to mean the unseen, sometimes unnamed wearer had gotten it just right. So much so, I have no doubt there are fashion-striving New Yorkers who can attest to sunburns and chilblains from having consistently waited at the corner of Fifth Avenue around East 57th Street for Bill Cunningham to pass by on his bike and take their picture.
Gala partygoers were no better. At one event, an entire table fell silent as a mysterious hand reached over to touch the sleeve of one lady’s rather fabulous Oscar de la Renta gown, camera poised. How could anyone talk, when we were all holding our collective breaths, trying to photobomb the moment? But such was Cunningham’s skill at controlling the setting and the subject that no attempt worked. Especially my own. As it turned out, I had only to wait. I recall a February snow lay in thigh-high berms dotted up and down Seventh Avenue, approaching Chelsea. The sidewalks were a wet mess, but the jaunt from the subway-to-another event was short and I buy my shoes to wear, not decorate my closet. How could I forget how I was shod late that day? It was the Sloane, Glitter Slip-On, by Jimmy Choo. If Darth Vader ever attended the opera, these would be his kicks: covered in sparkling black crystals, its dark, glossy textured surface catching the light, highlighting each step with shine. I had just entered the venue, standing in the lobby, when I felt it. The hand, that hand, at my shoulder. It was him.
This is what I recall from that near minute, I admit, my only one ever, with Bill Cunningham. Turning towards him, watching his camera go ever downward, aiming past the evening jacket, ignoring everything else until it focused on the shoe toe. He shot just that one detail. Nothing else. He then asked who made…not “did”…the shoe. I could only stammer, “Choo. Jimmy Choo.” Then, just in case it wasn’t obvious, I added: “…but the feet are mine.” I recall walking on air the entire evening after that.
My shoes: past, present, and future. I don’t know where they’ll take me, or whom I will meet in them. But one special pair enabled this unabashed shoe guy to step, however briefly, into fashion’s most famous flash.
By Gordon
Kendall Photography courtesy of Doyle
Auctions
Oleg Cassini and Grace Kelly, 1954
The scene: the gated Long Island mansion…a Gramercy Park townhouse…and, of course, a small fleet of luxury cars to go with them. If living well is, indeed, the best revenge, then the lifestyle of the late fashion designer Oleg Cassini is a case study in how it should be done. Cut to: Doyle Auctions is counting on those who live well…or just look like they do…and fashion aficionados to be lured to the June 27th auction of the contents of the late designer’s Oyster Bay estate, Moorelands, ready to bid. Likely, there will be the curious who will want to see firsthand, perhaps own, even a small part of his world and, by doing so, be even more enchanted by the mystique of the man himself.
His name was Oleg Aleksandrovich Loiewski, the son of a Russian countess, from whom he took the name Count Oleg Cassini. He died at age 92 in 2006 and matters of his estate remain uncertain. Yet, generations of latter-day mall and discount shoppers may know Cassini from the great many products bearing his name, as he licensed practically an entire department store worth of fragrances, clothing, accessories, housewares, and other items, that were eponymous. The Jackie generation, however, will know him as the man who dressed Camelot’s famous queen, Jacqueline Kennedy. As such, the client-designer duo were the ultimate fashion “influencers” in the United States of the early 1960s. From couture image maker to off-the-rack impresario, Cassini is generally acknowledged to have been a business success in both worlds. He is also acknowledged to have done all of it with…such style.
In My Own Fashion is Cassini’s 1987
appropriately named autobiography and in it he stated the cinema-esque European
world he came from, with: a tuxedo, a
tennis racquet, and talent. The usually tan, almost always trim Cassini
parleyed those and the hereditary title of Count, with his own admitted luck, drive,
determination, and, it must be said, considerable charm with the ladies to
build his fashion empire. It helped that he was photogenic, as were the many
woman famous women with whom he dressed, or was romantically linked throughout
his life. These included, of course, Jackie Kennedy, who arguably established
the platform from which his later career in licensing flourished. Marilyn
Monroe and Grace Kelly, were other fashion icons with whom he was associated
after his 1941 marriage to (yet another) actress, Gene Tierney.
After decades on the social scenes of
Washington, New York, Hollywood, and, yes, Houston, Texas (where his daughters
with Tierney made their debuts after her subsequent remarriage), in fact, on
the social scenes of just about everywhere, it could be said he was the
embodiment of a jet-setting playboy businessman.
The true stories behind all his romances may
never be fully known. His fashion legacy as among the very first American
fashion designer to license his name continues into today. The final outcome of
his estate remains uncertain over a decade after his death, thanks to warring
family factions. It, however, fair to say the Doyle auction will certainly be a
barometer of Oleg Cassini’s enduring legend as a tastemaker.
Cassini sketches for Jackie Kennedy
Prospective bidders have an opportunity to peruse
Cassini’s version of The Good Life. The antique suits of armor, French and English
furniture and a plethora of Cassini’s household, personal, and apparel items,
many of which bear the scrawling signature of the designer; he used and wore
his own products. The fashion memorabilia available include some
Cassini-designed dresses; however, the ephemera items of letters from his most
famous client (and her sister, Princess Lee Radizwill), workroom and production
notes, tear sheets, and annotated photographs. These provide insight into the
relationship between designer and Jackie Kennedy. Both were aware of the power
of image and neither left to chance how much she…and in turn he…would be
scrutinized, praised, or criticized for any and all decisions made about her
apparel, including their selection of her shoes and handbags.
A piece from Cassini’s auction
Much of the 750 lots offered for sale would
feel right at home in many Lone Star residences. Even if perhaps a bit dated
and the whiff of faded gentility, such items as the estate’s outdoor furniture
and sporting goods speak as much to a life of casual elegance, while the heraldic
coat of arm banners would be graceful interior additions. The many sets of
dishes offered indicate entertaining was as important to Cassini as it is to
hospitable Texans.
The legend of Cassini, the sorcerer who crafted
the image of some of the world’s most famous fashion icons, is sure to enchant
these items offered of what remains of his stylish world and remind us he was
among the American tastemakers of his time. Fade to black of a life well-lived.
I got to thinking about that recently after receiving a copy of Fashion Climbing: A Memoir with Photographs, by the late Bill Cunningham, of The New York Times’ Style section, photographer of On the Street and Evening Hours. One of fashion’s legendary photographers, he was at every fashion and fashion-able event in New York City for decades, camera at the ready, clad in his signature blue workman’s jacket with multiple pockets to house his camera gear, no matter how swank the affair. His images captured not always the entire person, yet perhaps a specific item of clothing, accessory, or piece of jewelry that captured his unlimited imagination and fashion knowledge. It was this very sense of having caught the master’s eye that came to mean the unseen, sometimes unnamed wearer had gotten it just right. So much so, I have no doubt there are fashion-striving New Yorkers who can attest to sunburns and chilblains from having consistently waited at the corner of Fifth Avenue around East 57th Street for Bill Cunningham to pass by on his bike and take their picture.
This is what I recall from that near minute, I admit, my only one ever, with Bill Cunningham. Turning towards him, watching his camera go ever downward, aiming past the evening jacket, ignoring everything else until it focused on the shoe toe. He shot just that one detail. Nothing else. He then asked who made…not “did”…the shoe. I could only stammer, “Choo. Jimmy Choo.” Then, just in case it wasn’t obvious, I added: “…but the feet are mine.” I recall walking on air the entire evening after that.
