By Carina Chocano
[FONT=Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif]
Sept. 17, 1999[/FONT] |
Before she discovered the look that would enduringly and amusingly define her throughout the rest of her life -- that is, before she became the fabulously besequined "Liza!" -- Liza Minelli was a marmot-eyed, slightly hirsute, terminally insecure star-pup without a thing to wear. Then she met Halston.
Say what you will about beaded tunics, billowing caftans, halter pantsuits and Ultrasuede shirtdresses. His clothes, whose pervasive influence can still be seen in the designs of Donna Karan, Calvin Klein and Narciso Rodriguez, were different from anything that had been done before. And if, as Halston often repeated, "you are only as good as the people you dress," then he was very, very good. Jackie Kennedy Onassis, Babe Paley, Lauren Bacall, Liz Taylor, Barbara Walters, Betty Ford, the Duchess of Marlborough and Katherine Graham were all among his friends and clients.
Halston's influence on American fashion goes beyond his designs -- he took an era, reupholstered it in Ultrasuede, dabbed "Halston" on its pulse points and made it his own. A new book, "Halston: An American Original," by Elaine Gross and Fred Rottman -- which features interviews with those who knew, loved and emulated him, as well as 225 photos, some from top fashion photographers -- pays tribute to a completely original designer who, without any formal fashion training, changed the way the world dressed forever.
The first international fashion superstar -- and possibly the best designer America has ever had -- Halston was a master of detail, cut and finishing. His devotion to simplicity and elegance of line was so pure that he zealously avoided such frippery as zippers and buttons. More than construction, however, what Halston understood best was stardom -- how to fabricate, showcase and exploit it -- and how to hold people in its sway. In the mid-'70s, at the height of his success, Halston -- an international legend and the king of New York nightlife -- had the power to make women across the globe aspire to resemble
hypertrophied drag queens wrapped in towels. He had the power to make Princess Grace of Monaco let herself be photographed in sky-blue Ultrasuede. He had the power to make the muumuu a must-have, because it was just about the only thing that still looked good on Elizabeth Taylor when she was expanding at a faster rate than the Crab Nebula. He even had the power to make it OK for dozens of Manhattan socialites to show up at Le Cirque wearing the same dress
(the famed model No. 704, a knee-length, belted, Ultrasuede shirt, which the New York Times called a "status security blanket") and think it simply divine.
"The herd instinct is the new chic!" wrote Eugenia Sheppard. "It's like belonging to a club!"
Nowadays, when the Gap can get "everybody in vests" one month and "everybody in cords" the next, this may not seem extraordinary. But fashion and fame have changed since the late '60s and '70s. Ironically, Halston was instrumental -- both through his designs and his business decisions -- in bringing about the changes that would ultimately lead to his own demise. As much as Halston came to symbolize modernity in the '70s, and as much as he would usher in the future of fashion, he was, in many ways, old school. He truly believed that "fashion is not made by designers, it is made by fashionable people." He would never understand that eventually fashion would be made by business people, and that would be his undoing.
Born Roy Halston Frowick in Des Moines, Iowa, in 1932, Halston was voted "healthiest baby" at the Iowa State Fair. He always knew he wanted to be a milliner, and began creating hats -- much to his family's bafflement -- at a very early age. Like Coco Chanel, who also began her career as a milliner, Halston always understood the importance of having well-connected friends. In Steven Gaines' dishy 1990 biography, "Simply Halston: The Untold Story," Halston's brother Bob recalls: "In high school, my brother was driven around by rich girls in convertibles." After moving to Chicago following an abbreviated stint at the Indiana University, Halston became involved with "Basil of the Ambassador," a well-known celebrity hairstylist. It was through his stormy relationship with Basil that Halston first met milliner Lilly Daché, who would eventually give him his first New York job. Within a year of arriving in New York and becoming the new best friend of several influential fashion magazine editors and publishers, Halston, as he now called himself, left Daché's studio to become head milliner for the luxury department store Bergdorf Goodman.
By the time he was 30, Halston had already won his first of five Coty Fashion Critics Awards, and had managed to convince Bergdorf's to sew his name onto the labels of his hats -- a privilege the department store had never granted another designer. He designed the
pillbox hat Jackie Kennedy wore to the presidential inauguration -- which made him internationally famous.
In 1966, determined to quit hats and go into the ready-to-wear business (which he correctly saw as the wave of the future), Halston was surprised to find that many of the rich socialites and famous celebrities who absolutely
adored him and thought him an absolute
genius were unwilling to finance his dressmaking venture. He was eventually able to set up shop in 1968, thanks to an investment of $125,000 from a Mrs. Estelle Marsh of Amarillo, Texas -- a distinctly unfabulous and, apparently, somewhat doughy lady whom Halston privately referred to as Mrs. Marshmallow. Out of necessity, Halston turned his then-unfashionable Madison Avenue locale into an exotic, orchid-strewn oasis unlike anything in the Garment District -- and subsequently into the preferred hangout of ladies who lunch but don't fund.
(from about.com)