Who would a fashion designer be? I thought I knew something about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that blameless young creative types regularly suffer; but it was not until I became a judge for the CFDA/Vogue Fashion Fund that I realized how vast and choppy is the particular sea of troubles this country's premier fashion-design talents must navigate. Personal debt, poverty, production delays, myriad letdowns, customs snarls, even good old-fashioned weather (don't mention rain to Doo-Ri Chung, whose spring 2005 collection fell on the morning New York city was swamped by the remains of Hurricane Frances). Remember: all these unfortunates want to do is to make the world a little bit more interesting, elegant, and beautiful.
The Fashion Fund is our riposte to the forces of destruction and whimsy to which emerging designers are especially vulnerable. In 2003, Vogue and the Council of Fashion Designers of America (CFDA) had a series of meetings to figure out a way of giving a leg up to the next generation. Calvin Klein had just retired; Donna Karan had sold up to LVMH and was considering her options; Ralph Lauren was celebrating his thirty-fifth anniversary; Bill Blass had died; and Oscar de la Renta had turned 70 (which still seems unbelievable, given his continuing embodiment of vitality and youth). The trouble with the young designers—Marc Jacobs, Michael Kors, Isaac Mizrahi, each singularly gifted—was that they'd been the young designers since the Reagan/Bush era. New York, to ensure its place as a world capital of wearable fashion, needed new blood, quickly.
Talent was not the issue. This city—this country—drips with brilliant, imaginative, dedicated souls. But in order to realize their creativity, they are required to devote themselves to, and master, the worlds of finance, production, and marketing. Time and again a breathtaking show is followed by… nothing. Quite simply, the clothes cannot be produced at all, or on time, often through no real fault of the designer—unless, of course, being cash-strapped and inexperienced is blameworthy. Vogue and the CFDA came to the conclusion that the most effective intervention we could jointly make was to set up a fund that would award $200,000 and a year of mentoring by Seventh Avenue luminaries to one small business a year. That may sound like a lot of money—and it is, if you're planning on spending it at Barneys New York (which, along with Kellwood Company and Condé Nast, turned out to be a major underwriter of the fund). But as I discovered in reading the detailed applications of the final 50-plus applicants, 200K gets you only a step closer to having a stable business: a small in-house marketing team; a European showroom; a sample room; a chance to move your place of work from your bedroom to a loft space in a not-yet-up-and-coming neighborhood. The mentoring is, if anything, more valuable: Which licensing deal is a good one? How does one get cashmere and leather out of customs? How does one become big in Japan? The winner will spend time with lawyers and customs brokers and production managers and pattern-makers to help with these and other issues.
The fund was launched at a dinner at the home of Mayor Michael Bloomberg in September 2003, attended by the likes of Tommy and Donna and Calvin and Vera and Oscar, as well as Asprey's (and now Michael Kors's) owners, Lawrence Stroll and Silas Chou. Pledges of various kinds were made, and in February an advertisement appeared in Women's Wear Daily inviting designers with already established businesses to send in a one-page application; 137 responded. Peter Arnold, the head of the CFDA, his associate Lisa Smilor, and I formed the subcommittee that read all the applications and the attachments (look-books, mission statements, autobiographies) that often accompanied them. After hours of stacking and arguing (it's always the "maybe" pile that brings people out), we agreed on 50 yeses (for the next stage) and 27 possibles. All of these went in front of the full committee—Peter Arnold, Robert Duffy (of Marc Jacobs: the ultimate business partner for a designer); Julie Gilhart (of Barneys: the ultimate fashion director); Narciso Rodriguez (famously supportive of promising youngsters); Stephen Ruzow (of Kellwood: the ultimate Seventh Avenue backer); myself; Lisa Smilor; and Anna Wintour. The committee reviewed everything (even applications Nos. 78 to 137 were on hand). What we were looking for was designers who had proved themselves in the marketplace and editorially and were, on the face of it, ready for a scaling-up of their careers. Thus, a very talented jewelry designer with impeccable editorial credentials might not make the next stage because his or her business was not yet at that critical juncture of growth. In the end, 52 were invited to submit further and more detailed applications; the 25 near-misses were sent letters encouraging them to apply again.
Now began the really tough part, for candidates and judges alike. The candidates were asked to provide portfolios and business profiles of their past and their imagined futures, with and without the award. Every detail was asked for: number of employees, salaries, square footage of workspace, pricing structures, investment and debt to date, and so on. (Of course, all this was and remains confidential.) Designers are neither writers nor accountants, but it is extraordinary how eloquent and rigorous they can be when $200,000 is at stake. I was familiar with the work of every applicant, as were others; but I was moved and surprised by the narratives of determination and struggle that came before me. It is not easy to make a shoe, a dress, a necklace, a man's suit, or a pair of jeans in America. It does not matter if your initial investment is $5,000 or $1.5 million: it is hard. It amazes me, in all honesty, that anyone would persevere. But they do, and we are grateful.
On July 20 came the key meeting: making the painful cut from more than 50 to ten. The judges approached the applications from radically disparate points of view, and this led to a gripping discussion about the job of the American fashion designer: is it about making poetic, breathtaking creations? About having global commercial clout? Does it require a media-savvy personality? Were we after the next Tom Ford or the next Isabel Toledo? We were, of course, looking for those candidates who seemed to have everything—taste, vision, personal charm—and the resources to realize their potential. The final ten teams and individuals fit these criteria, and you couldn't ask for a more varied bunch: a Russian tailor who cuts impeccable suits for downtown New York rockers; a shoemaker whose curvaceous heels offer an earthier spin on sexy than Manolo; five ready-to-wear designers who have redefined luxury for a younger, hipper generation of best-dressed women; a wonderfully minimalist jewelry designer; and from, Los Angeles, a husband-and-wife team who are redefining the cool jean, and a guy and girl who silk-screen and rework vintage to novel and captivating effect.
At 5:30 on an August morning, the top ten received wake-up calls from Vogue (out-of-towners had been flown in and installed at hotels) and made their way to 4 Times Square in black cars. (If nothing else, they would be given a tantalizing glimpse of what life feels like if you're Donna or Calvin or Ralph.) At 8:00 a.m., the presentations began. Each candidate was given five models and fifteen minutes (yes, we actually had a loud and menacing timer) to dazzle and inform the gathered committee. And by golly, they did. Peter Som brought in a collection of his childhood scribblings of chic daywear (he started at age four, we learned). Michael and Nicole Colovos of Habitual handed out copies of Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet, which was the basis of their artistic vision and enduring courage. Edmundo Castillo had the models walk on the judges' table for that great close-up of the shoes. In a similar vein, Dean Harris handed out flashlights because, he claimed, no one could ever see his jewelry. Cloak's Alexandre Plokhov arrived with a cellist, whose mournful bowing accompanied the shuffling rocker boys in suits (the cellist, it turned out, is Plokhov's business manager). And Libertine's Johnson Hartig personally crooned "Come Fly with Me" while his design partner, Cindy Greene, danced. Oh, yes—and they all answered tough and searching business questions that probed weaknesses or obscurities in their applications. It was a marvelous, uplifting morning that, predictably, culminated in a candidates' lunch in the garden at Provence, in SoHo, at which not a few drinks were consumed. Win or lose, the gathered hopefuls welcomed the chance to meet their peers and talk shop. I'd forgotten how isolating life can be when you're young and struggling.
At the time of writing, we haven't met to decide the winner. That won't happen until October 14, when the announcement will be made at a fabulous dinner. In the three weeks between now and then, the committee members will visit the applicants at their studios for a closer look at their work process. (Are they good to their employees? They'd better be, if they want Stephen Ruzow's blessing.)
I still haven't made up my mind who to vote for (in the final, secret ballot). The candidates are all amazing, and all represent the future of American fashion. But I know that for all of the judges, it has been a privilege (if an agonizing one) to be allowed entry into worlds of all of these applicants. Given vigilance and support on the part of the industry, the future looks very well dressed.
—Sally Singer
