Brady On Media
Crazy Fashion
James Brady, 11.30.06, 6:00 AM ET
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James Brady•
As publisher for seven years of Women's Wear Daily and later as editor and publisher of Harper's Bazaar, I always found the fashion designers themselves far more fascinating than the clothes they sell.
Which is why I'm delighted there's a new play about designers at the Manhattan Theatre Club. It's "Regrets Only," written by Paul Rudnick, and stars Christine Baranski as a society dame firing zingers and George Grizzard as a thinly disguised Bill Blass, who comes out of the closet, gallantly and even nobly, for a decent cause. The New York Times was so excited that it reviewed the show twice, once by fashion writer Cathy Horyn, then again by drama critic Ben Brantley (who used to work for WWD).
When I arrived in Paris in 1960, the couturiers came as something of a culture shock. These were famous people, wealthy, intimidating, flamboyant. The sainted Christian Dior had recently died, possibly of overeating, on a voyage his astrologer loudly warned him against taking. Pierre Balmain had a robed and sandaled Franciscan monk as his boyfriend and took him along on chic country weekends and to the better cocktail parties. Coco Chanel got it into her head that I was a Native American and introduced me to important people as " mon petit Indien"--"my little Indian."
The Algerian war was on, and when Pierre Cardin's handsome young aide Andre Oliver was drafted into the army as a private, Cardin designed his uniform. Then, when Andre was shipped out to the war, Cardin flew him home to Paris every weekend to work on the new collection. There was a crisis when Cardin and movie star Jeanne Moreau somehow, and inexplicably, fell in love, depressing Andre, who promptly announced he was considering suicide. So Cardin found him a better apartment, gave him a charge account at restaurants and discos and told Andre to select a valuable painting at the Galleries. "There are three I must have," Andre announced. He got all three.
Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge bought a palace in Marrakesh, where Yves had two swimming pools installed. Why two? I asked Berge. "One for Yves; one for the rest of us." Philippe Guibourge of Dior got a big new job, and to celebrate, he invited his beautiful friends, covergirl Marisa Berenson and actor Helmut Berger, to stay with him. I asked Guibourge how that was going. "When I am going to work, they are just coming in. When I come home, they are just getting up. And never, mind you, never do they wear clothes."
When Lanvin fired designer Antonio del Castillo, a Spaniard who stuttered in three languages, Castillo's devoted young assistants threw a brick through the Lanvin show window and waited there for the gendarmes to arrest him. "An artistic protest," he announced.
A beautiful and wealthy Frenchwoman, attempting to impress Hubert de Givenchy, perhaps the handsomest man in Paris, drove her convertible into the Seine to prove her devotion. She was rescued, but Hubert remained unmoved.
Fashion designers in New York were also colorful. Norman Norell, the most admired of American designers, got down on hands and knees to scrub compulsively the hardwood floors of his showroom, working off a bout of nerves before donning black-tie to greet rich customers, buyers and the fashion press.
Tailor Ben Zuckerman ( WWD called him "America's Balenciaga") pulled over at a New Jersey gas station, fell in love with the young man pumping the gas and drove away with him. The attractive grease monkey was a boxer between bouts named Harry Schacter. Ben taught him a little about fashion, made him his designing partner and the two gentlemen prospered as a happy couple.
Jacques Tiffeau, a sexually aggressive Frenchman working on Seventh Avenue, boasted of seducing a young American honeymooner on the famed Blue Train between Paris and Nice while his bride slept. Tiffeau was a member of the New York Athletic Club, where he spoke of hanging out in the steam room, "cruising the priests" and other potential prey.
Bill Blass himself was once lured by a young woman of breeding to a romantic week in the islands, where she confidently expected the inevitable would take place. It didn't.
Calvin Klein worked for me at WWD as an art department assistant. "But I can't remember you," I protested. "I was intimidated and used to hide in the men's room," said Calvin. Perhaps encouraged by his pal Bob Redford, Ralph Lauren once discussed with agent Joan Hyler at ICM his chances of becoming "a movie star."
If Rudnick needs material for a sequel, tell him to call me.
Source/Forbes.com
Crazy Fashion
James Brady, 11.30.06, 6:00 AM ET
.boxIDhead { background
By This Author
James Brady•
Which is why I'm delighted there's a new play about designers at the Manhattan Theatre Club. It's "Regrets Only," written by Paul Rudnick, and stars Christine Baranski as a society dame firing zingers and George Grizzard as a thinly disguised Bill Blass, who comes out of the closet, gallantly and even nobly, for a decent cause. The New York Times was so excited that it reviewed the show twice, once by fashion writer Cathy Horyn, then again by drama critic Ben Brantley (who used to work for WWD).
When I arrived in Paris in 1960, the couturiers came as something of a culture shock. These were famous people, wealthy, intimidating, flamboyant. The sainted Christian Dior had recently died, possibly of overeating, on a voyage his astrologer loudly warned him against taking. Pierre Balmain had a robed and sandaled Franciscan monk as his boyfriend and took him along on chic country weekends and to the better cocktail parties. Coco Chanel got it into her head that I was a Native American and introduced me to important people as " mon petit Indien"--"my little Indian."
The Algerian war was on, and when Pierre Cardin's handsome young aide Andre Oliver was drafted into the army as a private, Cardin designed his uniform. Then, when Andre was shipped out to the war, Cardin flew him home to Paris every weekend to work on the new collection. There was a crisis when Cardin and movie star Jeanne Moreau somehow, and inexplicably, fell in love, depressing Andre, who promptly announced he was considering suicide. So Cardin found him a better apartment, gave him a charge account at restaurants and discos and told Andre to select a valuable painting at the Galleries. "There are three I must have," Andre announced. He got all three.
Yves Saint Laurent and his partner Pierre Berge bought a palace in Marrakesh, where Yves had two swimming pools installed. Why two? I asked Berge. "One for Yves; one for the rest of us." Philippe Guibourge of Dior got a big new job, and to celebrate, he invited his beautiful friends, covergirl Marisa Berenson and actor Helmut Berger, to stay with him. I asked Guibourge how that was going. "When I am going to work, they are just coming in. When I come home, they are just getting up. And never, mind you, never do they wear clothes."
When Lanvin fired designer Antonio del Castillo, a Spaniard who stuttered in three languages, Castillo's devoted young assistants threw a brick through the Lanvin show window and waited there for the gendarmes to arrest him. "An artistic protest," he announced.
A beautiful and wealthy Frenchwoman, attempting to impress Hubert de Givenchy, perhaps the handsomest man in Paris, drove her convertible into the Seine to prove her devotion. She was rescued, but Hubert remained unmoved.
Fashion designers in New York were also colorful. Norman Norell, the most admired of American designers, got down on hands and knees to scrub compulsively the hardwood floors of his showroom, working off a bout of nerves before donning black-tie to greet rich customers, buyers and the fashion press.
Tailor Ben Zuckerman ( WWD called him "America's Balenciaga") pulled over at a New Jersey gas station, fell in love with the young man pumping the gas and drove away with him. The attractive grease monkey was a boxer between bouts named Harry Schacter. Ben taught him a little about fashion, made him his designing partner and the two gentlemen prospered as a happy couple.
Jacques Tiffeau, a sexually aggressive Frenchman working on Seventh Avenue, boasted of seducing a young American honeymooner on the famed Blue Train between Paris and Nice while his bride slept. Tiffeau was a member of the New York Athletic Club, where he spoke of hanging out in the steam room, "cruising the priests" and other potential prey.
Bill Blass himself was once lured by a young woman of breeding to a romantic week in the islands, where she confidently expected the inevitable would take place. It didn't.
Calvin Klein worked for me at WWD as an art department assistant. "But I can't remember you," I protested. "I was intimidated and used to hide in the men's room," said Calvin. Perhaps encouraged by his pal Bob Redford, Ralph Lauren once discussed with agent Joan Hyler at ICM his chances of becoming "a movie star."
If Rudnick needs material for a sequel, tell him to call me.
Source/Forbes.com
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