Lisa Chaney - Coco Chanel - An Intimate Life

Meanwhile, Gabrielle had no intention of being left behind in her elegance, and was fascinated by much of what was new. An underlying shift taking place in her trade was reflected in one of the remarkable new synthetic fabrics, easy-care nylon. Gabrielle had foreseen that the days of haute couture were numbered, that the effects were related to the cost of labor and an age that had little interest in the artisan. An instant effect now mattered more to women than how something was made.

Since the war, every couture house had been preoccupied with how to balance its costs. The collections — meaning the sales of models to a wealthy private clientele of a few thousand women — no longer covered anything like the huge costs of running the couture house. (All labor costs had gone up, in particular the traditionally appalling wages of those at the artisanal level of couture, those who actually made the clothes.) Using the cachet of their labels, selling prêt-à-porter was the only path down which the couturiers believed they could go. Both a dilemma and contradiction for Gabrielle, like the rest, she saw that prêt-à-porter was an inevitable part of the future.

Accordingly, through Marie-Louise Bousquet in Paris and Carmel Snow in the States, she cunningly set up a most innovative deal that would fund her new collection. To coincide with its launch, she negotiated “Coco Chanel” ready-to-wear originals in New York’s fashion district, Seventh Avenue. Gabrielle calculated — correctly — that this would stimulate considerable interest around the world. Not only that, when Pierre Wertheimer got wind of her crafty plan, to his credit, he made an immediate and generous offer. He would like to underwrite half of Gabrielle’s new collection’s expenses. If it went well, they all knew that the sales of Nº 5 could only benefit. At seventy, Gabrielle had lost neither her market trader’s shrewdness nor her feminine touch. Once more, her old adversary and friend Wertheimer had been won over.

This coup was part of Gabrielle’s carefully considered campaign in which she refused all interviews. The resulting sense of anticipation meant that several months before her collection, journalists began dredging up and expounding on old articles and photographs: Gabrielle’s thoughts on fashion, her look, her extraordinary friends and all those famous affairs. The young were amazed by this woman in whom the press was so interested.

With her retrieved ex- premières , to whom she said, “Come quickly, we only have ten green years,” she had set to work. The premières were in only two of the old workrooms high up in 31 rue Cambon, while Gabrielle herself worked from one small room on the third floor, close by her private apartment. With one mannequin alone to work on, and one fitter, an elderly, white-haired woman, this was nothing like the past. But Gabrielle’s scissors were, nonetheless, once again hanging authoritatively from around her neck. The task before her was almost insurmountable, and with all in Paris with the vaguest interest in couture waiting on this collection, Gabrielle permitted herself no indulgence, such as speaking of her fears. Instead, she spelled out her criticism of other — male—“pederast” designers, whom she decried for designing on paper rather than on the model’s own body, as she did:

To one of the few journalists who were lucky enough to talk to her in the winter of 1953, and who asked her what she was planning to present in her collection, Coco, superb as ever, answered, “How can you expect me to know? Until the last day I alter, transform. I create my dresses on the mannequins themselves.” 10

Meanwhile, for December 20, 1953, Jean Cocteau wrote in his diary: “Sunday with Coco Chanel, Marie-Louise [Bousquet] and [Michel] Déon. Chattered from one till ten at night without saying one nasty thing about anyone. Coco amazingly revivified by reopening her house.” 11

The invitation everyone in Paris wanted for February 5, 1954 (always 5 to bring luck), was the one to Gabrielle’s show. Select members of Paris society were invited, as well as every journalist, photographer, magazine editor and buyer deemed worthy. The night before, as had been Gabrielle’s custom, she lay flat on the floor in the grand salon as her models walked past; she was checking the length of their hems.

Latecomers were locked out, and that even included the editor of the Parisian fashion bible, L’Officiel de la couture . Every newly painted gilt seat was filled; toward the back, the staff members of French, British and American Vogue stood on their chairs to see. The crush, the suspense were incredible. The first girl appeared carrying her number and walked slowly past the audience. The next girl walked just as sedately. Already, it was abundantly clear that Dior’s triumph of a few years earlier was not about to be repeated. One commentator noted acidly:

A black coat-suit, the skirt of which was neither tight nor loose, with a little white blouse… was followed by other suits in rather dull wools, in a wan black, matched joylessly with melancholy prints. The models had the figure of 1930—no breasts, waists, no hips… offering nothing but a fugitive reminder of a time it was difficult to specify… What everyone had come for was the atmosphere of the old collections that used to set Paris agog. But none of that was left. 1

The atmosphere was icy. Glances were exchanged. And when, at last, the show finished, there was a moment’s dreadful silence. A pensive and tentative-looking Gabrielle stood in her old position at the top of those mirrored stairs. Traditionally, she had permitted twenty or so of her most privileged friends and admirers to sit on this, the “spine of her house,” to watch the show unfold. This time, unaware of the old protocol, many who hardly knew Gabrielle had crammed themselves onto those notoriously uncomfortable yet much sought “seats.” Vogue would write:

A spare, taut, compressed figure hung with jewels, Chanel looks as she did before the War, except that her widely spaced, lively eyes… deny the lines around them. That she is a monument to common sense, to logical stubbornness, can be seen in her broad, shrewd face with the wide mouth pulled straight across, the eyebrows determinedly pencilled. Her hands are powerful, broad-knuckled; her sculptor’s strong fingers have unpolished nails.

Then, with the last dress, there was a sudden hubbub and the audience was in a rush to get away. Only a handful of friends remained, including Hervé Mille, Maggie van Zuylen and Gabrielle’s faithful première , Madame Lucie. They strained to congratulate Gabrielle, but she was devastated, silent. While her lawyer would say later, “She accepted defeat with a great deal of dignity, a dignity based on self-confidence,” she also implored Madame Lucie to tell her, had she lost her touch? Unquestionably, memories of Gabrielle’s war record were in the air. Nonetheless, while a good number in the fashion firmament had — to a greater or lesser degree — themselves been collaborators, they would have ingratiated themselves quickly enough if they’d thought Gabrielle’s new collection passed muster.

Meanwhile, one of those whose judgment may in part have been based on criticism of her war record was Lucien François. François, a journalist from Combat , whose power enabled him to make or break reputations, and who was secretly and passionately loathed, insinuated that Gabrielle had had a facelift, and dismissed her: “With the first dress we realized that the Chanel style belongs to other days. Fashion has evolved in fifteen years… Chanel has become a legend idealized in retrospect.” He ended with the acid comment: “Paris society turned out yesterday to devour the lion tamer… we saw not the future but a disappointing reflection of the past, into which a pretentious little black figure was disappearing with giant steps.” 2