While there were tensions simmering in France between tradition and progress, in America, the early 1970s convulsed with contradictions. Fashion and culture did not move in tandem. The broader world was in the midst of seismic upheaval, deadly tumult, and a soul-sapping malaise, much of it having to do with the war in Vietnam. Fashion was mostly about escapism.
For the first time, thanks to television and the nightly news, a war was made vivid to the folks back home. Americans were losing faith and trust in the government. The publication of the Pentagon Papers revealed the falsehoods of the war. And the Watergate investigation startled readers with its revelations of the government’s lies and cover-ups. The early 1970s saw the birth of American cynicism regarding elected officials, the power of the government to do good, and the possibility of transparency in leadership.
But it wasn’t just the Vietnam War and lying politicians that made the 1970s such a tense, stratified decade. The country was in a cultural war over the Equal Rights Amendment. The amendment, which would have affirmed equal application of the Constitution regardless of gender, passed both houses of Congress but ultimately failed, approved by three fewer states than the thirty-eight required for ratification. And in 1973, the Supreme Court issued its opinion in Roe v. Wade, affirming a woman’s right to an abortion as a matter of privacy. That landmark decision created a wedge issue that even now threatens the very civility of the country.
Much of the 1970s was defined by anger and melancholy, as life simply became less pleasant and less beautiful, and the vision of the United States as a country of prosperity was challenged. The decade after the publication of Rachel Carson’s The Silent Spring ushered in a new era of concern about pollution. The recently established Environmental Protection Agency began an unusual form of data collection: it unleashed an army of professional photographers across the country to document pollution. They collected images of thick clouds of smog hovering over cities, oil-slicked rivers, and natural landscapes scarred by thoughtless development. Of the many heartbreaking revelations, one was of an East Boston neighborhood destroyed by the expansion of Logan Airport. The photos showed tarmac butting up against tidy backyards and jumbo jets roaring seemingly only a few feet above the tops of modest homes.
And of course, there was the oil crisis. Long lines of gas-guzzling American cars at filling stations became shorthand for a country—for a world—with a sputtering economic engine.
Amid all this, women found their swagger and started dressing like they meant business, whether in the boardroom or bedroom. They were institutionalizing independence and self-determination. Female participation in the workforce had grown by nearly 50 percent since the 1950s. And the 1970s produced the largest such increase in a single decade.1 Ms. magazine entered its heyday as the voice of female self-actualization. And Hillary Rodham Clinton graduated from Yale Law School.
Fashion became happyland, a snow globe of joy. For much of the era, the industry and the colorful bounty swirling around it were a counterpoint to a society that was becoming more constricted than ever by sexual politics, culture wars, national cynicism, and economic despair. Fashion didn’t reflect reality; it was an antidote to a toxic world.
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In 1973, disco balls spun as an electronic thump-thump, thump-thump became the soundtrack for freedom—sexual, racial, personal. Hordes of young men and women were happily and hungrily saying “Yes!” to liquid libations and anything else they could snort, smoke, or slip under their tongue for a journey into a Technicolor Never-Never Land. The gadflies and society stars, white-hot celebrities and fun-seeking teenagers, slid into the era’s nightlife, ready to release their inhibitions and exist in the tantalizing, irresistible moment.
Folks met up in one disco and piled into any available limousine for a ride over to the next. And there were always limos. For the disco set, riding in a limo was the only way to travel. People spent their freshly minted fortunes and their last dollars on them. Fleets of sleek black cars parked in front of nightclubs, ready to ferry bleary-eyed, overserved revelers on to the next party.
One did not hit the clubs dressed for the factory or the secretarial pool. These nights out required costuming. Women styled themselves in cocktail dresses that plunged to X-rated depths and that flew up high on the dance floor. The underpinnings that created the hourglass figures and the bullet bosoms of the 1950s gave way to … nothing. Men became peacocks dressed in madly patterned trousers and colorful shirts that reflected the spotlights and the sweaty glow of testosterone. But disco fashion was more than slinky dresses and crazy colors; it was a refuge. The disco was where people came to party, to laugh, to smile, to forget. No one judged. No one pontificated. Life was lived on whims.
People didn’t need fashion to reflect reality—not when reality was one demoralizing news story after another broadcast in the sonorous tones of Walter Cronkite. They needed fashion to take them away from it. The fashion of the 1970s was inexorably linked to decadence: sex, drugs, and disco music.
Style was a distraction and a source of commonality in an increasingly fractured world. It cultivated a naive delusion that the entire decade was one giant acid trip or coked-up party. It was a time when everyone was just one bong hit away from euphoria.
The denizens of the fashion industry who were at their youthful apogee during that period tend to have only the foggiest recollections of the era. Oh yeah, it was great, they say, their voices trailing off.2 They have vague memories of having had a rip-roaring time, when success just seemed to occur by chance and without corporate interference. And now, well into their senior years, they are thankful to have survived it all pretty much intact.
“I remember the vibe, I don’t remember the people,” said former model Bethann Hardison about her time partying at the club 12 West in New York. “I could have married someone there and not remember their name. At one point, I remember dancing, closing my eyes, and saying, ‘If I die tomorrow, I’d be fine, because I am so happy.’”3
Women were ascendant in this frothy world. Little girls no longer grew up wanting to dress like their mothers—seeking validation by being appropriate and following the social codes. The young women of the 1970s bent society’s rules to their needs. American fashion was a tool for power, independence, equality, and spectacle.
The culture was shifting from the hippie rebellion of the 1960s to a more glamorous, narcissistic, diverse, and cynical sensibility. The Black Power movement had left a mark on the social psyche with its chant of “black is beautiful” and its emphasis on black pride. Racism and prejudice had not been vanquished, not by a long shot, but they were complicated by a cultural curiosity and fascination with black identity. Basic Black at Bergdorf, that celebration of black designers where chitlins and collards were served up to white New York’s power brokers, heralded the arrival of a new decade. “It’s ‘in’ to use me,” African American model Naomi Sims said in the early 1970s, during the height of her career, when her yearly earnings were estimated at $40,000. “And maybe some people do it when they don’t really like me. But even if they are prejudiced, they have to be tactful if they want a good picture.” 4
American culture was changing, becoming more sophisticated, cosmopolitan, and daring—or at least aspiring toward it. No longer content to merely copy, we wanted to know how our visual arts and cuisine measured up against that of the Old World. To wit, out in California, ambitious winemakers were honing their craft, preparing to challenge France’s position as the ne plus ultra in the world of wine. In 1976, a group of respected French oenophiles startled wine aficionados by choosing American wines, vintage 1973, over French ones in a blind tasting. The “Judgment at Paris” remains a landmark event that gave the American wine industry a sense of its own aptitude and forced its reconsideration on the world stage. It was a publicity stunt that transformed an industry. But it wasn’t the first. And it wasn’t the most dramatic. A similar kind of ambition and daring was already growing in American fashion.
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If selecting the designers for the French half of the show was a decision complicated by national history and protocol, organizing the American contingent was a task beset by ferocious egos.
Eleanor Lambert, American fashion’s own roadside barker, may have hatched the idea for the show, but she had to cope with the imperial Rothschild, who controlled the guest list and the flow of tickets. Lambert also had to negotiate the prejudices and jealousies of the French fashion trade organizations, which had final approval over who would be included in the show. And she had to step gingerly with the Americans, whose insecurities had been loosed by the prospect of a Paris debut.
To smooth the way, and create at least the appearance of collegiality, each French designer was supposed to “invite” an American counterpart to participate. Of course, the French designers didn’t really know the Americans. They were casually familiar with their work, but this was not a case of one friend inviting another. And as stories about the organizing leaked to the press—mostly through fashion writer Eugenia Sheppard—this gracious idea fell by the wayside thanks to egos and publicity concerns.
“What started out last summer as a simple enough plan to put top French and American fashion together in a single show to benefit the Versailles restoration fund … has become a boiling pot of feuds, misunderstandings, hurt feelings, jockeying for position, and rumors,” Sheppard reported in a story that ran in the Los Angeles Times.5
The first Americans confirmed for the show were Lambert’s longtime clients Bill Blass and Oscar de la Renta. Lambert had worked with Blass since his days as a hired hand at Maurice Rentner. And she’d included de la Renta in her 1968 fashion show at the White House. When she asked them to participate, there was little hesitation. They trusted her. She’d never let them down.
Halston was the next inevitable choice. He had become an iconic figure in American fashion. He’d deconstructed the confining tailoring of the past, embraced the new microfiber known as Ultrasuede, and wrapped his company in the gloss of celebrity. He was the most famous American designer of the day, with access to a multitude of stars from Liza Minnelli to Andy Warhol.
However, from the beginning, Halston was difficult. His Seventh Avenue company had recently been purchased by Norton Simon Inc. The deal transformed him; the designer became a multimillionaire overnight and was suddenly enjoying the perks of wealth, such as a chauffeur, a showroom filled with orchids, and a sense of entitlement. He returned triumphantly to Bergdorf Goodman, where he’d launched his career as the house milliner, with his own in-store fashion boutique. Halston’s life was in the midst of a glittering transformation, and all of his energy was focused on exploiting and enjoying that ride. He was too busy for Paris.
He didn’t want to do the show. Why? Because it would be a bother. Because he wanted to be the star. Because. Because. Because. Because he was rocketing to the zenith of his career and along the way had picked up the habit of referring to himself in the third person. And who doesn’t find that aggravating? “We all handle fame in different ways,” remarks de la Renta.6
But with all the reporting and the marquee list of names on the organizing committees, the Versailles show had started to give off the irresistible scent of glamour, and that meant publicity. Halston was a bloodhound for both. He relented and told Lambert he’d do it, explaining his change of heart by noting, “November was such a busy time for me. However, it’s turned into such a big deal that of course I’ll go.”7
He brought his big personality, the deep pockets of his new corporate parent (which also owned cosmetics giant Max Factor), and his famous buddies. He wasn’t worried or intimidated by the prospect of showing against the greats of French fashion.
“He asked friends and personalities to do [Versailles],” says Frances Patiky Stein, who worked with Halston as he was starting his business. “It was all of his pals. We all laughed and roared: ‘We’re going to have a show in Versailles!’ We weren’t worried. It was nothing like, ‘Oh, my gosh.’ Not in the slightest.” 8
With Halston on board, Givenchy suggested inviting James Galanos, who was a bit of an outlier. He’d built a successful career in Los Angeles, establishing his own version of a couture business and luring large numbers of high-profile clients. But Galanos declined the invitation. He had disengaged from the psychological undertow of Paris. He had no desire or need to prove himself in that venue. He came to New York to present his collection at the Plaza Hotel and he did quite well; he did not need Paris. Lambert had asked each designer to contribute $5,000 to the cost of the production, and it was an expense Galanos saw no need to undertake. And he did not want to endure the inevitable backbiting that would occur when a group of designers were forced to all share a stage.
Following Galanos’s refusal, Lambert invited Geoffrey Beene, but he got wind of who had been asked to participate and in what order. Beene, who could be both stubborn and thin-skinned, did not want to play second fiddle to anyone. He declined. Other designers considered for the occasion include long-forgotten names such as Donald Brooks and Chester Weinberg, as well as the Paris-born American designer Pauline Trigère.
Lambert wanted to include a woman in the show. She was intent on inviting her client Anne Klein, but no one else wanted her to. Lambert believed that Klein’s intelligent ready-to-wear style was a robust representation of American fashion at its essence. She described Klein as being concerned “not with what clothes might be, but what they must be to the vital women of our time.”9
Klein was engaged in her own distinctive business. Traditionally, when a woman shopped, she bought a coordinated ensemble: jacket, skirt, and blouse. And she bought it in one size, even if her torso was a 10 and her hips were a 12. Klein disrupted the status quo. She sold women separates. They could buy a jacket in one size and a skirt in another, and they could skip the blouse if they already had one at home. It’s pure common sense today, and it’s hard to imagine a time when this was revolutionary. But before Klein and her ilk came along, fashion was not about choice.
Klein was selling women their future stitched up in wool and silk. She wasn’t focused on offering women subversive fashion that would release them from convention; she was giving them a new set of conventions. She was preparing them for a future of professional careers and personal independence, along with the high-class problem of trying to “have it all”—whatever that may be.
The French were stubbornly opposed to her. Klein’s ready-to-wear was solidly practical, wearable, commercial, and, in the vernacular of fashion, boring. The French didn’t believe it should be considered in the same breath as haute couture. It wasn’t like comparing apples and oranges: Klein’s work wasn’t fashion; it was just clothes.
But Lambert had a long history of celebrating American style. Her master plan was to have the Americans appear as closely connected to contemporary times as possible, hinting that the French were woefully out of date and out of step. Klein was the most logical choice. She was a working woman dressing other working women. She was in step with the changing demographics of the American workplace. Klein was at the forefront of the shift that would put Diane von Furstenberg on the cover of Newsweek in 1976 as the purveyor of the ubiquitous feminine work uniform: the wrap dress. By 1973, Klein had become one of Lambert’s clients. And Lambert was determined that Klein would be part of Versailles.
It took diplomatic outreach before the French would agree to include her, and that negotiation fell to de la Renta. His wife, Françoise, who had been editor of French Vogue until 1967, knew all the French designers and was friends with Marie-Hélène de Rothschild. De la Renta was Saint Laurent’s invited guest designer. He had worked in Paris and had recently replaced Norman Norell as the president of the Council of Fashion Designers of America, the organization founded by Lambert to bring cohesion and prestige to Seventh Avenue. It was up to him to make a case for Klein to Bergé.
“Pierre Bergé said, ‘We don’t want Anne Klein,’” recalls de la Renta. “I think it was for the very simple reason that she was very successful in something that he was launching a line in: very expensive ready-to-wear. I tell Bergé: We’re all ready-to-wear. We’re not couture designers. She’s an important part of our industry.”10
Bergé finally sent a telegram relenting: in deference to Oscar and his wife, the French would accept Klein.
Klein never knew about the negotiations made on her behalf—at least, de la Renta never told her. But as the excitement surrounding the Versailles show began to build, she remained calm and collected. She had no doubts about her participation. She believed she deserved to be there.
Lambert’s final choice was a bit of a wild card. When she called the rising young talent Stephen Burrows with an invitation to participate in the Versailles show, he was just a kid who liked making clothes with his friends. He didn’t know enough about anything to be intimidated.
“It wasn’t like a task; it was just a benefit,” Burrows remembers. “It didn’t impact me at all. I wasn’t into the history of Paris at the time. I just wanted to do everything they said you couldn’t.”11
Burrows was living in his own little fashion universe. He and Halston were the wunderkinds of the 1970s. They were both devoted to the visceral, pleasure-seeking aspects of the decade. They reveled in a loose-limbed, simplified aesthetic. They both tapped into the spirit of dance and movement that was such a significant part of the era’s escapism. But where Halston’s style was sophisticated and urbane, Burrows’s was carefree and energetic. Halston made things tidy and muted for an uptown crowd. Burrows left it raw.
Burrows was the hot newcomer. In modern terms, he was Alexander Wang, Hedi Slimane, and Nicolas Ghesquière all rolled into one. Burrows was the 1970s. He had bubbled up from New York’s downtown hemisphere, from a community of artists and social butterflies. He had studied at the Fashion Institute of Technology, but his real training as a designer came from weekends lived among the sexual free spirits of Fire Island, the mambo dance parties in Manhattan, and the late nights huddled around tables at Max’s Kansas City, a restaurant and bar that attracted denizens of the art and music worlds.
He designed dresses in nearly sheer jersey that slithered over the body like a thin layer of sweat. He was influenced by the rhythms of dance and the exploding colors that flowed impressionistically from his imagination. But aesthetically, there was little that overtly identified him as African American.
Burrows also brought a publicist’s most beloved commodity to the event: buzz.