The Asylum (15 page)

MOST PEOPLE,
when they hear the word “Arizona,” think about golf carts and spa facials, or Alice Cooper, or horrible sweat lodges gone awry, or extremely tall sports personalities living in potentate splendor in their Sun Valley palazzos. Not me. When I visit Phoenix, I always think about
Psycho
.

The images of Janet Leigh embezzling from her boss and then fleeing into the sticks, only to be hacked to death in the bathroom of a run-down motel by a troubled young man who wears his mum's old frocks because he believes that “a boy's best friend is his mother,” were seared into my brain in the sixties and have remained there ever since. When I fly over downtown Phoenix, I try to identify the famous building from the opening scene. Yes, I'm talking about the location of Janet Leigh's clandestine lunchtime shag. Was it that building there?

Fall 2009. The plane is coming in to land at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport and, yes, I am thinking about Janet Leigh in her pointy white brassiere, but I am also thinking about the Olsens. One half of them is on the plane with me. Mary-Kate and I are flying in to present a trunk show and
défilé
at Barneys Scottsdale. Ashley arrived a couple of days earlier for a little poolside R & R, and is now hiding under a parasol, one assumes.

Let's talk about the mind-blowing success of the Row. Mary-Kate and Ashley Oslen are the only entertainment celebrities in the history of fashion to have achieved a Carine-Roitfeld-thinks-we're-fabulous high-fashion cred. They even won the CFDA Designer of the Year Award. No other celebrity has accomplished this feat. Madge and Gwen may have made some dough in the tweenie zone, Jessica Simpson may have cha-ching'd at Macy's, but the Olsens are the only
People
mag iconettes to see their clothing hang in stores alongside Lanvin, Dries Van Noten, Comme des Garçons and Alaia. They have achieved
acceptance.

Their designs are uncompromising. Called the Row in homage to Brit tailoring epicenter Savile Row, their collection is chic, elegant, cerebral, modern and pared down. And expensive. In 2011 they launched a handbag line that included a $39,000 croc backpack. Barneys sold three of them.

The former
Full House
stars and I are staging this fashion show for the delectation of an organization named the Wives of the Phoenix Suns. The event will raise some money for their foundation while simultaneously introducing the basketball wives to a label of which they may have hitherto been unaware.

While Mary-Kate joins Ashley in the Barneys alteration shop for last-minute fittings on their models, I twirl round the store making sure everything looks spiffy.

At six o'clock the twins are ready, and I am all poofy and perfumed and gussied up and ready to meet the basketball wives.

By the way, when I say perfumed, I mean
perfumed
!

I am a big believer in sloshing it on. Yes, I know that's very trashy and parvenu and seventies of me, but I enjoy being trashy and parvenu and seventies. When people complain about headaches and allergies caused by the overfragrancing of others, I just think they have a bad attitude. My fragrance role model is the Sabu character in
Black Narcissus
, the gorgeous Technicolor Michael Powell movie
.
The bejeweled and turbaned prince rides to the hilltop convent on his little white pony for his daily lessons, reeking of perfume and intoxicating the poor nuns against their will. Go Sabu.

Suddenly, there is a colorful commotion at the front door of Barneys. It appears as if a group of exotic birds is attempting to gain entry. That, as it turns out, is exactly what is happening.

As they approach, I can see that these birds of paradise are carrying purses—colorful, embellished handbags with inlays of fluorescent python and jangling charms. And they are wearing cocktail dresses—exotically pleated, patterned and ruched. With their explosive coiffures and bravura maquillages, the Suns basketball wives resemble gorgeous prize-winning cockatiels. And they smell
delicious.

Striking alluring attitudes and emitting wafts of Fracas and Frederic Malle, the lusciously beautiful and bejeweled ladies arrange themselves—a collage of pretzeled bare legs and brimming cleavages—in their front-row seats. The Row show begins, and a dramatic and fascinating dissonance reveals itself.

One by one, the models emerge. They are minimalist mavens in simple shapes. Slate gray, charcoal black, and petrol blue are the dominant hues. The designs are austere and graphic.

With their seaweedy hair and pasty pallor, the models appear to be in the middle of some kind of existentialist crisis. They are very Pina Bausch. The garments hang straight from their shoulders, reminding me of Norman Bates when he wears his mother's frocks. Like Norman, the models have no curves.

The basketball wives, in sharp contrast, have lots of curves, but the differences do not end there.

The basketball wives are happy.

The Row models are haunted and melancholy.

The basketball wives are a redolent bouquet.

The Row models smell of soap and water.

The basketball wives look as if they have migrated from Costa Rica.

The Row gals don't fly. They live in an orphanage or an incredibly chic mental hospital.

Never in the history of runway shows has there ever been a wider chasm between the gals
on
the runway and the gals staring
at
the runway.

They are like two different species, a seraglio of exotic odalisques observing a conclave of überchic fashion nuns. Cher meets Mother Teresa. Carmen Miranda goes on a date with Jane Goodall. Exuberance versus earnestness. Flamboyance versus restraint.

Sex versus fashion.

Show a hot-blooded man a photograph of deathly pale Cate Blanchett in an exquisite varicose-vein-colored Givenchy couture creation, and the chances of him puffing up his chest and saying, “I'd like to tap that!” are, let's face it, girls, a tad remote.

When horny hetero hunks observe Tilda Swinton looking androgynous and otherworldly in a Haider Ackermann jimmy-jammy suit or a Raf Simons canary yellow shroud, it is difficult to imagine them popping a Viagra and saying, “Okay, Tilly! Let's do it!”

If a testosterone-riddled frat boy encountered the hauntingly chic Daphne Guinness lurking in the shadows at the kegger, would he try to slip her a roofie and slip a hand in her blouse . . . or would he run back to his dorm room and begin garlanding his access points with garlic while clutching a crucifix? As filled with admiration for the style of the Right Honorable Daphne as I am, I am going to go with the latter.

What's my point?

My point is that high fashion is simply NOT sexy. High fashion is conceptual and strange and intriguing and startling . . . but
hot
? Not so much.

Leandra Medine, a highly strung, brilliant, style-addicted Manhattaness, has always understood the intrinsic unhotness of La Mode. This is why, when she began writing her fashion blog, she wisely named it the Man Repeller.
*

Leandra is a smart girl. She recognized that esoteric fashion is, by definition, almost a
denial
of sex. In order to make clothing look and feel like “high fashion,” a designer needs to strip away any suggestion of man-pleasing hoochie allure.

Back to the show.

With the exception of the moment when I introduced the ladies as “the wives of the Phoenix Pistons”—I try to stay au courant with sports teams, but there are so bloody many!—the show went off without a hitch.

At the après-show meet 'n' shop, the birds of paradise and the little gray sparrows finally encountered one another in person. They hit it off surprisingly well. Each species scrutinized the feathers and behaviors of its polar opposite and was amused and intrigued. Nobody ate anybody.

The good-natured basketball wives cherry-picked their way through the Row offerings and, paradoxically, found the items which could be integrated into what I imagined were their vast and colorful closets. The indigo python jackets, in particular, were a big hit.

As I observed the gals interacting after the show, I could not help but ask myself the obvious question: If I had been born a chick, would I be a man repeller? Would I dress like a flamboyant bird of paradise or an existentialist fashion missionary? Would I be able to put conceptual fashion esoterica ahead of my need to dazzle and mesmerize and tantalize? Could I turn my back on flashy, frothy sensuality and, instead, take the steep and rugged path to subtlety?

My first impulse would be to lie and say, “Yes, bring me the Yohji burlap onesie! I will live a life of fashionable aesthetic purity.”

Life, however, is short. As much as I love and appreciate the Row and the other designers who inhabit the codified world of nuance and sophistication, I fear I just might be a burlesque bitch at heart. I'll take a Jeff Koons over a Richard Serra any day.

HAS YOUR DRY CLEANER
ever unpicked and removed the label from your Margiela blouse—those four white signature stitches—and skillfully reattached it so that it could
not
be seen from the outside?

Has your mother ever mended and patched the artfully chewed holes in your ripped-to-pieces Balmain jeans?

Remember the Miyake shroud that came back from the cleaners sans pleats. Did you return it and whimper, “Can I have my pleats back, please? Pleats. Please?”

Did your dad ever offer to remove the massive padlock from your Chloé Paddington bag, using his chain cutter, to prevent said bag from pulling your arm out of its socket?

Sometimes people, non–fashion people,
they just don't get it.

The ideas and concepts which are brewed and concocted in the rarefied cloisters of the fashion asylum, sometimes, once they encounter the cold, objective light of the outside world, suddenly change in meaning, or have no meaning, or even take on an utterly unintentional meaning.

A couple of decades ago, I once walked across lower Manhattan wearing a nifty knee-length black jacket. I was rocking a new-wave undertaker look. I had purchased this garment from some tailor in the UK who specialized in teddy-boy clothing. Back in the day, it was called a “drape coat.”

Everything started off great. No problems in the West Village. In SoHo everyone thought I looked groovy. Then I headed to the northeast. I was visiting a pal who lived near Tompkins Square Park. 'Ere long I reached the Bowery. This is back before there was a Whole Foods and a happening Bowery Hotel. These streets resembled the set of
The Omega Man
minus Charlton Heston.

“Back to your own neighborhood, Yentl!” yelled some guy who was warming himself in front of an improvised brazier. Yes, this drug-addled street warrior had mistaken me for a Hasid.
Oy veh
.

I sincerely hope that when this kind of thing happens, you are able to maintain your sangfroid. As you clutch your formerly pleated Miyake, it is important to see the bigger picture. Keep in mind that fashion is an insular, codified place, which speaks in a language of its own. The cues are hard to read. Even I,
moi
, occasionally draw the wrong fashion conclusions.

Despite having inhabited the fashion asylum for such a long time, I am still capable of misreading the signals. Like Nomi Malone, Elizabeth Berkley's character in the movie
Showgirls
, I am still capable of turning “Versahchie” into “Versayce.”

It was just a typical Tuesday evening. I am sure the same scenario was unfolding in households all over the United States. My husband was watching
Lockup
, the grim MSNBC documentary series about life inside our roughest prisons. I was sprawled on the carpet next to Liberace, our aging Norwich terrier. While I flipped lazily through the month's
Vogue
magazine, Liberace snored. Just a normal American family vignette.

Suddenly, I stopped flipping. Something shocking caught my eye. A new perfume from the house of Chanel titled . . . drumroll . . .
Jersey
. The editorial described it as “relaxed chic with a dash of liberation.”

I was intrigued. Very intrigued.

A fragrant homage to our Garden State, created by the legendary French fashion house?

Did not see that coming.

Whatever had possessed the folks at Maison Chanel to draw a dotted line—nay, a veritable Jersey Turnpike—from the refined luxury of the Rue Cambon to the gritty realities of New Jersey, America's eleventh most populous state?

Coco Chanel led a complex and unconventional life. A prewar romantic sojourn in Atlantic City would not have been out of the question. Maybe one year she just said, “Fuck it! I'm so over this whole Riviera situation!” and boated across the Atlantic to New Jersey. And there was an even stronger connection: let's not forget the fact that Mademoiselle Chanel invented something that eventually became synonymous with the Jersey Shore. The suntan.

Once upon a time, tans were exclusively associated with rowdy peasants. The likelihood of running into Madame de Pompadour or Queen Victoria at Fay's Rays or Dazzle Me Bronze (these are the names of actual contemporary tanning salons) was a big fat zero. Fashionable aristocratic women were so terrified of looking rugged and outdoorsy that they would put all kinds of demented stuff on their faces: we're talking rice powder and white powdered lead. I am not exactly sure what white powdered lead is, but chances are those lead-loving ladies did not survive many summers.

Then, in the 1920s, trendsetter Chanel went on a boat trip and forgot to bring her sunbonnet. Coco got baked. She returned to shore looking daringly dusky. Mademoiselle's
nouvelle couleur
caused a sensation in Deauville, the Jersey Shore of the French haute bourgeoisie. Before long, every courtesan and countess in every cabana from Copacabana to Coney Island was sporting a healthy agrarian glow. All thanks to Coco.

Over the subsequent decades, tans became associated with an emerging groovy jet set—the starlets, playboys, and effete aristos. Pale people worked in factories while tanned beautiful people zipped off to Ibiza and Saint Tropez. Eventually the pale proletariat—including my mum, Betty Doonan, in the sixties—figured it out. Mum did not get to spend July lolling on a yacht with Liz Taylor in Acapulco, but there was no reason why she should not look as if she had. All Mater had to do was plug in that scary, crackly-sounding sunlamp while watching the telly after a hard day at the plant.

Back to that family vignette and that fragrance named “Jersey.”

“Could it be,” I mused as I read my
Vogue
, “that the folks at Chanel HQ have just decided, surprisingly and shockingly, to capitalize on the popularity of the
Jersey Shore
reality television show.” Could the powerful reverse chic of JWoww, the Situation et al have proven too irresistible?

Having just, that very day, walked the block from the Barneys midtown office to catch the Barnes & Noble signing for Snooki's new book,
Confessions of a Guidette
, I understood the fascination. Jersey was having an undeniable moment. Jersey was on a roll. Jersey was
le dernier cri.

Clarification came only after I dug into the
Vogue
editorial. According to the writer, Jersey does indeed occupy a very special place in the Chanel legend. But we are talking fabric here, not guidos. One of Coco Chanel's great innovations was to take cotton knit jersey, a fabric previously only utilized for men's undergarments, and use it to create thoroughly modern sportif separates for early-twentieth-century women, thereby relieving them of the bondage of Belle Époque corsetry. The new Jersey
perfume pays homage to this revolutionary moment in fashion history.

Frankly, I am a little concerned that the marketing folks at Chanel may have overestimated our ability to recalibrate our response to the word “Jersey.” The Garden State, after all, has long since occupied a very significant spot in the American psyche. Dip into the history and culture of New Jersey and you will see exactly what I am talking about. A staggering number of iconic and influential Americans hail from this frequently mocked state: Lesley Gore, Dorothy Parker, Rachel Zoe, Connie Francis, Debbie Harry, Patti Smith and a rather fabulous pipe-smoking fashion-editor-turned-politico named Millicent Fenwick.

Inspired by the
Vogue
piece, I sallied forth to purchase a bottle of Jersey
from the Chanel store in SoHo. I intended to buy it as a gift for Chelsea Handler, a New Jersey native and the queen of late-night TV.

I envisaged Miss Handler—she frequently riffs on her tawdry-but-fabulous home state—having some good old-fashioned fun cross-referencing the top notes of musk and lavender with the
Jersey Shore
gang and the table-flipping
Real Housewives
of said state.

“Jersey is sold out!” declared the helpful sales associate.

Clearly the multiple resonances of the word “Jersey” were working their magic. I called a couple of other stores and got the same response. Locating a bottle of Jersey was harder than squeezing Governor Chris Christie into an Ed Hardy tube top. Bam!

The launch of Chanel's Jersey called to mind another lost-in-translation fragrance debacle. About five years ago, Balenciaga launched a new perfume. The folks at Maison Balenciaga became perplexed when this new product received a less than enthusiastic reception in the United States. With their designer, Nicolas Ghesquière, hitting his stride—every chick on earth was carrying one of those bags with the dangly bits—they felt sure that the perfume would be an automatic hit.

The name?

“Poupée.”

Unaware that
poupée
(pronounced “poo-pay”) was the French word for “doll,” American consumers saw only a perverse and horrible attempt to combine the aromas of poop and pee, and felt compelled to ask themselves, “Just how sick are these sordid Frogs?”

Bottom line: The Balenciaga folks had overestimated the linguistic capabilities of us Yanks. (I became a citizen in 2009.) Barneys New York was the one U.S. store that dared to retail the provocatively named fragrance. Many customers purchased it as a gag gift: “Here! I know you like rare and exotic fragrances. Have some poopee!”

Back to Jersey.

My TV-addicted husband proudly hails from the southern Jersey town of Bridgeton. He frequently waxes rhapsodic about his fellow Jerseyites, a lack of pretension being the most frequently highlighted trait. Jonny claims that it is virtually impossible to put on airs if you are from New Jersey. As a result, straight-talkin' Jerseyans are in many ways the polar opposite of, say, French people.

If you are from New Jersey, you could never, as Coco Chanel did, go around saying absurd things like “Elegance is refusal” or making haughty statements like “Luxury lies . . . in the absence of vulgarity.
Vulgarity
is the ugliest word in our language. I stay in the game to fight it.”

If you were born in New Jersey, you need not waste your life tilting against the windmills of vulgarity. Instead you can embrace it with a shriek of delight and an oily, suntanned embrace.