The Asylum (19 page)

ALL OF A SUDDEN I SPOT HER.

She is alone and she is moving quickly toward us, weaving and gliding through the chairs and tables.

I am sitting in a bijou lunch spot. I am munching on a nice lobster salad. My Jonny is having a wafer-thin chicken paillard. We are in Florida.

The youngish woman is getting closer. She has the malevolent sense of purpose which one associates with suicide bombers. Wait a minute. Maybe she
is
a suicide bomber. Or maybe she is the irate wife who is about to publicly confront her cheating husband and serve him divorce papers or pump him full of bullets. Or maybe she is a professional hit girl. Her steely gaze and her sucked-in cheeks suggest that she might well be a hired assassin. Her intimidating demeanor runs in sharp contrast to her designer ensemble. Clearly she has disguised herself as an upscale socialite to avoid detection.

As she approaches, looking haunted yet blank, I prepare for the worst. Something horrid is about to happen. A bomb? An acid attack? An age-old grievance finally coming home to roost as machine-gun fire destroys the peaceful mise-en-scène?

Everything goes into slow motion.

I brace myself and prepare to dive under the table.

Already I am overwhelmed by the feeling that this is a watershed historical moment. If I survive, then I know that this will be the beginning of an entirely new chapter in history. Everything will be pegged on this date: events will be described as occurring before or after this terrible incident. Like the Kennedy assassination, this will be a where-were-you-when moment.

“The suit is by Calvin Klein. The shoes and bags are from the new resort collections at Neiman Marcus.”

Sheeesh! That's a relief. She's not a jihadist at all.

She's modeling, informally. She is, in fact, an
informal model.

What we are witnessing is not the prelude to homicidal mayhem, but rather an unexpected burst of informal modeling. That is, modeling that is not formal; that is, modeling that is not on a runway; that is, modeling that is occurring for the benefit of nobody in particular. This kind of modeling is for the universe. That's how informal it is.

Informal modeling is an age-old practice. Models have been informally gliding between tables of fine-diners for decades. I am not sure exactly when it first started. It seems like something the Romans would have dug. I can just see Calpurnia, Messalina, Livia and the rest of the girls lolling about eating their honey-dipped dormice while some vestal beauties flaunted the latest toga styles.

I first took note of informal modeling in the 1939 Joan Crawford movie
The Women.
In one particular scene an informal model flits among the gossiping denizens of the upscale beauty parlor, chirping robotically to nobody in particular.

“Our new one-piece foundation garment zips up the back with no bones . . . our new one-piece foundation garment zips up the back with no bones . . . our new one-piece foun . . . ,” ad nauseam.

Informal modeling is like street theater, minus the BO. (Who among us has not had an imprisoning experience with an interactive mime in a stale costume?) Though informal models have much in common with mimes and performance artists, there is one group which they have even more in common with: escaped mental patients.

Informal models and mental patients are indistinguishable in many regards. Both groups move, walk and talk while inhabiting imaginary situations: I am in a parade; I am on a cruise ship; I am staring at the horizon; I am stopping and twirling on the street for no reason; I am not walking normally. Why would I?

Informal models and mentally ill people both smile enigmatically at people they do not know—and at nothing. Both groups approach complete strangers with exaggerated familiarity. They allow people to touch their clothing. They smile relentlessly.

Not all mentally ill people behave like informal models. My grandmother, she of the lobotomy, used to get into an occasional snit and throw household appliances. Other than that she never did anything remotely modelish. My schizophrenic uncle Ken, on the other hand, was more than a little mannequinesque: he often struck poses and attitudes. He was also very handsome and skinny and wore rumpled clothing. Could he have been an informal male model? Unfortunately, his hunky youth preceded the Abercrombie years, otherwise Ken would have been a shoo-in for the role of a welcoming, groin-baring A&F host. Like many schizophrenics, he was temperature oblivious and would have thought nothing of standing shirtless at a store entrance.

Call me a killjoy, but I have never been a proponent of informal modeling. Formal modeling? Bring it on! But informal modeling is undeniably poignant and kind of sad. When I encounter an informal model, my heart is filled with
tristesse.
Could there be anything more heartrending than the idea of a gal—maybe a former local beauty queen or ex–weather reader on local TV—walking around a local lunch spot looking well turned out but dazed, and clutching a card that reads:

CONTEMPORARY SEPARATES

or

MARINA RINALDI
—larger sizes available

or

MOTHER OF THE BRIDE
—now on sale

?

Informal modeling is tinged with desperation. An informal model is a gal who masquerades for a living. By day, she's a dressed-up glamourpuss, living the highlife and reeking of prosperity. At night, she returns to a life of film-noir misery. She goes home to her lonely walk-up, where she futzes with her manicure and covers her face in cold cream. Once a week her married boyfriend comes over for a glass of amaretto and a quick jiggle. It's all too tragic.

For these reasons, I have always shied away from informal modeling. Until . . .

When the Barneys women's store opened on Seventeenth Street in 1986, it was big news. This part of Manhattan was still largely ungentrified. Hookers and drug dealers were never far away. The idea of selling Chanel suits and Valentino frocks below Twenty-third Street was audacious.

In order to lure well-heeled customers downtown, we knew we had to make the place unique. We all agreed that the store should be a welcoming, warm space with a chic residential vibe. The Pressman family instructed us specifically on this issue: they were vociferous about the fact that they wanted customers to feel as if they were
shopping in somebody's home.

Converting a block of co-ops into retail square footage was not without its problems, not the least of which was the fact that many residents were reluctant to vacate. Rehousing these tenants was a lengthy and complex process. Some were happy to move on to pastures new. Others, despite the generous rehousing terms, resented the involuntary change.

Opening day arrived. TV cameras positioned themselves to capture this historic moment of gentrification. Suddenly, a contingent of pissed-off former tenants materialized. They had come to demonstrate against what they saw as the intrusion of unwanted luxury commerce in their lives. They began to chant. As customers entered, their ears were assailed with improbably apropos shouts.

“You're shopping in somebody's home!”

“You're shopping in somebody's home!”

“You're shopping in somebody's home!”

The irony of the heckling was not lost on those of us who had worked so hard to give the store that superchic residential vibe.

Despite the demos, the store was a howling success. The lower-level restaurant—in retail we never use the word “basement” unless it is in conjunction with the word “bargain”—was named Le Café. Absurd, I know, especially given the un-Frenchy nature of the neighborhood, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Despite the name, Le Café was packed. It became the destination du jour. It was almost
too
successful. Many patrons were lolling about in the restaurant for hours and leaving the store without checking out the floors of designer goodies above. Why not try to give them a taste of the clothing while they were eating?

The store owner decreed that, if madam was reluctant to leave the restaurant, then the designer goodies would/should/could come to madam. “Informal modeling! That's the answer.”

With much trepidation, I called my pal Mona. She was a pale blonde who looked like a latter-day Veronica Lake. Mona had never done any informal modeling before. She was a formal model. Very formal, in fact. The fave of photogs like David Seidner, Mona was known for her snooty, haughty attitudes and exaggerated Dovima poses.

Despite her lack of informal modeling experience, I felt that Mona was the right gal for the job. Nobody would ever mistake Mona for a mime or a suicide bomber. And she could mimic the idea of an old-fashioned informal model. She could informally model,
as if
she were informally modeling. She could, in other words, deliver a cool parody. Her knowing attitude would, hopefully, make the entire undertaking less tragic and frightening, and protect her from potential mockery by hipper-than-thou downtowners.

I told Mona she should arrive at the store around eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. One of the display guys would be waiting for her with an incentivizing check and a rolling rack of designer must-haves. He would help her to dress. She would don a succession of outfits, swoop down the stairs into the restaurant and then whoosh back up again.

With every outfit change, she would be given a new card to hold, bearing the name of the designer on display. These cards were to be printed ahead of time in the display studio on our ancient sign-making machine.

I loathed this machine. A more annoying piece of equipment would have been hard to find. No matter how carefully you prepped the sign—setting the metal blocks, meticulously rolling the type with oil-based ink and then inserting the pristine white pieces of card—the signs always turned out smudgy and wonky. In order to get one perfect sign, you were obliged to print about fourteen.

I planned on hiding out on the day of Mona's debut. There were no cell phones back then. I would wait till she got home in the evening and give her a call just to make sure she had not committed suicide. Why wasn't I there to support her? Better that she face the agony of informal modeling on her own rather than have me cringing and waving on the sidelines like a crazed pageant mother.

Curiosity eventually got the better of me. At about three o'clock I roused myself from the fetal position and headed to the store.

Mona was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly, I heard a kerfuffle on the second floor and looked up.

Mona appeared and began to descend the staircase. She looked like a blonde Audrey Hepburn in
Funny Face.
From a distance she appeared poised and regal, like a haughty Betty Draper bitch. As she approached, I noticed that customers began stepping quickly aside to let her pass. They were staring at her in an alarmed fashion.

As she got closer, things went from
Funny Face
to
Sunset Boulevard
. Mona was Gloria Swanson, having totally lost her marbles, vamping down the stairs toward her cruel fate.

“I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

Just like Norma Desmond's audience, Mona's audience was looking at her as if she were nuts.

As she got closer, I began to understand why.

One hand was on her hip and the other was holding a depressingly smudgy sign bearing one smudgy word.

NOWHERE
.

Informal modeling is Dada and strange at the best of times. Mona's enigmatic message took it to another level.

“It's the designer label—
NOWHERE
! That's the name of the clothing collection,” pleaded Mona, to no avail.

I did not believe her.

I knew that Mona and her sign were making a much more profound statement about life, and that this was—paging Jean-Paul Sartre!—a moment of the purest existential nausea. And I felt a wave of solidarity with Mona. After all, aren't we all, in some way or other, just informal models, winding and smiling our way through time and space, absurdly twirling and posing, and headed . . . nowhere?

HEARTFEL
T THANKS
to the following people, without whom this book may or may not have been possible.

My Blue Rider/Penguin publishing family: David, Sarah, Aileen and Brian.

My Barneys fashion family: Mark, Daniela, Charlotte, Tom, Dennis, Chris, Beth, Tommy, Matt, Rick, Sabrina, Benj, Lauren, Sav, Mary Olive, Jessica, Tomm, Courtney, Becky, Rena, Will, Emily, Elise, Tracey, Dina, Jay, Wanda, Tomoko, Laura, Marc, Vinnie, and anyone whose name I forgot, plus all the salespeople and managers in all the stores, plus Richard and Lisa, who are very groovy and just happen to own the joint.

My Slate.com family: Jacob (+ Needles) and David and Chad and Julia.

My actual family: Jonny, Mommie, Wretch, Dave, Nessy, Lenn, Harry the piglet, Leila, Aaron, Sheel, Gypsy, Tanya, Joyce F., and Deb.

Last but not least, I would like to acknowledge Liberace, the geriatric Norwich terrier who has kept me company while I wrote this book and who will hopefully make it to pub date. Fingers crossed.

SIMON DOONAN
is the creative ambassador for Barneys New York and the author of several books, including
Gay Men Don't Get
Fat
,
Wacky Chicks
,
and
Beautiful People
(published in the U.S. as
Nasty
), which became a BBC TV series. Originally from England, he worked on Savile Row, at Maxfield in Los Angeles, and with Diana Vreeland at the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art before becoming the creative director of Barneys New York, where he designed legendary window displays for more than twenty years. In 2009, he designed the holiday decorations for the Obama's first White House Christmas. Formerly a columnist for
The New York Observer
, he is now a contributor to Slate.com, and has appeared on
Gossip Girl
,
Iron
Chef America
,
America's Next Top Model
, and elsewhere. Doonan lives in New York with his husband, Jonathan Adler.