By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
The model slips the dress over her head and stands naked but for a pair of tiny black lace panties, not even bothering to go behind the screen, but no one is looking at her. Instead, Albert and his two partners, CEO Elizabeth Whitman (Harvard '06) and Adam Schneider, vice president for marketing and public relations (Harvard '07), are studying Polaroids of models in different "looks" that are spread out on a badly banged-up desk.
Albert is debuting his fall 2006 collection at MAO Space, a venue on 18th Street that produces shows for designers who are mostly too young, or too broke, to show in the tents, the official site in Bryant Park run by Olympus Fashion Week. About 70 designers are scheduled for presentations in the tents over the next eight days, and many more will show elsewhere, in places ranging from a tugboat in dry dock to a dilapidated former synagogue on Norfolk Street.
Manhattan is only the first stop on a semiannual fashion rotation that includes London, Milan, and Paris; regardless of the town, the audiences remain surprisingly similar, an international caravan of editors and buyers who have been making this trek for decades.
For a novice like Albert, New York's Fashion Week presents a make-or-break opportunity to pique the interest of these sartorial rainmakers. One enthusiastic review from an important magazine, one big order from a major department store can put a fledgling designer immediately on the map. On the other hand, more often than anyone likes to acknowledge, really talented people can languish on the sidelines, showing excellent collections season after season but for some reason falling through the crackslacking the moxie, the fierce desire, or maybe just the plain dumb luck that lands other designers on top.
Ready to walk
photo: Jennifer Snow/jensnow.com
Albert's childhood home is two blocks from the house where Mary Tyler Moore supposedly lived, but when he's asked whether that fresh-faced working girl inspired his collection he says, "Not this time." His inaugural effort is instead dedicated to the Mitford sisters, six madcap debutantes who lived in Britain between the wars and captivated society with their dazzling repartee, their beauty, and the wildly divergent lives they went on to lead. (Two were Nazis; one was a famous muckraking Communist; another was a much lauded author.) Though a glance at the bursting rack holding his collection doesn't immediately bring Mitfords to mindunless you can imagine Jessica in a transparent python blouseAlbert says he doesn't really mean for you to take this Mitford business literally.
"The collection tries to synthesize the Mitford spiritpragmatic but at the same time extremely frivolous," he says, holding up a bold royal-blue skirt trimmed with what Albert calls "butter" piping and swaths of teal crystal pleating. "It's really just about my vague sort of love for these sisters that I'm trying to translate into modern, contemporary clothes for real womenmaybe something to wear to brunch with your grandmother." When it is suggested that these days both granddaughter and grandmother are likely to show up for such an occasion in sweatpants, everyone in the studioeven the modelcracks up.
If Albert is a little over-the-top with his Mitford references, he is hardly alone. The fashion world floats on a fluffy cloud of hyperbole: This season, the house of J. Mendel says its collection is meant to invoke the spirit of Bonnie Parker; Y-3 states that its clothes were strongly influenced by 1950s horror movies; Ralph Lauren cites modern shooting parties (grouse, one assumes, not heroin); Luella Bartley suggests an affinity with a blindfolded Bettie Page; Diane von Furstenberg offers the film Working Girl.
One thing is clear: If you don't believe in your own peculiar vision, no matter how far-fetched, you'll never convince the clothes-buying public to meet you and your fantasies at least halfway, and you really have no business mounting a runway show. In fact, it could be argued that it's the ability to transfix, bewitch, and ultimately seduce an initially indifferent audience that makes for a truly great designer.
When Albert is asked what he'll be doing tomorrow, the day before his show on Super Bowl Sunday (an event that passes completely unnoticed during Fashion Week), he says he'll be attending to last-minute details, which include solving his most pressing problem: shoes. Somehow he didn't realize that young models' feet were all size 10 1/2 or 11, plus, since he ordered a lot of shoes from the Internet to save money, there are the usual problems when you can't see things in person: The two-tone spectators he got from Bluefly are a peculiar mustard color, and there are plans to go to Pearl Paint and buy something to remedy this.
When they're asked who would sit in their dream front row on Sunday, Whitman, Schneider, and Albert are taken aback for a moment, then say they'd be happy with anyone from any magazine, really, or ideally, a buyer from one of the "B's," the collective nickname for Bergdorf's, Bloomingdale's, Barneys, and Henri Bendel. (A fifth B, Bonwit Teller, went out of business years ago.) Then suddenly Whitman shouts, "I want Oprah to come! I want to meet the O!"
Cigarette girls: Taking a break before the show
photo: Jennifer Snow/jensnow.com
Then suddenly a rumor rustles through the room, whispered in tones of frank disbelief: Anna is coming. This seems highly unlikelyit's an incredibly busy week for the famed Vogue editor, and to be honest, there hasn't been all that much buzz about Albert. But no, one of the MAO principals says, Wintour's teenage daughter, Bee, has heard about the show and wants to bring her mom.
Ten minutes before the show begins, the audience is shaping up: the usual enthusiastic fashion students; a small number of junior-editor types with stick-straight hair and Goyard tote bags; the ubiquitous Sylvia Miles; a mysterious guy in paisley pants and high rubber boots, carrying a Muppet purse. But then, incredibly enough, Wintour herself materializes. Dressed casually (for her) in jeans and a spectacular fur parka and with daughter in tow, she slips into the front row.
"Now I'm a little nervous," Albert laughs when her attendance is confirmed, but he is not too rattled to tell the girls to smile"I want happy models, not pouty models!"and deal with a last-minute pinning emergency.
The lights go up, the music surges, and the models begin their rapid stride down the catwalk. None of the catastrophes that can befall a runway show occur: No one's breast pops out; no one loses a shoe and falls down; two models don't bang into each other. Just minutes after Albert takes his bow, the models are already back in their jeans, slinging their big bags over their shoulders and rushing off to their next jobs; Wintour has melted into thin air. Albert, in his quiet way, is ecstatic.
Over the next several weeks, Wintour will attend scores of catwalk shows in four cities. She will gaze at thousands of pencil skirts and sweater sets and sequined evening gowns. Whether Albert's caramel mink-trimmed overcoat or his chocolate taffeta skirt suit will linger in her memory is anyone's guess.
Meanwhile, by Tuesday the designer will be back in class in Cambridge, trying to keep his mind on his studies but all the while worrying about magazine mentions, boutique orders, and who or what will set fire to his imagination and inspire his spring 2007 collection.