by Young
Bunny declared, “Amies knows the summery of his manual better than I.”
L’art d’hommes’s s’habiller
(The Art of Men’s Dressing)
The designer wasted no time in explaining. “First and foremost, the art of dressing is to achieve ‘A Nonchalance,’ an absolute necessity for any gentleman.
“At least one article in his ensemble must not match.” He paused before resuming, “For example, if a man wears a dark blue suit and tie with a pale blue shirt and navy blue socks, then a patterned silk handkerchief in a different colour or print will offset his outfit with insouciance.
“If he prefers to stick to blue, then he might don a pair of dark red socks as his sui generis.”
He opined further, “A correctly cut cap in a checked cloth of a clear pattern can often provide an element of dash to an otherwise somber country outfit.”
Tad asked, “Does the cap have to be worn at a calculated angle?”
My Valet and teacher sniggered at Tad’s question while the Arabs and I listened attentively.
“Of course not,” Mr. Amies answered chivalrously. “Remember the nonchalance dictum?”
“An important aspect is to the care of clothing. Allow time for clothes to rest and revive.
“Do not wear a suit or shoes for two days running. Both cloth and leather require time to breathe.
“Whenever a man sits, he is ironing a suit in the wrong places,” he smirked.
Jabril twitted, “I can’t sit when wearing a suit?”
We laughed at his comment, except for Mr. Amies, who replied earnestly, “I’m recommending that you permit time for your clothes and footwear to breathe. I’m not saying not to sit.”
He frisked forward before anyone could post another question.
“When it comes to grooming, I don’t believe there exists a woman who does not like a man to smell ‘nice’. But ‘nice’ is a smell that is as far removed from the kind of scent she wears herself. I’m referring to a scent that is clean and herbaceous.”
Señor Triqueros chirped, “No gentlemen will dispute that.”
My teacher’s sentiment gave the couturier fortification to forge further ahead. “There is much to be commended in Italian Style. Italian men possess a masculine superiority softened only with an air of feminine grace. This has proven successful in the game of sexual attraction,” Hardy proclaimed.
“When it comes to the colour purple, I see no use for this superfluous hue - except for ties, socks and handkerchiefs.”
As soon as he uttered those words, he realized he had opinionated too expeditiously as his compatriot gave him a malicious look. After all, the infamous Mr. Roger was the champion of the colour purple.
The queen’s dressmaker fired rapidly before the Fortnum & Mason fashion director could contradict him.
“If you know how to wear this shade, you do not need my help, but if you don’t, I counsel you not to sport it.”
Since my teacher, Valet and I had witnessed ‘Bunny’s’ mauve attire the first time we were introduced, we exchanged covert grins.
Hardy expressed, “In regards to attaining style in dress, one must look untroubled and relaxed in one’s attire. Clothing must appear to be a part of the wearer instead of being his wardrobe.” He checked our reactions before making an abutting bon mot.
“As for undergarments, these should be brief as wit and clean as fun.”
We chuckled at the dressmaker’s comment.
Mr. Amies concluded his spiel by finalizing, “A man must look put together, yet relaxed. His clothes must appear to be a part of him and not a wardrobe he has calculatingly selected.”
I plucked up the courage to ask, “Mr. Amies, can you give me some pointers for designing menswear?”
The dressmaker gave me a congenial smile and replied, “Another time, boy. Another time.”
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Mr. Fleetwood had returned to summon the couturier to attend to the ladies.
In response to me, Bunny counseled, “To design a man’s wardrobe is to discuss a man’s life. The kind of clothes he possesses will reveal the way he lives. Their condition and degree of fashionableness disclose his character.
“It is a good exercise to occasionally consider one’s wardrobe as a complete unit. And a gentleman should plan to have an efficient one at that.
“Much like a tool kit, his clothing is to get him through any situation or emergency. That said, a gentleman should build a wardrobe that helps him be efficient in his profession and also enjoy his recreational activities.”
The fashion maestro scrutinized me studiously. He declared, “Nowadays, a boy comes of age as a man at fourteen and remains one at forty. He is therefore a very important customer, especially when he has the authority to spend a substantial amount on clothes. Dressing for the part is the easiest way for a man to express himself.
“It is more than an act of vanity; it is a revolution against habituated traditions passed down by previous generations. It’s a kind of concession that he has not made the world as happy a place as he reckons it should be.”
He pondered for a moment, as if his monologue were directed at himself.
“In the nineteenth century, young men copied the clothing styles of their elders. In his twenties, that young man grew a mustache to look mature. But today, he wants to look youthful by embracing the latest fashion styles and trends. At twenty-five he feels the first pangs of middle-age depression. It’s under these circumstance that young men rule the men’s fashion realm. A new look cannot succeed unless men aspire to it. Their inner desires dominate all trends.
“Therefore, a mature man will reject styles that do not make him feel young. In today’s fashion, there are no old men: only the young or the dead.”
A sense of melancholia washed over the maestro when he vociferated his last sentiment. He leaned against the mantelpiece as if about to collapse. This unexpected crisis lasted a split second before he muttered buoyantly, “Let us proceed to the salon to join the ladies.”
Chapter Sixty
An ‘Unexpected Pearl’
“To be beautiful is to be you.
You don’t need to be accepted by others.
You only need to accept you.”
Sir Norman Hartnell
February 2013
My Email to Andy (Part One)
My chance encounter with Max was both a blessing and an affliction. After I’d checked into the majestic lady, The Oriental, hunger hit my rumbling stomach. I needed to savour some authentic Thai food. Unfortunately, the moment I stepped out of the hotel’s door, I was confronted by the harsh reality of Bangkok’s civic life.
As at Don Mueang International Airport, rows of local taxi drivers lined the hotel’s periphery, ready to debauch the first customer that ventured out without soliciting The Oriental’s private limo service.
Again, I found myself surrounded by a barrage of locals offering me the best bargain on transportation to my destination. Who should come to my rescue but the same driver that had deposited Max and me? In the foulest Thai vernacular he could master, he repulsed those who challenged him. The vultures scattered, allowing me to embark in his not-so-new sedan.
”Where you want go sir?” he asked.
”Take me to an excellent place for local food,” I replied.
”I take you to good place, sir,” he responded and sped off into the dark.
The question of whether I wanted a sexy girl to accompany me during my Bangkok stay arose again. I refused his offer with politeness.
The man rephrased his query: “You want boy? I take you to good boy-bar.”
I shook my head, yet he continued to pester me for an answer.
We bantered back and forth, I, not revealing my sexual preference while he used every contrivance to solicit an answer.
Instead of delivering me to the city’s hub, he headed in the opposite direction towards a suburb that had almost no street lights. Worrisome thoughts of rob
bery and murder had begun to plague me when the vehicle finally came to a halt at a two-storied house in the middle of nowhere.
A bald man with bad everything came out to greet us. There and then, I knew I had been delivered to a brothel rather than a restaurant. Much like the Mecca whorehouse, which Aziz had chaperoned us to some years ago, both pimp and driver escorted me into the seedy establishment.
I insisted on leaving but the driver would not budge until I had selected my pick of the day. Under such adverse circumstance I had little choice but to select a boy who looked half-way decent. He accompanied me to a shabby upstairs chamber.
As soon as he’d shut the door, I uttered, “Don’t take your clothes off. I’m not having sex with you. Tell me how much I owe and we’ll call it quits.”
The lad had no idea what I said. He began to disrobe when I stopped him. He looked at me strangely before calling the proprietor for assistance.
After much hassle and jostling, we reached a settlement. Since I’d offered to pay for the boy’s service and had not utilized his aid, Mr. Pimp, in jovial Thai modus operandi, agreed that the boy would be my tour guide for a day.
By the time the cab returned me to the hotel, I was starved for anything but sex. While Pimp and Taxi were sharing their illicit earnings, I was devouring everything that was brought before me by room service.
Not only was my first exploration a disaster, but I had also witnessed pervasive sleaze within this illustrious kingdom of Siam, more commonly known nowadays as “The Land of Smiles.”
1968
Hartnell’s Accomplishments
Our three-day London shopping spree extended to a weeklong stay. Sheik Fahrib sent word that he had unfinished business with Prince P and wouldn’t be joining us until a week later. The women welcomed the idea of more time for shopping.
Tad, like Count Mario Conti, knew everyone who was anyone, especially those within the British aristocratic circles and those who supplied services to the British Royal Households. This man-about-town had wrangled a meeting for the Assalamu Alaikum ladies with Queen Elizabeth II’s other dressmaker, the infamous Mr. Norman Hartnell.
Hartnell’s history of dressing British aristocrats dates back to 1923, when he acquired a clientele of debutantes and their mothers during his early years at the University of Cambridge. From then on, he was the darling of both the titled crowd and a string of silver-screen leading ladies, the likes of Vivien Leigh, Gertrude Lawrence, Merle Oberon, Ann Todd, Evelyn Laye, Anna Neagle, and also trans-Atlantic stars such as Marlene Dietrich, Elizabeth Taylor and Linda Christian to name a few.
When we met in 1968, this talented designer had some serious accolades under his belt. Besides designing Princess Elizabeth’s dress for her wedding to Prince Philip of Greece in 1947, he was also commissioned by the newly crowned queen to design her Coronation Dress in 1953.
In addition, Hartnell designed dresses for the Queen’s Maids of Honour as well as the Royal ladies in attendance, creating the necessary Westminster Abbey theatrical tableaux that showcased his design mastery to the world.
This was not the height of his ability. This man undertook an increasingly large number of commissions for The Queen’s State Visits and Royal Tours abroad, as well as an abundance of events at home, all necessitating a volume of clothing too large for just one House.
HRH Princess Margaret‘s 1960 wedding dress to Antony Charles Robert Armstrong-Jones, who became the first Earl of Snowdon, marked the last full-State occasion for which Mr. Hartnell designed an impressive vignette of courtly dresses that marked the swan-song of lavish British haute couture.
After the designer’s death in 1979, The House of Norman Hartnell remained busy with numerous court commissions until it finally closed its doors in 1992.
No. 26 Bruton Street, Mayfair
I remembered that day we met Mr. Hartnell at his then state-of-the-art Art Deco premise. His assistant ushered us into a sophisticated and cosmopolitan interior designed by Gerald Lacoste, a famed architect of his day.
It was like entering La Maison Chanel in Paris. A grand staircase lined with wall-to-ceiling mirrors greeted our entourage. Touches of regal 18th-century architectural designs combined with glassed Art Deco modernity were the consummate reflection of the designer’s style. It was of little wonder that The Queen of England and the beloved Queen Mother, together with an entourage of the royal set, favoured Hartnell’s singular beaded and embroidered dresses.
The Assalamu Alaikum ladies were no exception to the rule. Roya and Kifah, ‘queens’ of sparkles in their own right, were already enamoured of Lacoste’s liberal use of faceted glass within the premise, not to mention the glittering antique chandeliers and magnificent chimneypiece that housed a state-of-the-art electric fire. The Assalamu Alaikum women were already awed before they had met the designer or viewed his latest haute collection.
The ‘Other’ Queen’s Dressmaker
The House of Norman Hartnell was a far cry from that of Hardy Amies. While the latter was stoic and philosophical, his maison was intricately plush and copiously luxuriant. It wasn’t just the harem women who felt like princesses in this salon; I had similar sentiments. Though I did not express myself in giggly chitter-chatter like the females, inwardly, I was wonderstruck by such elegance.
When Mr. Hartnell finally made his appearance, I was honoured to be in the presence of this fashion high priest. He possessed a certain refinement that had me poised in respectful reverence. I wanted to impersonate this designer’s style, taste and refinement. He was a quintessential specimen of how I envisioned a haute couture designer to be, and that was before he presented his collection in a mini-parade organized specially for our entourage.
I was not at all surprised that Kifah and her bridesmaids had her wedding and bridesmaids’ dresses made by this maison. So did Shahria and Roya, who ordered their evening ensembles for attending their lady in waiting’s big day.
The Haute Collection
Like the private couture showings I had attended with the harem women from the other households, this particular collection took my breath away. From the seamless execution down to the exquisite detailing of every ensemble, it solidified my ambition to be a shining star in the years that followed.
Rumour had it, I learned, this Queen’s ‘Other’ dressmaker was a cross-dresser in private. Tad swore that his scoop came from a reliable source. This said person, who went by the name of Maureen, was a former Hartnell employee. During her tenure in the House, she had embellished crinoline gowns with measurements to match her employer’s. Although these gowns were registered under the name of Mrs. Freeman, these pieces were discreetly acknowledged as Mr. Hartnell’s personal stash, since there were no registered clients by this surname in any of the House’s order books. The staff in-the-know had discerned this pseudonym as a pun chosen by Norman or rather ‘Norma’ (as in Norma Jean, a.k.a. Marilyn Monroe) to represent how wearing feminine gowns offered a sense of freedom to the wearer.
According to Maureen, time and again Mr. Hartnell had mentioned in passing that his ‘effete’ persona had not eluded him since his days at Cambridge University, where he performed as Marcelle in the 1923 production of Folly with the university’s Footlights production.
She added that Mr. Hartnell would never do anything to compromise his position and business as a leading designer to ladies of the British Royal Family and the aristocratic ‘society’ clients upon whom his success was founded.
Nevertheless, she said, this Queen’s dressmaker had never married, but enjoyed a discreet and quiet life at a time when homosexual relations between men were illegal. Unlike his competitor, Mr. Amies, who was an avid self-promotor, this Edwardian gentlemen considered himself a confirmed bachelor and was seldom seen at public events.
Norman Hartnell’s prudence did serve him well. In 1977, he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother when the kingdom was celebrating the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II’s ascension to the throne.
A
reporter once wrote in an exclusive interview with Sir Hartnell:
“May I suggest, Sir, that you might feel rather more like an ordinary oyster that has produced an unexpected pearl!”
Although both of the dressmakers were in amicable terms, at leass in public; there were some unfortunate ad-lib remarks made during interviews –Amies termed Hartnell a ‘soppy’ or ‘silly old queen‘ whilst describing himself as a ‘bitchy’ or ‘clever old queen.’ Hartnell, on the other hand, had been known to term Amies ’Hardly Amiable’.
As with many characters within the high-fashion circles I would come to experience first-hand when I came of age to join their ranks, bitchiness and back-stabbing were often the norm within this cutthroat industry. But in the merry month of May in 1968, moi, the fashion freshman, was decisively reverential toward the now-defunct House of Norman Hartnell.
It was not until the year 2008 that the name Norman Hartnell was acquired by Li & Fung (Fung Capital), a prominent international fashion and beauty acquisitor, as part of their extensive London fashion portfolio that also includes Hardy Amies Ltd, No.14 Savile Row.
Chapter Sixty-One
Neilyn Munrow & Fair Cecily
“There will always be a desire for something new, fresh and innovative, as well as a yearning and respect for timeless elegance and beauty.“
Helena Christensen
1968
F. F. F.
Bunny’s black, white and gold invitation read:
You and a companion are cordially invited to:
F. F. F.
Fancy Feast Festival
(Formal)