The Asylum

by Simon Doonan

  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 cit
izen 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.

  the cellulite closet

  ONE SWEATY SUMMER EVENING not too long ago, I attended a lecture at New York University titled “Fat Porn.” A combination of curiosity seekers, chubby chasers and fresh-faced students packed the lecture hall. The anticipation was palpable. You could have heard a pin drop.

  The talk was delivered by a lady who described herself as a BBW, a big beautiful woman. A three-hundred-pounder, this broad was a proud and evangelical member of the online community of fat-porn entrepreneurs who tantalize vast numbers of fat fetishizers on a daily basis.

  I am not sure what the point of her lecture was, or why parents pay good money to send their kids to fancy colleges to hear this kind of stuff, but I can tell you this much: It was a riveting and unforgettable experience.

  The slide show was undoubtedly my favorite part of the evening. Each genre of fat porn—there are many and they are shockingly specific—was illustrated with disarmingly explicit photography. For example: The fat-fetish category known as “Not Fitting” was accompanied by a shot of a huge lingerie-clad chick who was stuck—physically, irrevocably, massively—in the doorway of a hotel room. Her face was a magical combo of lascivious delight and discomfort. According to our BBW lecturess, there are large groups of men who find the notion of not fitting, as vividly depicted in this image, to be the apex of erotic fantasia. To my eyes, it seemed more like a scene from an old episode of The Benny Hill Show, or The Honeymoon Killers starring Shirley Stoler, or a still from a John Waters movie starring Edith Massey, or all of the above.

  There was also a category called “Squashing.” The accompanying photograph showed a middle-aged businessman wearing thick black spectacles à la Martin Scorsese, lying on a bed, fully clothed and still clutching his briefcase. No duvet for him! In lieu of bedding, he was covered by a scantily clad BBW of gargantuan proportions. She was gleefully squishing the life out of him. The squashee was gleeful too.

  There were other categories, like “Messy Eating” and “Growing.” I won’t elaborate upon those in particular, but will let your imaginations fill in the blanks. Besides, we need to get to more pressing stuff. We need to address the plus-size, garter-belt-wearing elephant in the room: What the hell was I doing at this lecture?

  I feel confident that the answer to this question will surprise you. Here goes.

  I am fascinated by fat. Having worked in the fat-fascistic world of style for forty years, I am always struggling to shine a light on the fatorexic paradoxes and fat-phobic blind spots which haunt the fashion universe. My goal is to pry open the cellulite closet and let the sunshine in.

  My profound interest in the psychology of large women and in plus-size clothing has taken me places where a 140-pound dude ought not to go. I have attended sordid and terrifying lectures at NYU, and I have seen things a bloke ought not to see. I have prowled the “hefty hideaways” of Manhattan. I have seen muumuus the size of circus tents, and I’ve seen halter tops the size of . . .

  The mid 2000s.

  My friend Anne had recently become the designer for legendary plus-size mega–chain store Lane Bryant. She scored me a front-row seat at the showing of her first LB collection, where I found myself next to one of my all-time favorite style icons, Mr. Isaac Hayes. Yes, I’m talking about Mr. Shaft, Mr. Hot Buttered Soul, Mr. Chef from South Park.

  On this occasion, Mr. Hayes was wearing a vivid metallic-orange-lamé-embellished caftan with matching pants. He had the air of a visiting dignitary. As the show unfurled, Isaac became quite vocal. Every time a new plus-size diva sallied forth, he would purr and growl appreciatively into my ear.

  “These young ladies are . . . deliciously endowed . . . deeeliciously endowed . . . deliciously endooowed!”

  Anne was excited about her first collection and wanted to show me the new season’s deliveries in situ. At the time, there was only one Lane Bryant store in Manhattan. It was in Harlem. A schlep, but Anne assured me it would be worth it. She lured me onto the A train with the following exotic promise: “I bet you’ve never fondled a criss-cross halter top in a size twenty-eight before, have you?”

  I had not.

  Before you could say “badonka-donk-donk,” or even plain old “badonk,” we were winging our way north. Upon arrival, Anne dragged me through the front door of the store and straight to a very focused offering of leopard-print merchandise. Yes, leopard print. We’re talking pants, shirts, even a baby-doll party dress with an underwire bra built in. The message was clear: Just because you are gigantic, it does not mean that you have to hide your light under a beige bushel. Au contraire! Swathe yourself in predatory, glamorous animal print and get massively feline on their asses. The only thing small about these saucy, hedonistic garments was the price tag; a kicky leopard slip dress with lace-up sides was twenty-five dollars. Wildly affordable clothing for the deliciously endowed.

  There is something profoundly joyful and supersassy about the whole idea of large confident ladies bouncing around in leopard separates. Plus-size clothing is often so dismal and self-effacing, the ugly stepsister of her anorexic high-fashion sister. Not here.

  I told Anne that if I had been mayor of Harlem, I would have mandated the wearing of leopard. Any large chick not rocking a leopard quelque chose would be forced to explain herself. My enthusiasm for the leopard offerings caught the attention of the manager, who guided me over to a rack of what looked like beach hammocks on hangers. As I examined the draped and gathered yards of white canvas, I saw myself swinging back and forth between a couple of palm trees and enjoying a Tommy Bahama Margaritaville moment.

  “Voilà!” interjected Anne. “Up to size twenty-eight. A great seller.”

  These were the legendary criss-cross boulder holders which had lured me on this expedition. Magnificently huge, they came in a dizzying range of colors, fabrications and permutations: acid-green fake-croc ciré, crisp nautical navy and white cotton, luxe maroon Ultrasuede, etc. My favorite was definitely the fake-croc ciré.

  While I came to terms with the total lack of hanger appeal in these immense garments, Anne elaborated upon the upsides of a plus-size halter: “If a big chick wears a muumuu, she invariably looks like a mountain. A halter top, on the other hand, actually bisects and minimizes her upper torso, and it shows off her arms . . . and we plumper girls have gorgeous arms.”

  On cue, a zaftig young shopper runwayed out of the fitting room in a white halter looking deliciously endowed and gorgeously empowered. She received a well-deserved ripple of applause. Her arms did indeed appear succulent and appealing.

  What about the bottoms?

  Anne tossed me a pair of fifty-dollar snakeskin-print jeans—this plus-size missile nearly knocked me over, such was the weight and volume of fabric—and a forty-dollar Capri pant in black stretch cotton.

  (Yes, Capri pant, singular. We fashion asylum inhabitants reserve
the right to randomly singularize and pluralize. In this regard, there are no rules. Sometimes it’s a “jean” and sometimes it’s a “pair of jeans.” It might be a “pair of Manolos,” but it could just as easily be a “Manolo.” As in: “I’m rocking my new Celine tunic with a hoop [earring] and a Manolo.” Wearing a “Manolo” in no way suggests that an amputation has occurred.)

  While more bodacious, deliciously endowed shoppers poured in through the front door, Anne spewed plus-size wisdom for the benefit of anyone within earshot.

  “Narrow the upper torso, girls, and draw attention to everything below the knee with strappy shoes and a damn good pedicure.”

  I glanced at Anne’s toes. They glowed with vermillion perfection.

  “If you are procrastinating about purchasing a particular garment,” continued Anne, “then visualize it in a size six, and then ask yourself, ‘Would a skinny fashion addict like Madonna or Kate go bat-shit over this item?’ If the answer is no, then close your handbag.”

  Buzzing with the clarity of Anne’s advice, we bid farewell to the staff and customers and staggered out into the broiling heat of 125th Street.

  The sidewalk was packed with proud, chunky African-American goddesses of all ages, strutting their stuff and basking in the admiring gazes and compliments of every man on the street. Needless to say, the playful and nondiscriminatory badinage was invariably directed at the ladies with magnificently pronounced derrières.

  As we rattled back downtown on the A train, I reflected upon the key points of Anne’s fat-fashion lecture. One thing seemed clear: If you are a larger lady, then maybe you should move to Harlem or at the very least shop there. African-American chicks never seem to let a few excess pounds come between them and their desire for some fashion flamboyance. The same cannot be said of “whitey.”

  February 2007, Fashion Week.

  Victoria Beckham shocks the fashion monde by announcing that she will be eschewing size-zero gals in favor of one Daniella Sarahyba. The 35-26-36 Brazilian would, according to VB, represent the image of her upcoming collection.