My enthusiasm on arriving in Paris just exploded. We had a six-hour stopover. I dashed out of the station, hailing one of those old puddle-hopping taxis with the holes in the roof. I stood up in the back of the cab with my head and shoulders coming out of the roof, just breathing the air of Paris. The day was crisp and sunny, the trees lining the boulevard had been touched by frost, and the autumnal colorings seemed so right for a first look at the City of Fashion.
I didn’t know the city, but I immediately told the driver to take me to the Place Vendôme, as that’s where Schiaparelli and many of the fashionable designers had their shops. We drove through the city streets, past statues and fountains, the bridges, the imposing Louvre Museum, the cathedral of Notre-Dame, the rows of old houses like scenes from La Bohème. My head was on a swivel, turning every which way on top of the taxi; as we drove along rue Saint-Honoré, women in delicious mid-calf-length tweed coats, billowing out in tent style, darted along in the autumn breezes. Heads were topped in elegant deep-profile hats, with long quills of pheasant tails piercing their felt. Everything was more French than I ever imagined. As we drove into the Place Vendôme, my eyes saw the signs of Schiaparelli, and a moment of triumph filled my body. I had finally reached the top of the fashion-climbing ladder as I eyed everything through Schiaparelli’s window, a fantastic boutique full of imaginative shapes in shocking-pink colors. Most of all, I remember a satin sofa in the shape of lips.
I jumped back into the taxi, and we drove off to the pearl-gray stone mansion of the fashion king, Christian Dior. I remember peeping in all the doors, afraid to go in. The smell of perfume was everywhere, and I longed for the day when I would climb the grand stairway to see a collection.
My six hours were over in what seemed like seconds, and the train puffed out of the Paris station, weaving in and out of quaint old villages as we traveled through the central part of France.
What was to be home was an old broken-down French army building, left in despair since the war. The ceilings were falling down, and we had to put tents over our army cots for safety. There were no baths or toilets, and the twenty soldiers sent with me had a fit complaining. I didn’t mind a bit, as we were given complete freedom. First, we weren’t allowed to wear army uniforms, as the French civilians didn’t like the idea of American soldiers coming back on French soil, and uniforms started trouble with the communists. Second, all regular army life was discontinued, and everyone had to shift for himself, as the few officers there were trying to find living quarters for themselves. Although the camp increased by nearly three hundred soldiers in a year, I never knew what it was to lead the army life.
Within two weeks of my arrival, when the boys and I were out digging a latrine ditch, a hundred additional soldiers arrived to help set up a headquarters. At night the boys would be seen drowning their sorrows in local barrooms, getting drunk to help forget their troubles. I don’t drink alcohol, as I think it dulls the mind, and hate the taste of it. Seeing the fellows wasting their time and money sitting on bar stools really made me sad. So I boldly approached the post commander and told him something had to be done for the morale of the soldiers. He looked at me as if to ask how dare I be so blunt. At any rate, I presented my plan to him, which was to schedule weekend tours to the local areas of interest, using an army bus. This, I felt, would get the men out of their self-pity, and orient their minds to enjoying their two years’ stay. And of course I would guide the tours. When he asked about my experience, I looked him right in the eye and said, “Why, I’ve crossed the ocean and traveled through Europe, and know very well what would interest the men.” I wasn’t really lying, as I had just crossed the Atlantic, and I felt it would be a snap to run little trips to interesting parts of the country.
The following day, to my surprise, I got his okay to start a tour department. They gave me an old broken-down building to clean up into an office. The weekend tours developed so well that forty soldiers at a time were crowding onto the bus, if not for the benefit of my informative tours, at least to escape the dirt and boredom of their lives. I would read everything I could about the local areas during the week, and what I couldn’t find out, or didn’t sound interesting, I’d invent. No one ever questioned my stories, as no one ever really knew what was going on. The tours grew into two- and three-week vacations, taking the boys on their leaves. It allowed me to spend two years traveling all over Europe and North Africa, always guiding a caravan of forty thankful soldiers. I was very realistic about the trips. The three-day Paris tour was a sensation: instead of forcing the boys into the opera and the museums, I would have the bus pull up in front of the Folies Bergère, and as the fellows left the bus, they were given a white card with the address of our hotel and the departure time Sunday and granted complete freedom. I sat through so many performances of the Folies I was just about able to tell the fellows how low she was going to drop it, and calm their whistles. During these weekends, I had arranged the hotel and tours to all the interesting spots, at prices soldiers could afford—my wholesale hat selling gave me the idea that a party could travel at a quarter of the cost for a solo traveler. On this theory, I bargained for theater tickets, restaurants, hotels, etc. all over Europe. Each fellow would pay just the cost of the trip, as these were considered army tours, and no extra money could be collected. On the trips to the French Riviera, we had a million laughs. I can remember getting the boys out of prostitutes’ houses at the end of weekends, having the driver stop the bus at the houses of ill repute to collect the troops. On one of the first trips to the Riviera, we were riding along the main drag in Nice, and I was talking up a storm about all the hotels and fancy goings-on when we came to the famous war memorial that overlooks the beach. The forty soldiers had gotten out of the bus to get a better look and hear my long-winded spiel; when I turned around to ask if they had any questions, there wasn’t one of them in sight—they had all run across the boulevard and were looking down at a beautiful nude woman sunbathing on the beach. Their cameras were snapping pictures like you never saw. Finally, the French cops came along and broke it up, chasing the curvaceous young lady from sight.
During the winter weekends, we took trips to the fashionable ski resorts in the Swiss Alps. They always gave me a chance to observe all the elegant women, and skiing is my favorite sport. I think I was the only one on the mountainside in Saint-Moritz at seven thirty in the morning, as elegant life didn’t begin to show its coiffured head until midday in that plush resort.
Zooming down the mountainside in freshly fallen snow, between the fir trees laden with fluffy white, I can’t begin to tell you what a wonderful feeling it is when you feel all alone in the world, sliding down at terrific speed. I always felt it was the perfect place to commune with God.
These trips were certainly the chance of a lifetime for my eyes to be exposed to different ways of life, and the true reasons for fashion; understanding the normal habits and working lives of women in all parts of the world gives a designer insight. Anyone can see a pretty dress and copy it in different fabrics, but a true designer will look deeper and understand the reason the garment was designed in the first place. A real spirit will be found. It’s the same as looking at the art in international museums. You don’t look at it to copy, but rather to see the essence that inspired the artist to create it. So often when people take these grand tours of Europe, they never find the essential meanings of art, and bring back a flighty surface impression.
The fashion magazines I had hidden in my locker were one of the big jokes around the camp. I had a subscription to Women’s Wear Daily, along with the millinery magazine, Hats. And if you don’t think that caused a lot of scandal! But after a while, most of the fellows wanted to peruse the fashion magazines, just to look at the beautiful girls. I remember one weekend when I was running around Paris with Stella Daufray—one of the most gorgeous models in all Paris—a group of the fellows from my camp were sitting at a sidewalk café when they spotted me skipping down the Champs-Élysées with this gorge
ous creature tucked under my arm. The fellows were dumbfounded. They couldn’t understand how a dope like me could have this fabulous gal, when they’d been sitting around all weekend without a chance for a date.
When I got back to camp that night, it was past midnight and most everyone was in bed. I quietly undressed and got into my bunk, when all the lights went on and the fellows jumped out of their bunks, demanding to know where I’d picked up this beauty, as they were under the impression that I spent most of my time in museums.
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THREE MONTHS AFTER my arrival at the camp, the commanding officer received a call from the head general at a neighboring camp. The caller left no message other than that the general wanted to meet Private Cunningham. This was truly unusual, and I couldn’t imagine what the hell he wanted with me, an insignificant buck private. On my arrival at headquarters, I got the velvet treatment, as if I were a relation or something. I was ushered into the two-star general’s office, and there stood the tall, lean, distinguished gent. He seemed slightly embarrassed and proceeded right to the meat of our meeting: it seems his wife had heard that I was working off-hours in a local millinery shop, which I was. I had made arrangements to use the workroom of the local milliner, and I was preparing a group of hats to take to Paris in hopes of selling them to the designers. Word had gotten all around camp that a soldier was making women’s hats. I thought I’d drop dead when I realized my secret was out. All I could visualize was a concentration camp for the remainder of my two-year term. My mind drew a blank, until the general smiled a little and said that he would like to recruit my talent to open a school for the wives of the officers and enlisted men, as they needed a cheerful diversion in our hard living conditions. Presto, a class and workroom was set up in the headquarters, and twice a week the general’s star-plated limousine would arrive at our broken-down camp and pick me up with all my feathers and ribbons. It was a hilarious scene to see me trailing out of the army barracks, packing all this feminine fluff into the car. It sent the post’s colonel into a state of shock.
The whole camp was afraid to look cross-eyed at me, thinking I must be some relation to the general. From that day on no one ever questioned a thing I did or didn’t do. The army is hysterical on matters of rank, and here I was, a mere buck private, riding around the countryside in the general’s car, designing hats for the officers’ wives. And the millinery class was a great success. About forty-five of the wives feathered and beaded their headgear between bridge games, which was their number one sport.
One time the camp got in an uproar when a call came from headquarters stating that the general was coming to see Private Cunningham. All two hundred fellows of the camp were ordered into a frenzy of cleanup. Finally, the general’s car pulled into the courtyard, and out stepped his wife. It seems the soldier who took the telephone message got it mixed up—it wasn’t the general coming to see Cunningham, it was his wife. I didn’t get in on any of the cleanup because I was downtown at one of the local auction houses bidding on an antique vase, and the colonel had to send sergeants out searching for me. When I got back I found my office so clean I couldn’t believe it. They’d had six soldiers mopping and dusting the walls, in anticipation of the inspection. There was no inspection at all, just a little friendly chat between the general’s wife and me.
As you can see, I became untouchable.
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IN FREE HOURS I completed a couple of dozen hats and headed for the two-week furlough in Paris, during the opening of the French fashions. I showed the hats to many designers. There weren’t any takers, although Madame Schiaparelli peeped from behind a curtain while I was showing the models to her staff. And the following season, two of the models showed up in her collection!
On my furlough, I went to see the representative for Madcaps, an American mass producer who came to Paris each season to buy the most exclusive models. He was sitting in his plush hotel overlooking the Rond-Point, smoking and puffing a big cigar, which filled the room with so much smoke I could hardly find him. He took a quick look at the hats, and then said, “Listen, kid, if you don’t have them tied to a big magazine promotion, I couldn’t be interested even if they were gold bricks.” This is so true of American fashion; the manufacturers and stores couldn’t give a damn unless the dresses or hats are tied up with a big promotion. I think they could really sell a pot from under the bed to cover women’s heads, so long as the magazines gave it a big play. It’s no wonder the designers are so afraid of the press. Not for what the press know about clothes, but the influence they have on the buyers.
The hats were a failure, but my two weeks were spectacular, as Nona and Sophie arrived from New York to buy new models for Chez Ninon. They had been coming to Paris for forty-five years and were able to take me to all the shows. I was to meet the girls at the first show, which was Jean Dessès, who was established in the sumptuous Paris town house of Monsieur Eiffel, the man who built the tower. I arrived a half hour early and had to wait at the bottom of the grand stairway, as the Duchess of Kent was in the salon, and no one was allowed in the same room as Her Royal Highness. This was my first Paris show, and I was so excited. After HRH had departed, the press mob were allowed into the salon to breathe the same stale air—as they never opened a window in Paris for fear some outsider would peep in and steal an idea. I was placed in the front row, next to the gray sofa, which was always reserved for Nona and Sophie. The sofa was the seat of honor in Paris, and reserved for the most pedigreed souls the designers wished to pamper that season. Many a battle has been fought over the sofas of Paris. I was disappointed that the audience didn’t look anything like the kind of people who would wear the gorgeous clothes. As a matter of fact, I thought the audience generally looked pretty shabby, and I wondered where all the ladies were who would wear the clothes. I found out they came after the press hoodlums were gone.
Nona and Sophie were coming right from the airport, and when they arrived, Nona almost had a fit. She was so disappointed I wasn’t wearing my uniform, as she had told everyone a soldier boy would be accompanying her at the showings, and she was so proud of the fact. After the show I was sent back to my hotel to change into the drab khaki uniform. Nona was really delighted, and I think she was right, for at each collection we went to, I was treated like a VIP. They had a mania for men in uniform, as I sat through all the shows in front-row seats—which I’ve never got my derriere into since. I don’t think anyone realized I was just a private. That same season the new house of Hubert de Givenchy opened, and all the buyers were overheard talking in the lobby of the Ritz Hotel that he was just going to be a flash in the pan. Nona and Sophie were quite conservative, and rarely went to a new house until after it was confirmed, but Miss Kay Silver, the fashion editor of Mademoiselle, took me along with her. After the showing, she was making photographs of the clothes, and they asked me to stand in some of the pictures. I had a wonderful time, and had a chance to see the inside workings of a new house. Often we had dinner with Carmel Snow, the editor of Harper’s Bazaar, who was a personal friend of Nona and Sophie.
Each season while I was in the army, I arranged a two-week stay in Paris during the openings. Here I met all the designers and buyers, and sat through endless buying sessions, which were the best experience of all; as Nona and Sophie were ordering, I would be turning the clothes inside out, discovering how they were made. The behavior of the manufacturers was unbelievable. They were a riot, sneaking out their tape measures when the salesgirl was out of sight, frantically copying the measurements, hiding suit jackets under chairs, sneaking behind the potted palms and measuring the length of a skirt, measuring the sleeves from the ends of their noses out to their spread arms—every conceivable trick was employed.
The biggest free-for-all of swiping always took place at Dior, as the salons were always crowded with at least fifty buyers. The salesgirls needed ten sets of eyes to keep track of the shifty New York crowd. They worked in pairs: while o
ne would be pulling the shoulder apart, a second would be swiping the buttons. And I almost died laughing when the salesgirls would float back into the room, and the manufacturers would relax and look so innocent that butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. Of course, the salesgirls are a pretty sharp crowd themselves. Dior’s collections were always the most luxurious and the richest looking in Paris. Nona and Sophie loved the clothes and always bought heaviest there.
The collection I most wanted to see was that of Jacques Fath, but Nona, being quite conservative, always wanted to bypass the spirited Fath. But Sophie and I enjoyed his dashing flair. Fath was a big part of the show himself, always swishing into the salon in the middle of the show, often dressed in American western dungarees and a white shirt, the front slashed to the waist. He would kiss the hands of his favorite customers and cause half the women in the room to have palpitations, as he was so seductively good-looking. The whole thing was a great act that everyone loved.
But Nona would sit through the whole show moaning and groaning over how much money Fath was going to lose on the theatrical clothes. I must say Sophie enjoyed the vivacious flair, and I was spellbound by all the drama of fashion. After each showing, most of the buyers and press would meet in the lobby of the George V or the Ritz to discuss whether it was worth paying the two-thousand-dollar entrance fee required of commercial buyers (even though this was deducted from their orders). The press got into the first showings free and would pass their judgment on to the buyers. I always thought this was a cart-before-the-horse idea on the part of the couture houses, as most of the press have no idea what refined, chic women wear, or the lives they lead. Yet the press hoodlums—as the couture houses called them—were handed the whip of destruction on a gilded platter.
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