Wild Company

by Mel Ziegler

“What?!” Bob Fisher responded abruptly. “Are you serious?”

  Almost from his first day, Bob did not seem comfortable in the company. I suspected it might be because coming to work at Banana Republic was his father’s idea for him, not his own. Except for a postcollege stint in consulting and working briefly at Bloomingdale’s, most of Bob’s professional life had been spent at various posts at Gap. Without ever saying so outright, he intimated to me that his strong-willed father’s prescriptions for him were a force not easily ignored. In his early thirties, his great passion was fly-fishing. He grew boyishly excited whenever talking about it, but I never saw him excited about anything else. His intensity, punctuated by a droll sense of humor, kept him mostly distant. In tackling his job, he could be tough, prickly, and fixated on the downside of things, the latter a long-standing trait that had prompted his family to bestow on him the sobriquet of “Nego,” for a tendency to pessimism.

  “Killing this shirt makes no sense,” he told Patricia. “We’ll lose a ton of business, and why? Where’s the benefit in removing an item you already know will sell?”

  “Because the shirt’s being knocked off all over the place,” Patricia explained, listing, among others, Eddie Bauer, Casual Corner, The Limited, and Bebe. “With so many low-end, mass-market, cheaply made fashion imitations out there, our customers aren’t going to continue buying it whether we change the colors or not. We’ll be sitting on tens of thousands of them, and not only will they be making the wrong statement about our brand, but we’ll have to mark them down drastically to get rid of them.”

  Wincing, Bob was not convinced. He kept arguing, which he did with increasing frequency with Patricia. This argument and the others in a similar vein were, of course, about more than the shirt. By now we were adding a few significant pennies per share to Gap earnings. Bob considered it his fiduciary, if not filial, duty to make sure that we continued to do so. In spite of the fact that month after month we were beating “plan”—corporate lingo for projected profits—he remained skittish, questioning the very basis on which we had operated all along. Patricia found his constant challenges draining. While she welcomed rational analysis where it was needed, when Bob crossed over into design, color, or style—territory where he demonstrated no instincts—she was annoyed. Smart as he was, and he was, Bob didn’t know what he didn’t know. Patricia knew the brand she created, knew what it wanted to be and what it didn’t want to be. Taste, knowledge, and intuition guided her. She did not arrogantly deflect suggestions; she welcomed them from those she trusted understood the brand. Ultimately, it was she alone who was responsible if an item sold or it didn’t, and from day one, she had made remarkably few mistakes. Letting data crush instinct, or Bob’s other inclination—to democratize the design process—was, we both felt strongly, the surest way to becoming just another chain store.

  “Our customers expect us to lead, not follow,” Patricia said. “We need to stay fresh and innovative, and keeping this shirt in the line doesn’t do it.” Her mind was always six to twelve months in the future about these things. On average, it took six months to develop an item from sketch to delivered garment, and in the clothing business, six months could be an eternity.

  I agreed with Patricia. It was important to retain our position as a leader. The last thing we needed to do was copy those who were copying us. We repeatedly heard stories of “designers” in our stores scooping up thousands of dollars of “samples” to copy. The Limited had created an entire concept store, Outback Red, to unabashedly mimic us down to the number and placement of pockets on a vest. Even Ralph Lauren was suddenly interested in safari. As a matter of principle, Patricia refused to design or carry any garment simply because it was popular—it had to fit into her larger scheme of what constituted a compelling and complete line. She and Bob were on different planets on such matters, but autonomy means autonomy, no matter whose son he was, so the Bombay Shirt got killed.

  A few days later, we took off on a trip to South America that was to begin with a four-day hike along the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru. As I settled into my seat for the long flight, I opened one of several newspapers I had brought with me and found myself reading in the business section of one of them that Banana Republic was a “high-growth concept that could soon make a significant contribution to Gap’s earnings,” which gave me further context for Bob’s skittishness. I figured correctly that the press notice had been prompted because we had just opened our biggest and most prominent store of all, on the corner of Lexington Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street in New York, across from Bloomingdale’s. What New York had until then viewed as another fringe California company was now suddenly on the map. With a store that was hard to miss across from what was then the most trendy and fashion-conscious department store in the world, Wall Street, too, was taking note.

  I hoped that sooner or later Bob would see that if he would just stop arguing, he would leave us more time and energy to develop new merchandise directions that Mel and I were thinking about. One was a line of children’s sizes named “The Next Regime,” with many of the best-selling styles such as cargo pants and bomber jackets. But before we began putting resources to work creating the children’s line, we had to deal with a pressing issue at the other end of the sizing spectrum. Customers were bombarding us with requests to expand into XXXL and plus sizes. At first, I resisted. I did so, I must admit, because I worried that too many larger-than-Hemingway people seen in the clothing would overtake the brand’s image. Expanding the range of sizes created inventory problems as well (too many SKUs, or stock-keeping units signifying size, style, and color of an item), so I made the case that our clothing probably fit more than 90 percent of the adult population that fell within women’s sizes 2 to 16, and men’s waist sizes 29 to 42. This of course meant it wasn’t only large people whose needs we failed to meet. The petite, like myself, were ill served as well. In our California stores, the most frequent requests were for sizes 0 and XS.

  However, as we opened more stores in the middle of the country, the requests for plus sizes grew into a roar that I could no longer ignore. Nearly fifty letters a week from extra-large-sized people pleaded (a verb I use here without exaggeration) for Banana Republic to make clothing that fit them too. Most of the pressure came from women. Organizations such as Big and Beautiful wrote letters arguing that we were discriminating against full-figured women. This stung, because discrimination was never my intention.

  So I relented, hired a plus-size model, and had the pattern of our women’s Classic White Shirt graded up to a size 20. However, as soon as we laid out the pattern on the fabric, one unforeseen problem became apparent: the larger pattern pieces required twice the yardage. Another problem was evident when the model tried on the blouse: it was out of proportion, unflattering, and the buttons gaped over her bust. Patterns are graded up and down from the median size, usually a size 8. This makes a size 16 proportionately wider and longer to fit taller, bigger-boned women of average weight. But plus-size women are not necessarily taller or bigger boned. Our model was wider in the bust and waist but not in the shoulders or even the hips. To compliment her shape, we needed to design a whole new shirt style, not just grade up our existing shirt. And it probably would mean finding a different fabric with stretch or more drape. I was willing to absorb the cost of the extra material, but designing a whole new line for large people? It wasn’t one of my priorities. I was more interested in designing a Banana Republic home line with bedding, carpets, furniture, and decor based on global indigenous influences that would appeal to the cultured traveler’s eye. Also, Mel had a number of other enticing ideas for how to expand the company beyond clothing.

  Notwithstanding the understandable grousing of some large customers, without exception we were getting outsized positive feedback from all over the country; hundreds of letters from customers every week. Because someone had taken the trouble to write, each letter, whether it offered an idea, an observation, or a compliment, required a thoughtful answe
r. These were the days before the SEND button, when writing to someone required pen, paper, stamp, envelope, and finding a post office box to drop it in. A charming, witty friend, Christie Allair, worked with me to answer every letter. One correspondent sent a photo of herself wearing the Serengeti Skirt while riding a camel in Egypt; another, a photo of himself looking rakish in a bush hat in what appeared to be his backyard. Sometimes I was informed that a garment had to be lengthened, or shortened, or loosened, or tightened, or made in blue. A doctor in Namibia wrote that the only complaint she had about her Banana Republic wardrobe was that the Roman Sandals squeaked when she was trying to sneak up on elephants sabotaging the Bushman water wells. A woman from Nebraska wrote that she got married in the Sacred Valley of the Incas in the Essential Skirt. Occasionally the correspondent would invite Patricia and me to come by for dinner the next time we visited our store in their city. Very often letters rained exclamation points and kudos on a “terrific employee.”

  All this feedback got us thinking. We were connecting with our customers in a way that to me felt holistic and resonant with how we viewed the world. Customers were literate and sophisticated. They enjoyed style and loved to travel. Why not explore a wider footprint beyond clothing, although clothing would likely always be the core of the business? Start with books. Our customers were keen readers, readily apparent by their reaction to the literary tone of the catalogue. We would build travel bookstores, I decided.

  I also saw launching a Banana Republic–sponsored travel magazine. Surely our customers would appreciate a new voice in a field overfilled with titles that, with the then exception of National Geographic, were largely destination oriented and prone to sanitized and saccharine prose. Our magazine would publish experience-oriented, honest, nontouristy journalism. The idea for the magazine was rooted in our Rio experience and how it changed our view of the world. It wasn’t the food that changed us, or the shopping, or the postcard sights. Rather it was the way that Rio got under our skins, made us move to a new rhythm, come home with fresh eyes. John Steinbeck wrote, “We don’t take a trip, a trip takes us.” And once it changes us, it changes us forever. For immersion travelers, our quintessential customers, travel is the experience of losing yourself in a new place. The person who departs is never the person who returns. A Banana Republic travel magazine would coalesce a new community of immersion travelers.

  When I mentioned these new directions to Don, he became excited.

  “We could be like American Express,” he said dreamily. I didn’t quite see the connection but thought, Why not?

  Don was soaking in everything we were doing. He particularly noticed how integrated the concept was, with clothing, catalogue, ads, and message synchronized in tone and look, serving to unify the mission of the business. He complimented the wholeness of the vision and saw how it helped us to stand apart from other specialty stores. Not surprising, since most of those stores designed their products with synthetic intuition borrowed from trend services and color consultants, and then sought validation in focus groups. Advertising and marketing for chain stores was usually an afterthought piled on top of the product, not something that came out of the ethos—if there even was a there there in the first place. Sterile and largely unimaginative chain stores were just then beginning to steamroll over locally run stores. Enter formulaic corporate-run retailing, exit locally owned and managed clothing stores and small department stores run by your neighbors.

  Although one of the better formulas in its early days, Gap, well into its second decade, had lost its magic. Don’s own skills were in negotiating shrewd leases. He left matters of design, merchandising, and marketing to others, and over the years, their ideas had grown uninspired. This, he reminded us frequently, is what excited him about Banana Republic.

  “The creativity around here,” he said, “is flying all over the place.”

  Within a few months of acquiring Banana Republic, Don got the idea that he needed to reinvigorate Gap by hiring a new CEO to bring sizzle back to the brand. He put the executive recruiters to work finding him someone who could do the job.

  I personally continued to oversee marketing. Because word of mouth and customer loyalty were so strong, and because we continued to enjoy heaps of free publicity, I kept our advertising budget at a minimum and instead got the idea to ask some of our well-known customers to review the clothes for the catalogue. Without hesitation, most agreed enthusiastically.

  The reviews were witty, often hilarious, and they garnered much attention. One author told us that he got more compliments on his review in the Banana Republic catalogue than on all his books. Uncannily, the reviewers got right into the spirit of the company:

  Actor Alan Arkin on the Correspondent’s Jacket: “[It] has given me, at last, an air of mystery. I can leave places early, and no one asks me where I’m going anymore. They’re all sure that I have important planes to catch in half an hour for secret meetings in the jungle.”

  Author Anne Rice on the French Naval Cape: “When I took it out of the box, I knew it was mine. Any self-respecting vampire would adore it.”

  Novelist Cyra McFadden on the Safari Dress: “Because it’s all cotton, it wrinkles; but so do I. The difference is that the Safari Dress wrinkles gracefully.”

  Writer Anne Lamott on the Leather and Linen Traveling Boots: “[W]alked to a restaurant five miles away, confident I could con anyone, anywhere, into mistaking me for a person of the employable persuasion.”

  Writer/director Nora Ephron on the All-Night Flightsuit: “I have not yet had a chance to wear my All-Night Flightsuit on an all-night flight, but that’s only because I haven’t taken an all-night flight since I got it. What I have worn it for is cooking, sleeping, reading, walking here and there, taking the children to school, and, best of all, just lying around.”

  Author Paul Theroux on the Globetrotter Bags: “The great thing about these bags is that not only can you bring them on planes, but they fit in all railway compartments and can easily be lashed to a camel.”

  Journalist/TV Newsman Pierre Salinger on the Traveler’s Sportcoat: “When I see a fellow American in Paris these days, I have the desire to hug and kiss him, congratulate him on his courage in crossing the Atlantic to this land of tigers and lions disguised as terrorists. Of course, when I meet this compatriot, I am wearing my Banana Republic Traveler’s Sportcoat.”

  Herbert Gold on the Sierra Denim Shirt: “What better gear for searching out the secrets of eternity? How could Shakespeare or Tolstoy have written Allen Ginsberg’s ‘Howl’ without running questing fingers past the heart, molded to ample pockets filled with spare pens and three-by-five cards, up to the throat protected from cruel judgments by pensive yet courageous blue denim?”

  Cartoonist G. B. Trudeau on the Aviator’s Jacket: “[I]f people want to mistake me for Sam Shepard, that’s their problem.”

  Actor John Lithgow on the New Zealand Tramping Shirt: “Who would have thought wearing a coat would make the very air seem fresher?”

  Author Martin Cruz Smith on the Australian Fur Felt Bush Hat: “You ask what I thought of your hat. I thought it was a beautiful hat, and I’m sorry my dog ate it . . . I will not stoop to the suggestion that women fought to stroke my brim, I leave that to your advertising agency. This is a tragic story after all.”

  Finally, the gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson reviewed the waxed cotton Portmanteau Jacket and characteristically claimed he had stuffed the pockets with cash and lent it to a friend off to Costa Rica.

  Long before the cynical and disingenuous days of so-called product placements and celebrity endorsements, we were just having a good time. It wasn’t about exploitation. It was light-hearted repartee elevating clothing to a starring role in our lives.

  22

  The Muse of Travel

  For over eight years, the merchandise decisions came naturally and easily. Mel and I had endless ideas for pants, jackets, shirts, hats, belts, and dresses that felt and looked like they belonged in a line
of safari clothing. Now, however, the decision to widen the focus from “safari” to “travel” made the designing trickier. Clearly, safari was rugged and slightly weathered khaki, pockets, bush jackets, wide brims, epaulets, leather trims, and boots. Old adventure movies, books on international military uniforms, and colonial Africa and India, as well as the well-documented exploits of Denys Finch Hatton, Kenyon and Maud Painter, Karen Blixen (pen name Isak Dinesen), Teddy Roosevelt, Ernest Hemingway, and other more obscure adventurers into early-twentieth-century Africa were all ready sources for inspiration.

  The new travel focus, like safari, required that the clothing still be function driven, comfortable in changing climates, and sturdily made in the natural fabrics that were a signature of the brand. Now flexibility, particularly, was key. The clothing needed to adapt from casual day sightseeing, to a business meeting, to suitable wear for a fine restaurant in the evening, so a full travel wardrobe would fit into a carry-on suitcase.

  The new challenge was to instill in the travel clothing a sense of heritage that ensured it would remain as distinctive and authentic as the safari lineage. I snipped swatches from vintage pieces found in flea markets and old clothing stores, and sent them to the mills to duplicate the weave and hand of the fabric. Sometimes I sent the detail of a pocket or a buttonhole. The inspiration for a spring color might appear in the ochre of a book’s page yellowing with age, the spark for a new silhouette of a long, romantic skirt, in a nineteenth-century novel.

  What began to emerge was an international sensibility. In our travels, I was drawn to time-tested styles from remote cultures. The influence of sarongs, caftans, saris, bombachas (Argentine trousers), guayabera shirts, kilts, Thai jackets, and gaucho belts tweaked with contemporary fits moved seamlessly into the line. Indigenous patterns such as Malian mud cloth, batik, kente cloth, and Aboriginal dream paintings were printed onto tops and scarves. Navajo blanket and basket patterns were knitted into sweater vests. The jewelry that Alan Donovan was having made for us by tribes in Kenya complemented these styles perfectly.