As I read Tonne’s book, I was blown away by its uniqueness, honesty, and original point of view about her fashion life. It is a lavish and authoritative book, tracing her autobiography through words and chosen photographs of her shoots, from her early career, beginning at the Vreeland exhibit Romantic and Glamorous Hollywood Design, and including her brief period as a high-fashion Vogue model photographed by Richard Avedon. Tonne decided modeling wasn’t for her when the great photographer David Bailey told her to “look fuckable.” She then transferred herself from in front of the lens to the back side of the camera, next to the photographer, as a super style editor.
I let Tonne know, as a friend, and someone I so admire, that I was disappointed to not get an invite to her book launch party. Tonne apologized and, in an attempt to make it up to me, asked me to be on an upcoming panel to talk about her book. I graciously accepted. On the evening of June 19, Tonne, Eve MacSweeney (also a former editor of Vogue), and I did a special presentation at NeueHouse, in Manhattan, assembled in front of a standing-room-only crowd on the evening of Karl Lagerfeld’s memorial in Paris (which I was not invited to and to which I would not have gone if I had been).
This night, I proudly wore, for the first time, my new white Swiss broderie anglaise agbada (a male garment inspired by the Yoruba tribes in Africa), opulently embroidered and flowing like a Baptist minister’s summer garb. It was designed by my new friend Patience Torlowei, a Nigerian designer of luxury women’s intimate apparel.
Grace Coddington was in the crowd. She sat next to Marianne Houtenbos, the agent/studio head for Arthur Elgort, a great American Vogue photographer and father of the current star Ansel Elgort. I also saw Tonne’s sister, Wendy, and Mrs. Vreeland’s two grandsons, Alexander and Nicholas Vreeland, a Tibetan Buddhist monk, in his deep-crimson robes.
Tonne and Eve (and Grace) are fiercely loyal to Vogue. I stated unequivocally that Vogue has not shown any fierce loyalty to us three in return.
After the talk, I stayed and took so many photographs. Nicky Vreeland posed for a photograph with me, for an Instagram post. I felt so honored that Nicky was there.
Grace Coddington came up and gave me a big emotional hug.
“Grace, I thought you would surely be in Paris, at the memorial. I know how much Karl loved you and how much you cared for him,” I said.
“I thought about going but I am sure it’s going to be a corporate thing, so I decided not to.”
“I am so glad you are here, Grace.”
She then tossed her waterfall of flaming red Burne-Jones hair and we posed for photographs, clinging to each other, embracing our combined decades of dedication to Vogue.
I felt so charged after this evening, where we, as the now–contributing editors of Vogue, spoke our passion and our truths to this rapt audience. I was so honored Tonne shared that moment with me.
—
The most important advocate for diversity in the fashion industry is Bethann Hardison. She was a top model in the 1970s who walked in the groundbreaking Versailles show in 1976. In the 1990s, as fashion became whiter, Bethann started hosting town hall group meetings about diversity. Now she sits on the board of the first-ever global initiative for diversity, at Gucci.
In May of 2019, Marco Bizzarri, the CEO of Gucci, hosted Gucci’s first formal luncheon of influential African American people: Robin Givhan, Pulitzer Prize winner and critical fashion observer of The Washington Post; Symone Sanders, senior adviser to presidential hopeful Joe Biden; Steve Stoute; and Naomi Campbell, who of course arrived late, nearly at the end of the luncheon. It was a private lunch, with no press.
There were maybe three hundred African American people in attendance, all of whom were aware of the importance of diversity and the power of black talent. It was a Gucci moment of respect and empowerment.
Creative director Alessandro Michele set the tone for this brand to make worthwhile initiatives for global awareness of black talent and individuals. It stemmed from the backlash to Gucci’s golliwog, a black knit hooded hat, which seemed insensitive and racist to many people. Gucci did a preemptive strike with this global initiative and they deserve credit for it.
I had not seen Bethann, who is a dear friend, for nearly five months before the lunch. She showed up early, and we decided to share our table, along with Sir Edward Enninful. As the luncheon began with words from Dapper Dan, who is in a special partnership with Gucci, I began to tap my fingers on the surface of the table. Bethann took this slow, deliberate tapping of my fingers as a signal that I was impatient. Without any verbal demonstration, she gently and quietly rubbed the back of my hand to end the finger tapping. An affectionate, quiet gesture, much like a mother would give a child. It was born out of genuine affection for me, and I loved her for this.
I think it’s a nuanced thing, but there’s still room for diversity in fashion. People forget to think about diversity, but they forget less when there are people in place who put them in the moment where they must really think about it. A moment of awareness of black culture. Gucci has established a committee of prominent black people who are paid to advise them and make them aware of products that could be insensitive or offensive to black culture. And not only does Gucci listen to the advisory board, they are giving back to the community in ways that have not been done before. Naomi Campbell made Gucci aware of the importance of black talent in Africa, and they began using their money for scholarships in Ghana, Senegal, Japan, and China, for students of fashion.
My great friend the scholar Dr. Janis A. Mayes said to me, “André, we are trained in whiteness. Whiteness can be fly, but we are trained in our formal education in whiteness.”
She was speaking, quite literally, of our graduate program at Brown, a school named after slave owners. We were both students with full scholarships in French studies. My master’s thesis: “North African Figures in Nineteenth Century French Painting and Prose.” It included Flaubert, Delacroix, and the great Orientalist movement in literature and painting that reached its zenith in the nineteenth century. I also understood she was speaking of a larger, symptomatic truth as well. Blackness, such as in the form of Toni Morrison or the literary imagination of James Baldwin, is filtered through agents of whiteness. Why didn’t James Baldwin, a great writer, receive the Nobel Prize? Why isn’t Whoopi Goldberg starring in great movies? Why didn’t Tamron Hall get a better deal from NBC, while Megyn Kelly had dismal ratings and a sixty-nine-million-dollar payout?
We’ve been educated to appreciate and evolve our paradigms through the telescopic world of white. Returning blackness to truth must be done through the analytical excellence of the black intelligentsia.
When I was in Toronto doing press for my documentary, The Gospel According to André, a young black man in the lineup of reporters waiting to chat with me stood out.
His name was Tre’vell Anderson, and he was the entertainment reporter for the Los Angeles Times.
Tre’vell came into the press conference location in a brilliant Ralph Lauren poncho as Native American Indian blanket, loose black Hammer leggings, and high stiletto boots. These boots were nothing compared to his long, long Chinese mandarin lacquered nails in bright gold. His hair was groomed into an extravagant Regency Afro pouf, with a giant ebony roll in the front that towered to the ceiling, and cut Vidal Sassoon scissor short in the back. This is a man who uses his personal style as a fashion warrior.
In Tre’vell, I saw my younger self. In that moment, I flashed back vividly to interviewing Karl Lagerfeld at the Plaza in 1975. Now here I was, being asked questions about the documentary and my journey. Tre’vell’s intelligence and confidence in the delivery of his questions and the span of his fashion knowledge was breathtaking; it brought me to tears! My heart was full of pride and joy, as though I had just experienced the “Hallelujah” chorus on a Sunday morning, in any missionary Baptist church.
Tre’vell, only in his twenties, is already on the path to fame and recognition. While his stiletto wearing is remarkable, what’s more remarkable is
his substance.
I had come full circle.
I cite this talented young man because he created and crafted his career through the love and devotion of his grandmother, his education, and his solid confidence, clearly instilled at a young age. I can only imagine the confidence he had to have to get to the Los Angeles Times, in stilettos. I think even Andy Warhol would not have tolerated me in heels on a daily basis. In 2020, one makes one’s own rules, as long as you have knowledge to watch your back. Dreams can come true for anyone who wants to become.
Fear is no longer a barrier.
Upon the morning of Edward Enninful’s taking over the helm of British Vogue from a white woman, I dashed off a simple e-mail to him with huge congratulations. He responded succinctly: “Thank you, André. You paved the way.” I sat alone at my computer as tears rolled down my cheeks.
Symbolically I may have paved the way but Edward got there on his own talents. To any young black man, or any individual of any race or sexual identity, who thinks there is no place for them in the fashion world, follow Edward’s shining example. Go to school, get your degree, and follow your inner core. Make no apology for who you are.
Personal style is outstanding when it’s backed up by knowledge and confidence. Be confident, be bold, and use your voice to express that personal style.
—
Rumors continue to fly that Condé Nast is not floating at the top of the list of powerful entities these days.
Vogue didn’t used to have to worry about anything, because they had the advertisers. Now, with the rise of digital, Vogue is hemorrhaging losses, letting people go and leasing out office space to outsiders. Advertising isn’t what it once was, and big stars no longer have to depend on magazines to present themselves to the world. Vogue needs to learn how to reinvent itself. How they will do that, I do not know. That is for Anna Wintour to figure out.
The move downtown to One World Trade Center was, in my view, the beginning of the end. The cutbacks and layoffs are known; Tonne Goodman and Grace Coddington are now employed as freelancers. Grace does a lot of work for Edward Enninful at British Vogue, and Tonne Goodman still shoots covers for Vogue. She is hired on a daily creative contract. She gets a day rate. Often Vogue will not even agree to pay a day rate for a much-needed fitting of clothes before the actual shoot occurs.
When I was there, we’d have twenty-two people going to Paris for the collections.
Editors, advertisers, and maybe a photographer or two. Now the only people who stay at the Ritz are Anna Wintour and Vogue’s chief business officer, Susan Plagemann. Key, core talents, like Tonne Goodman, Grace Coddington, and Phyllis Posnick, arrange their own airfares to Europe and attend the collections on a limited schedule. These are women of a certain age who were used to the perks of Condé Nast for most of their careers. So was I.
Grace Coddington used to stay at the Ritz, with a chauffeured town car. Now she must queue in long lines at airport taxi stands in Europe. In her seventies. It seems hardscrabble and undignified. Grace was never spoiled by the perks of Vogue, but certainly, if you’re used to staying at the Ritz your whole career, it’s going to be hard to transition down to a more economical option.
People of a certain caliber—not even myself, but people like Grace and Tonne, or even Eve MacSweeney—deserve those perks and should be rewarded for their loyalty.
They are not. Grace and Tonne should have been given parachute packages, not slashed salaries and downgrades to “freelance status” as contributing editors (as was I).
When Polly Mellen, who had been at Vogue for thirty years, was forced to retire, they gave her a cocktail party in the basement of Barneys. I went, and remained utterly confused throughout the night. It didn’t make sense; it was so undignified. They could have honored her with a seated dinner, with guests of her choice. Or a golden watch, a Bentley, a Rolls-Royce, something! She could decide to keep it or sell, but a little cocktail-hour bash in the Barneys basement? Ageism at its worst. They wanted to get rid of her at Vogue to make way for someone else. They booted her upstairs to Allure, and she retired soon after. That was not befitting of what Polly Mellen had contributed to Vogue, nor of the decades for which she worked there.
We are the dinosaurs of Vogue, an endangered species. We have been pushed out for younger people with smaller salaries. No health insurance, no perks at all.
I wonder, does Anna Wintour now offer her editors a ride to shows or just greet them in her usual ceremonial charade of unity on the front row?
I began paying my own expensive car bills in 2007, after the economic crisis, and when fifty thousand dollars was cut from my annual salary. But that to me was simply a sustained method of survival in the chiffon trenches, which have eroded over the last eight to ten years. Out of this erosion, I had dreamed and hoped for an enduring friendship with Anna. We have been through so much together.
I have had the most privileged role, alongside her on the front rows of international fashion shows. And I am sure she lobbied for me to win the Eugenia Sheppard Award for my first memoir. I’ve been at her personal moments of glory, for this philanthropist who raised millions of dollars for AIDS research and who raised hundreds of millions of dollars for the Costume Institute of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, now named the Anna Wintour Costume Center.
But still, Condé Nast is special in its ability to spit people out. From the highest to the low, you are dismissed without ceremony and without dignity, like in the court of the Sun King. When Diana Vreeland was fired, they changed the locks and painted her famous red walls beige. She was literally locked out. Grace Mirabella learned she was fired when it was announced on television. Condé Nast is special for that kind of thing.
It is not a place of great empathy for humanity. When you’re there, you’re glorified to the highest, and then when they’ve decided you’re done, you’re just thrown out the door, like trash.
I lived through the golden age of fashion journalism. Vogue gave me a great life, a great memory of richness. I saw the best in people, along with the worst, when they feel you are no longer of value. There are bittersweet moments but I always gave back to Vogue whatever they wanted.
I think today Anna still feels a kinship to me or she wouldn’t keep inviting me to her Chanel fittings. Her way of letting me in. And as of the writing of this book, I remain on the Vogue masthead as a contributing editor, just like Tonne and Grace Coddington.
Vogue people are always loyal to the brand and what Vogue stands for. In hindsight, I know that for all those turbulent and frequently marvellous (spelled with two L’s, the way Diana Vreeland did in Vogue) years, Anna Wintour in her sphinxlike silence really cared about me and my wellness. Now, as I look back on that intervention, booking me into a ritzy private gym with an instructor, it’s clear that she had my back (although it may not have felt that way at the time). Some invisible gossamer thread connects us, and at the crucial moments in her life she still desires my point of view, asking me almost inaudibly, “André?” As if to say, Speak up, and, What is your final word?
All the saints who are assembled here. I don’t call you saints because you are perfect, I call you saints because you belong to God.
A saint is a sinner who fell down and got back up again. Across two hundred and eleven years, Abyssinians have kept the faith.
We are rational. We are historically minded. If you want to know where you are going, understand where you came from. We are the arc of safety. We are in the congregation, seeking salvation through Jesus Christ. We are straight and we are gay.
I don’t have to point out, nor do you have to demonstrate what your sexuality is. If there is a judgment it is between you, the individual, and your God.
—Reverend Dr. Calvin O. Butts, Abyssinian Baptist Church, Harlem, New York — On a recent Sunday, the National Bar Association Judicial Council held a judicial memorial service during the morning services at Abyssinian Baptist Church, the oldest congregation of African Americans in the great state of N
ew York. Some eighty members processed into the sanctuary, in their regal and classic judicial black robes, with great dignity and authority. I bowed to most of them as they walked past my pew.
Some of them smiled, especially the women, and some men.
How proud I was to have chosen to go to church on that Sunday morning, in one-hundred-degree heat, dressed in a traditional white cotton Swiss fabric, with a long train emblazoned with gold and navy ecclesiastical trimming.
As the service unfurled, Reverend Dr. Calvin O. Butts introduced the chairman of the council of black judges. You could see the glory and power of faith and family, and the struggle, in every face that assembled. You could see how we are as a strong black race, so full of greatness. A thread of us stood up and applauded.
At the end, as they recessed out onto the blistering sidewalk, one judge, with a ginger-colored short Afro, took my hand in hers and said, “Thank you for giving me the confidence, by your example, the strength to become and be who I am. To be free.”
I thanked her with my open heart in my hand and my words. Reverend Butts’s sermons most often remind me of the great oratorical sermons of the French cardinal Jacques-Bénigne Bossuet, tutor to the grand dauphin, the legitimate son of Louis XIV.
He weaves together black history and cultural significance and just plain common sense, and speaks to the congregants in a universal, noble, yet simple manner. And always steeped in the significance of the black church in black lives.
I feel somewhat aligned with Reverend Butts, as he and I are the same age and both only children. In fact, Reverend Butts, who graduated from Morehouse College, is the embodiment of all the traditions I grew up with and that remain in me. Sunday-best clothes and Sunday-best manners. I have seen him at the Westbury polo matches, an annual summer event for the church, and his coordination of nuanced linen suits and hats inspires young black men. I try not to bother him, e-mailing him judiciously, as he has a demanding schedule. It must be a huge task to pen his oration every week, and to consult with his members.
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