I.M.

by Isaac Mizrahi

  Working on The Women was a kind of security that I needed. Making clothes for those starlets in those extenuating circumstances; Cynthia Nixon, Kristen Johnston, Jennifer Tilly, Jennifer Coolidge, Rue McClanahan, and others; dressing them in clothes that recalled another time—fur shrugs, fascinators, seamed stockings—listening as the world expressed its shock, gathering backstage around a radio to listen for news … it was a dead ringer for 1930s wartime. It made anything we were doing onstage feel surreal. We tried to keep our spirits up; what I remember more than any part of the show were the late-night drinks with the girls afterwards, and the feeling of closeness that only comes backstage. Arnold and I clung to each other, too. We stayed together a few months too long just for the comfort of not being alone during that horrible period.

  In January of 2002 a semblance of normalcy returned to New York City, and Arnold moved out. I was happy to have my world back, my bathroom, my kitchen intact. A breakup was inevitable. We tried to rethink our relationship, but it didn’t work. By the spring of that year I was dating other people, and so was he.

  After almost a full year passed, I started to miss Arnold a lot. I thought about him day and night. I called him, and before I could explain the reason for my call, he said he was about to call me, that we needed to meet. It felt like something out of a Hollywood musical, where two characters in love come to the same realization at the same time and finish in a flourish of tap dancing. We met at the studio I was using as a tiny headquarters for my new couture business. It was nighttime and we were alone. It was dark in the room, and I leaned down to kiss him. He pulled away. “No. Wait,” he said. “I met someone.” My heart began to sink. He’d asked to meet in order to get back a small framed photograph of himself as a child he’d given me, which I kept on a shelf in my bedroom. Now he wanted it, I imagined, to give to his new boyfriend. Then he told me he got a job in Santa Fe and they were moving there together. I gave him the photo and he left, presumably forever.

  * * *

  All my psychics predicted I’d have a breakthrough in show business. I waited and waited. Aside from my talk show, nothing materialized. Three times I appeared in Woody Allen movies; I practically made an industry of playing myself in different TV shows; I was set to direct a movie I spent a year developing, and that fell through; Marshall and I handed in our script to HBO and they passed. Mike Myers studied me for about a year with the idea of playing me in an adaptation of The Adventures of Sandee the Supermodel, which had been published five years earlier. The script came in from the writer, an underwhelming adaptation, and that was the end of that. Even after my one-man show, which got great reviews, the phone stayed put on its hook. One by one the projects were disappearing, yet I was more and more committed to making a full transition to show business.

  In 1996 I met Jim Brooks at a dinner party at Lisa Eisner’s house in Bel-Air. He was working on a movie called As Good As It Gets, and he had the idea that I should read for the part of the neighbor. At that time a gay character in a movie that wasn’t a psychopathic killer was still a novelty, and I really thought I had a chance of getting it. I read in New York at Jim’s apartment on the Upper West Side with Owen Wilson, who was being considered for the part of the hustler. I was flown to Hollywood to read with Helen Hunt and Jack Nicholson. At the reading with Nicholson we were left alone for ten minutes. “See these shoes?” Nicholson said, pointing to his Versace loafers made in a discreet leopard-print suede, “I wore these for you.” I was mute with flattery. He went on. “Listen. So you know. I really want this part. But my agent said to play it cool because they haven’t negotiated the money yet. So if I seem like I’m a little bored, don’t worry.”

  Jim called me again and again to read for that part, and I thought I had it in the bag. Then I found out that every gay man Jim Brooks knew was reading for it. I saw my friend, painter Ross Bleckner, at a party, and he mentioned that he’d been in, too. I think Jim was doing everything he could to understand gay men in order to direct an actor (he ultimately cast Greg Kinnear) with some kind of knowledge and authority.

  Five years later Nancy Meyers was working on Something’s Gotta Give, another movie with Jack Nicholson, and expressed interest in having me read for a small part, as Jack’s personal assistant. The one day she could meet me was a day I was set to fly back from Japan, so I rerouted to LA via the only available flight, with a change of planes in Denver. I made all my connections and landed with no time to spare. I changed in the backseat of the car into a suit I thought would be good for the character if he was Nicholson’s personal assistant. It was a grey-flannel bespoke suit I’d just gotten made on Savile Row, and I flew with it in a garment bag, through all the connecting flights, holding it like a newborn baby, trying desperately not to wrinkle it. I got to the audition and read my scene. After a long pause Nancy Meyers said; “Wow. That was really good. Really really good. You’re good. Really.” Another pause. “Did you ever consider doing this? Like, for a living?” The question hung in the air. I didn’t know what to make of it, and I still don’t. I thought, Well. I just flew halfway around the world to read for this part and I nailed it. What else can I do to convince you that I am actually doing this? I should mention I did not get the part; it went to Jon Favreau, and a lot of it got cut from the actual movie. As I was leaving the audition Ms. Meyers said, “Oh. One thing. Where do you get a suit like that?”

  I began to think my psychics and the universe were at odds. It was trying to tell me something: not to quit my day job.

  * * *

  I bought the studio apartment down the hall from where I lived on Twelfth Street in 1996 to use as a private study, and by 1999 it was a place for Marisa and I to meet while we were working on my TV show and all the other projects I had lined up, including a commission to redesign a hotel in Midtown. One day early in 2002, I returned from a taping to find a message on the office voice mail from a licensing agent reaching out to us about a possible one-off project for Target. I came close to deleting that message. I let it languish and forgot about it for weeks. Finally, in passing, I mentioned it to Marisa.

  From the moment I heard the message I knew that if I could create an ongoing partnership with Target, the potential was huge. It had always been a dream of mine to make really great accessible clothes, and if it were possible to do so, it would be at Target, the only one of those big-box stores that possessed any style or humor. Nowadays everyone has a masstige collection, but in those days the only example of such a thing was Halston’s go at JCPenney twenty years earlier, which ended badly for all involved. But at the moment when I was contemplating all this, I witnessed something, a touchstone, that justified my vision. I was having lunch at one of the fanciest restaurants in New York, looking out at the street, when a conspicuous Ford SUV drove up, and out poured the fabulous Miller sisters, who were then the epitome of international high society. They proceeded into this fancy restaurant without batting an eye. If the Miller sisters were being chauffeured in an SUV, when at the time, the only mode of acceptable transport was a Mercedes limousine, they might also have the cheek to shop at Target if the clothes were exactly right. I took it as a sign that my vision was correct. The phrase I kept repeating to myself that night was: “All for fashion and fashion for all.” The next morning I came to my senses and dropped the idea, feeling the old dread that usually accompanied inspiration, defeated by the gargantuan undertaking even before the first call was returned. It was Marisa who convinced me to engage in that conversation, and since I had no real yearning to go back into the clothing business, I figured I had nothing to lose.

  I’m pretty sure what I envisioned was not what the licensing agent had in mind, nor, for that matter, what Target really wanted. It took a good deal of convincing to get everyone on the same page. I agreed to fly to Minneapolis for lunch. As Marisa and I were making our way through LaGuardia Airport that morning I had a terrible panic attack and had to lie down on the floor in the middle of the terminal. We almost missed the flight
. This big feeling of retrograde was closing in on me. I had convinced myself that my big break was coming in show business, like some young Hollywood waiter, and this deal with Target felt like a distinct turn away from that. I had an emergency consultation with Maria Napoli, who told me the Target deal was fated, a chance for me to make an even bigger name for myself, and that it would lead to other great opportunities in show business. So on I progressed. I created a small collection of clothes, booked some models, and staged a small fashion show for the Target executives on a second trip to Minneapolis.

  It was another case of not knowing what one can’t accomplish that made me able to embark on the venture. There was nothing like it yet, no precedent, and the people running the show at Target seemed poised, ready to make it happen. My main contact there was someone named Michael Francis, a tall good-looking guy with a great personality and a way of wearing a suit and tie—I love a guy in a suit and tie. But it was more than the fact that we got along so well. I knew he understood my vision and would stop at nothing to help me make it happen. Any idea I had, any thought, was not out of the question.

  In 2002 Minneapolis felt like an unconquered American city that was about to have a big moment. The city was a fresh, freezing-cold place, with limitless views of skies from conference-room windows, always clear or white with snow. I spent a lot of happy times in that city those years. The headquarters itself was a friendly building, full of contemporary art that Michael was in charge of collecting. I adored seeing that art because it was a good cross-section of Americana that I would otherwise have missed entirely. A massive, molded-glass pillar by Howard Ben Tré; a Sheila Hicks tapestry entitled May I Have This Dance?; a soaring Dale Chihuly Murano glass sculpture; a two-story Gwynn Murrill eagle that dominated the entrance. There were Rauschenbergs, too, and Mirós and Bertoias. Arriving that first day, passing by a huge Amy Brazil Target dog paved in a zillion rhinestones, made me think, Hmm. This might work.

  People there didn’t seem as jaded as New Yorkers. They also weren’t as dramatic. They kept their emotions guarded. Most of the senior merchants would sit in concept meetings with utterly straight faces. No smiling. No show of emotion. And just when I thought I was bombing, someone would pipe up, veritably no expression, practically without volume: “That’s amazing. Congratulations.” This lack of emotional range was jokingly attributed to the lineage of colder climates. The Scandinavians, the Vikings, they would point out—were not the most demonstrative people.

  I signed the deal seconds after Marisa and her husband, Craig, got the rights to my name assigned back from Chanel, which made it all the more dramatic. And when it was done, I made a vow that I wouldn’t revert to old habits. If I was going to make clothes again it would have to be in an entirely new way and on my terms. In the year or so I spent away from the business I developed ideas about what luxury was and what it was on its way to becoming. I had less and less interest in what the world perceived as designer brands that cater to a very select few. With some exceptions, most of the stylish people I knew were not couture customers and I wanted my work, on all levels, to reflect this modern phenomenon. As important as craft is to me, there is nothing as important—nothing as luxurious—as good thinking: the right ideas executed the right way for the right purpose. Couture might be important, but it felt irrelevant unless it was connected to a bigger picture, a more inclusive idea that didn’t need to justify itself with snobbish people or massive price tags.

  So at the same time that I launched the Target brand, I trepidatiously reestablished a couture studio. These clothes were only available privately and through Bergdorf Goodman, but they were conceived and executed as one with the Target collection and meant to be worn together. The couture customers who were turned off by my association with Target were people I wouldn’t have wanted as customers anyway. One socialite actually said, point-blank, “I can’t buy your clothes anymore,” but others were delighted, and I had people buying couture suits and coats from Bergdorf’s with sweaters, shoes, and T-shirts from Target. The Target clothes held their philosophical own stitch for stitch against the couture pieces. Making those fashion shows was more fun than anything I had done in years, pairing twenty-dollar pants with seven-thousand-dollar sweaters, and thirty-five-dollar trench coats with fifteen-thousand-dollar cocktail dresses. And again I found myself in the limelight, with people like Taylor Swift, Martha Stewart, Charlize Theron, and Gwyneth Paltrow wearing my clothes, themselves only too excited to say they shopped at Target.

  When the collection launched in the spring of 2003 it was the most successful launch Target ever had with an apparel brand. We had one of the first (if not the first) pop-up shops. It was located at Rockefeller Center, and the lines snaked around the block for the entire time the store was open. Not only were we selling on this epic level, we were selling things they never thought possible, like jackets, skirts, and my favorite category, dresses. (There’s something soul-satisfying about a good, inexpensive dress.) It was a theory I felt in my bones. I stuck to it and I was right. Within a year and a half I noticed everyone—Karl Lagerfeld, Vera Wang, Jil Sander to name a few—doing collections for H&M, Kohl’s, Uniqlo, even Sears and JCPenney.

  And yet. Parts of me felt like I was back at square one. I yearned for a life in show business, but I was still hawking shmatas. A performer, a writer, trapped in the body of a fashion designer.

  31

  After two years of being separated from Arnold I realized I’d made a great mistake and I started to panic. I set out to find him, which wasn’t easy. This was in 2003; social media wasn’t even a thing, really, and he wasn’t listed in the Santa Fe phone book. I’d gotten two of my computer-savvy friends—one of whom was Barry Sonnenfeld, the great film director, who at the time wrote a monthly column in GQ about the internet—to help look. Nothing came up for Arnold Germer. After a few months I started interviewing private detectives. (Oh yes. I am that obsessive.) Then, by chance, I was on the phone commiserating with my friend Richard Desroche when he interrupted me. “How do you spell Germer?” he asked. I rolled my eyes. I mean. If Barry couldn’t find anything, how could Richard, who barely knew how to return email? Seconds later he said, “Here it is. Germer. G-e-r-m-e-r? It’s an address in Santa Fe, New Mexico. And there’s a phone number.” This was so early in the technology, but that’s an example of why I hate the internet. Ultimately it did work in my favor, but to this day it seems totally random to me. In any case, after months of searching, I now had Arnold’s phone number and like high-school stalkers, Richard and I agreed that he would call on some pretext. Before I could stop him to prepare what he’d say, Richard was dialing on another line and, seconds later, he was talking to Arnold.

  That summer and fall Arnold and I spent hours and hours on the phone. I learned that the romance that brought him to Santa Fe had turned into a friendship instead, which meant I had a chance. Then in early October of 2004 he came to New York to visit his family and we had lunch. There’s a moment after you reconnect with an old boyfriend when you remember why you broke up in the first place. It all comes flooding back. They don’t look as good. They immediately say something to remind you what it was you hated about them. That day the opposite phenomenon occurred. The minute I saw him I remarked to myself that he was better looking than I remembered. And sweeter. And smarter. And funnier. And, more important, our chemistry seemed not to have waned.

  He made a plan to come to New York for Thanksgiving, this time to be with me. He stayed at the Inn at Irving Place, where I met him that Wednesday night with Harry. The three of us spent those nights at the hotel, and it was a romantic holiday weekend to end all. Certain memories go down in the books as being perfect, and this was one. Thanksgiving has always been a very special holiday for me. For one thing, it marks the definitive end to the dreaded summer. But the real reason is that as soon as I moved out of my mother’s house I made it my holiday, associating it with my life apart from blood-familial obligations, spending it with my chosen
family. The weather that particular weekend was cold, overcast, fall-like, a little drizzly, and smelled of wet trees and chimney smoke. Being together was like a living dream of love, walking back and forth from my apartment in the Village to the hotel, a short distance through Union Square, Arnold’s hand in one of mine, Harry’s leash in the other. Four days more perfect than I could have imagined; maybe the best four days of my life.

  For the rest of that year we spoke daily. He didn’t travel to New York for Christmas, for some unknown reason, which I didn’t think to worry about. I was appearing at Joe’s Pub in a new cabaret act I had worked up, and I was in preproduction for a Web project I had written and was directing. I was also working on a big renovation of my house in Bridgehampton, a house, I told myself, that eventually we would occupy together. There was something cozy about being home for the holidays, alone with Harry, pining for Arnold, dreaming of the future. In my journal I wrote “… willing to wait for however long it takes for him to be one hundred percent sure about moving here. All I need is for him to tell me I’m his and he’s mine. We could live apart indefinitely as long as we’re sure of that.”

  As it turned out, there was more to his absence that Christmas than he let on. There were a few issues that seemed insurmountable, which I wasn’t aware of: He was committed to his job working for a nonprofit organization that meant a great deal to him. Also living in Santa Fe had been a welcome change for him, having lived in New York City most of his early life. Right after the New Year, I got an email from him explaining all that and putting an end to all our plans. Contact between us broke off indefinitely.

  * * *

  For the first few months we were apart I went physically ill anytime I thought about Arnold. There were nights I remember lying awake, writhing in bed, pure Martha Graham, feeling the agony of loss. It was months before I could even think of dating anyone else, and I felt that dreadful thing one feels when a situation has turned for the worse and there’s nothing you can do to make it any better. A clock you can’t turn back from a bad outcome.