Coco Chanel_ An Intimate Life - Lisa Chaney [198]
This coup was part of Gabrielle’s carefully considered campaign in which she refused all interviews. The resulting sense of anticipation meant that several months before her collection, journalists began dredging up and expounding on old articles and photographs: Gabrielle’s thoughts on fashion, her look, her extraordinary friends and all those famous affairs. The young were amazed by this woman in whom the press was so interested.
With her retrieved ex-premières, to whom she said, “Come quickly, we only have ten green years,” she had set to work. The premières were in only two of the old workrooms high up in 31 rue Cambon, while Gabrielle herself worked from one small room on the third floor, close by her private apartment. With one mannequin alone to work on, and one fitter, an elderly, white-haired woman, this was nothing like the past. But Gabrielle’s scissors were, nonetheless, once again hanging authoritatively from around her neck. The task before her was almost insurmountable, and with all in Paris with the vaguest interest in couture waiting on this collection, Gabrielle permitted herself no indulgence, such as speaking of her fears. Instead, she spelled out her criticism of other—male—“pederast” designers, whom she decried for designing on paper rather than on the model’s own body, as she did:
To one of the few journalists who were lucky enough to talk to her in the winter of 1953, and who asked her what she was planning to present in her collection, Coco, superb as ever, answered, “How can you expect me to know? Until the last day I alter, transform. I create my dresses on the mannequins themselves.” 10
Meanwhile, for December 20, 1953, Jean Cocteau wrote in his diary: “Sunday with Coco Chanel, Marie-Louise [Bousquet] and [Michel] Déon. Chattered from one till ten at night without saying one nasty thing about anyone. Coco amazingly revivified by re-opening her house.”11
The invitation everyone in Paris wanted for February 5, 1954 (always 5 to bring luck), was the one to Gabrielle’s show. Select members of Paris society were invited, as well as every journalist, photographer, magazine editor and buyer deemed worthy. The night before, as had been Gabrielle’s custom, she lay flat on the floor in the grand salon as her models walked past; she was checking the length of their hems.
30
I Prefer Disaster to Nothingness
Latecomers were locked out, and that even included the editor of the Parisian fashion bible, L’Officiel de la couture. Every newly painted gilt seat was filled; toward the back, the staff members of French, British and American Vogue stood on their chairs to see. The crush, the suspense were incredible. The first girl appeared carrying her number and walked slowly past the audience. The next girl walked just as sedately. Already, it was abundantly clear that Dior’s triumph of a few years earlier was not about to be repeated. One commentator noted acidly:
A black coat-suit, the skirt of which was neither tight nor loose, with a little white blouse . . . was followed by other suits in rather dull wools, in a wan black, matched joylessly with melancholy prints. The models had the figure of 1930—no breasts, waists, no hips . . . offering nothing but a fugitive reminder of a time it was difficult to specify . . . What everyone had come for was the atmosphere of the old collections that used to set Paris agog. But none of that was left.1
The atmosphere was icy. Glances were exchanged. And when, at last, the show finished, there was a moment’s dreadful silence. A pensive and tentative-looking Gabrielle stood in her old position at the top of those mirrored stairs. Traditionally, she had permitted twenty or so of her most privileged