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Sunday 5 April 2015

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Pink Corsets Biography

Schiaparelli finally did make her escape, heading to England in 1913 to take a position caring for orphans in a country house. The next year, in London, she went to a lecture on theosophy, given by a man she thought “handsome in a queer way.” He was Wilhelm de Wendt de Kerlor, of Polish descent and with quite a few identities—translator, lecturer on the paranormal, quack clairvoyant and not the “doctor” or “professor” he sometimes pretended to be. After the lecture, the two talked into the night and married the next day, again to the horror of Schiaparelli’s parents. Ms. Secrest’s chapter on this folly, the couple “zigzagging from one harebrained scheme to another,” is fascinating. From England to Cannes—Schiap at his side like a magician’s assistant—de Kerlor read palms, told bogus fortunes and attempted to forecast the course of World War I. In America, calling himself a “world-famous criminologist,” he tried to solve murders by seeing the perpetrator’s face in blood stains.

For five years, Schiaparelli hung in with this smooth kook, but in 1919, when she became pregnant with her only child and de Kerlor began an affair with Isadora Duncan, the couple separated. (In 1928, de Kerlor was murdered in a barroom quarrel in Mexico.) Late in the biography, circling back to Schiaparelli’s only marriage, Ms. Secrest writes: “In the long fight to establish herself as an artist and designer, what had sustained her was everything De Kerlor represented: the world of the spirit, psychic phenomena and unseen forces.” This rings true.

The “unseen forces” that led Schiaparelli into fashion were largely the friendships she made with other well-born women, one of whom encouraged a move to Paris. Out of necessity and invention, Schiaparelli was making her own clothes, and this was noticed, not least by the great couturier Paul Poiret, who said she should try fashion design. She did. After two years working for small houses, Schiaparelli produced, with the businessman M. Kahn as a silent partner, a small collection of jazzy knits. A lack of training in pattern-making and construction worked to Schiaparelli’s advantage, leaving her free to follow her own wayward instincts. Hers was a vision of embellished comment: One of Schiap’s favorite motifs was lips and she loved designs that were puns, non sequiturs and conversation starters. Compared with Alix Grès’s miracles of Hellenistic draping—mute phenomena in silk jersey—a Schiaparelli was loquacious. And while Chanel was delineating a sporty ease and prettiness, Schiaparelli glorified, in the words of Vogue editor Bettina Ballard, “the hard elegance of the ugly woman.” Beauty was beside the point—a woman in Schiaparelli was smart in every sense of the word.

Once France was occupied, Schiaparelli seemed to outsmart herself. Or maybe she was just Arethusa again, this time sliding between allegiances, never visibly taking sides. Like one possessed, she went back and forth between France, America, Portugal and South America, her freedom of movement made possible by friends in very high places. Schiap’s confidante Bettina Bergery—who was her house model, window dresser and publicist—was married to Gaston Bergery, a socialist politician turned collaborator who wrote the founding document of the Vichy state. Ms. Secrest reveals that police in France, Britain and America all watched Schiaparelli, each thinking she was guilty of something. J. Edgar Hoover, head of the FBI, thought she had set up an espionage system. Was she spying or just sly, opportunistic or imperiously oblivious? By May 1941, Schiaparelli was back in America, where she did volunteer work for the duration of the war. Although the evidence remains inconclusive, Ms. Secrest believes that the question is “not whether she spied for Germany, but how she could possibly have avoided doing so.”

When the war was over, Schiaparelli returned to Paris, but it was no longer hers for the taking. Christian Dior was ascendant. With his New Look collection of 1947, a Second Empire silhouette of corsets and crinolines, he was making “every woman look and feel like a duchess.” This was not the surrealism of Schiaparelli. She couldn’t connect with a world weary of bright shocks and, on Feb. 3, 1954, presented her last collection. Two days later, the unstoppable Chanel, who’d closed her couture house in 1939, reopened.

Schiaparelli had put her energy into expression, not into empire building. There is no Schiaparelli logo to match Chanel’s interlocking C’s, handcuffing forever French fashion to the bottom line. Schiap’s signature was just that, her signature—a flourish of loops and curves, a trapeze artist in the air. In Muriel Spark’s slim boarding-house classic, “The Girls of Slender Means” (1963), it is a taffeta gown by Schiaparelli—“coloured dark blue, green, orange and white in a floral pattern as from the Pacific Islands”—that catches the girls’ wartime dreams of romance, society, sex. “This marvelous dress, which caused a stir wherever it went,” was lent out by its owner in return for clothing coupons and soap. “Few people alive at the time,” Spark wrote, “were more delightful, more ingenious, more movingly lovely, and, as it might happen, more savage, than the girls of slender means.” The perfect description of a Schiaparelli.

—Ms. Jacobs writes about culture and fashion for Vanity Fair.