Trigere. The legendary fashion designer reflects on her past and its impact on elegance today.

Pauline Trigere will tell you all about growing up in Paris, the daughter of a tailor and a seamstress; coming to America in 1937 and starting (with her brother Robert) her own label in 1942; receiving all those Cotys (in­cluding the Coty Hall of Fame award in 1959); dressing the Duchess of Windsor; her passion for collecting decorative turtles; becoming famous for her smart coats and capes; doing yoga or other exercises every day; surviving a divorce and keep­ing a Latin lover. "But forget all that," she says emphatically. The real story is the sum of all those parts: the sweep of Tri­gere's nearly sixty-year career as a self-made fashion innovator.

With the likes of Oscar de la Renta, Bill Blass, Geoffrey Beene and Carolina Herrera, she is hailed as one of the great American fashion designers. "Me, a designer?" she exclaims in her strong, authoritative voice. "I never knew what the word meant. I had to make a living, raise my two boys, take care of my mother." In 1941, to support herself and her fam­ily, she briefly took a job for $65 a week with the fashion entrepreneur Hattie Carnegie, known for her exclusive 49th Street store in Manhattan. "Eventually, she gave me a big raise, and I made $75 a week!"

A formidable taskmaster and tastemaker, Trigere, at 91, is as sharp and spunky as ever. Today, her gowns are collectibles, even among a handful of young celebrities: witness Winona Ryder in the 1947 Trigere she wore to this year's Academy Awards. But despite the designer's impact on fashion, it's the perfume she introduced in the mid-'70s—Liquid Chic— that she considers one of her major accomplishments: "To this day, women stop me on the street or in elevators and ask me, 'What's that wonderful scent you're wearing?'"

Trigere will charm you over a gin-martini lunch with her French-accented small talk. But when it comes to discussing matters of style, her English pronunciations become flawless. To express her thoughts, she cuts through extraneous memories the way she used to cut free­hand her celebrated creations. "Designers today have such low self-esteem," she con­tends, noting that celebrities can now borrow—rather than purchase—virtually any gown they want. "I don't approve of that," she adds peremptorily. But then, with a mischievous smile, she ges­tures as if to throw it all away.

Although she's no longer in business, Trigere remains a fashion presence, making frequent guest appearances, teaching the occasional class and keeping a busy social schedule. Her vintage evening gowns and cocktail dresses are still worn at parties, wed­dings and charity events by women who haven't forgotten how to make an entrance. In a recent interview, the couturier talked about fashion, style, elegance, how to make an entrance—and the importance of the three-way mirror.

TOWN & COUNTRY: How would you describe your signature look—your style?

PAULINE TRIGERE: I never tried to impose my style or my ideas on clients. On the contrary, I met the American woman where she lived. At fashion shows and trunk shows I would be introduced to Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Smith, Mrs. So-and-So. And sometimes the salespeople would say: "Don't bother with her, Mrs. Trigere, she's not your kind of client." "That's nonsense," I would reply. I knew that every woman had to have at least one garment so perfect that she'd want to wear it one year, two years, five years later. So I tried to figure out what that one garment would be for that particu­lar woman—whether or not she was "my kind of client."

T & C: You mention the enduring qualities of a garment, but what happens when fashion changes?

PT: Everyone always wants me to talk about fashion. Fashion is here today, gone tomorrow. Being elegant has nothing to do with fashion. But style—now that's a different thing altogeth­er. Style is tough to acquire and takes a concerted effort, but I am convinced it can be done. It's like everything else in life: you learn with practice. You don't come across style by chance.

T&C: How, then?

PT: If you are persistent and trust what you see in the mirror, you can learn to be elegant. But it's not easy, I have to warn you. Start by being observant. Let's say you went to a party and had a great time. You felt fabulous for some reason—maybe you met the man of your life, or whatever. Go back home and study what you wore that night. Make a note of it. And wear it again. If you had a great time wearing red, don't wear green the next time! If you wore ruffles, try wearing ruffles again. Educate yourself by learning how clothes make you feel.

That's how I learned. Whenever I was draping clothes on one of my young models, I would glance up at the mirror from rime to rime to check on how she felt. If she looked bored, I knew I was going in the wrong direction—my clotheswere gloomy. If she looked pleased with herself, I knew I was doing the right thing. I had these bifocal eyeglasses: with the bottom part I'd check the clothes, and with the top part I'd look at the girl. I don't think that any of my models ever knew how much I learned from their facial expressions.

I believe that my clothes were elegant because they made women feel confident. In a Trigere, you could meet the king of Prussia or you could go to a parent—teacher conference or a business meeting.

T&C: Did women in the past have to go through a period of trial and error before finding their style?

PT: No! Elegant women had help back then. When you went to buy clothes, the salesgirl knew you. Not only that, she knew your mother, your father, your sister. She knew if you were married to a rich man or if you were working. In other words, she knew what you could wear—and what you couldn't. She would show you clothes appropriate to your specific lifestyle.

Uniformity is one of the main rea­sons elegance is no longer what it used to be. Garments today are not appropriate to the specific lives of the people who wear them. Imagine, when I traveled all over America, women would say to me, "I love what you gave me last year. Give me some­thing that goes with it for next spring." I did the thinking for them. Little by little, I helped them form their style and build their wardrobe.

T&C: Any advice you gave your clients back then that you would like to give to women today?

PT:First, don't wear garments that are too small. Look into your mirror— your three-way mirror. If your pants are too tight, please don't wear them! And while you're at it, get rid of extra accessories. Women tend to wear too much of everything. Too much jewelry, too much hair, too much makeup. I'm a believer in taking a second look in the mirror just before leaving the house and removing some­thing. Do it each time. Whatever is gone won't be missed!

The one thing an elegant woman needs day or evening, winter or summer, is a pretty scarf. One of my very first retail­ers, Becky Blum of Chicago, used to tell me: "Pauline, don't make scarfs—American women don't know how to wear them." "Mrs. Blum," I answered, "I'll teach American women to wear scarfs." And I did! Of course, Frenchwomen learned to wear scarfs originally to hide the poor quality of their clothes.

T&C: What's another must-have?

PT:Another item you need is a terrific raincoat. I always ad­vised my clients to have at least one light coat to wear over an evening dress or on trips, to deal with the unpredictable weather. The other day I wore one of my coats—a black-and-white polka-dot number, very chic. Everyone asked: "Where did you get it?" And I answered: "From my closet!"

Also, try to collect clothes in colors that are practical. For me it's black and red. You know my saying: "If you feel blue, wear red." And because there's a limit to how much closet space one has, it's best to stick to a few colors that go together. Who has time to try to match outfits with colors that clash?

My recommendation for women today is to go to the same store over and over to create a relationship with one of the salesgirls. If she knows you, she will tell you, "Mrs. Jones, I don't think that you should buy this outfit."

Last but not least, make sure your clothes have shoulder pads, so your garments stay in shape while hanging in the closet. You want to be able to keep your clothes in good condition for a long time. Building a wardrobe is like collecting paintings. Your choices should be careful and person­al and should reflect your taste not just for a season but for years to come.

T&C: Have our priorities changed? Are women today as concerned with looking elegant as they are with looking young?

PT: Trying to look young is wrong. Is it something about the age of retire­ment coming too early? In your mid-sixties, when you are considered old, you are full of energy and ideas. Six­ty-five? My God, I was doing my best work at that age. In the past, young women wanted to look ma­ture and grown up. Today, mothers want to look like their daughters.

T&C: If it's true that we're obsessed with youth, what might you replace that obsession with? Charm, perhaps?

PT: I don't think so. Charm is an acci­dent. It’s innate. I never thought of my clothes as being charming. Or myself as being charming, for that matter! [Laughs.] When I'm mad, I'm not charming, believe me. The word you are looking for is probably femininity. I don't think that my clothes were charming—but they were feminine.

Recently, as I was leaving a party, a friend said to me, "Do you realize that you seduced everyone tonight?" I was­n't aware that I had done anything spe­cial, but I guess I was a hit. Thinking about it, I realized that the reason for my success was that, unlike most women in the room that night, I was­n't stiff. Maybe to be feminine you have to be flexible, bend a bit—even if you don't like the person you're with. Maybe that's what you call charm?

T&C: Maybe the word I want is chic.

PT: Chic for me is a very urban concept. A woman in the city is chic, while a woman in a pair of slacks and a sweater can be elegant—but you wouldn't say that she is chic. Chic is fast. Chic is energy. Chic is groomed. Chic is doing all the things you have to do while wearing your lipstick. In other words, chic is never doing anything by chance.

T&C: What do you think is the key to being elegant at any age?

PT: Elegance is confidence. And if you are truly confident, you don't need to talk about yourself all the time. You lis­ten to others. Learning to listen is an acquired habit, just like learning to have style. If you go out with someone you don't know, for instance, listen—you will always look confident and find a way to make the situation work for you. I always listen—of course now, I don't always remember what I hear! [Laughs.] But you are young, so listen and learn something. Listen to your mirror, too. Style is knowing yourself. So either go to a psychoanalyze—or look carefully into your three-way mirror.

THE UNIFORM

The extreme form of conventional dress is the costume totally determined by others: the uniform. No matter what sort of uniform it is - military, civil or religious; the outfit of a general, a postman, a nun, a butler, a football player or a waitress - to put on such livery is to give up one's right to act as an individual - in terms of speech, to be partially or wholly censored. What one does, as well as what one wears, will be determined by external authorities - to a greater or lesser degree, depending upon wheth­er one is, for example, a Trappist monk or a boy scout. The uni­form acts as a sign that we should not or need not treat someone as a human being, and that they need not and should not treat us as one. It is no accident that people in uniform, rather than speak­ing to us honestly and straightforwardly, often repeat mechani­cal lies. "It was a pleasure having you on board," they say; "I cannot give you that information"; or "The doctor will see you shortly."

Constant wearing of official costume сап so transform someone that it becomes difficult or impossible for him or her to react normally. Dr. Grantly, the archdeacon in Anthony Trollope's The Warden (1855), is pious and solemn even when alone with his wife: " 'Tis only when he has exchanged that ever-new shovel hat for a tasseled nightcap, and those shining black habiliments for his accustomed robe de nuit, thatDr. Grantly talks, and looks, and thinks like an ordinary man."

To take off a uniform is usually a relief, just as it is a relief to abandon official speech; sometimes it is also a sign of defiance. When the schoolgirls in Flannery O'Connor's story "A Temple of the Holy Ghost" come home on holiday, she writes that "They came in the brown convent uniforms they had to wear at Mount St. Scholastica but as soon as they opened their suitcases, they took off the uniforms and put on red skirts and loud blouses. They put on lipstick and their Sunday shoes and walked around in the high heels all over the house."

In certain circumstances, however, putting on a uniform may be a relief, or even an agreeable experience. It can ease the transi­tion from one role to another, as Anthony Powell points out in Faces in My Time when he describes joining the British Army in 1939: “Complete forgetfulness was needed of all that had constituted one's life only a few weeks before. This condition of mind was helped by the anonymity of uniform, something which has to be experienced to be appreciated; in one sense more noticeable off duty in such environments as railway carriages or bars.”

It is also true that both physical and psychological disadvantage can be concealed by a uniform, or even canceled out; the robes of a judge or a surgeon may successfully hide a scrawny physique or fears of incompetence, giving him or her both dignity and confidence.

Unlike most civilian clothing, the uniform is often consciously and deliberately symbolic. It identifies its wearer as a member of some group and often locates him or her within a hierarchy; sometimes it gives information about his or her achievements, as do the merit badges of a scout and the battle ribbons of a general. Even when some details of an official costume are not dictated from above, they may by custom come to have a definite meaning. James Laver remarks that in Britain “until quite recently it was still possible to deduce a clergyman's religious opinions from his neckwear. If you wore an ordinary collar with a white tie you were probably Low Church and Evangelical. If you wore any version of the Roman collar you displayed your sympathy with the . . . Oxford Movement.”

It is likely that when they were first designed, all uniforms made symbolic sense and were as easy to “read” as the outfit of a Play­boy Bunny today. But official costume tends to freeze the styles of the time in which it was invented, and today the sixteenth-century uniforms of the guards at the Tower of London or the late-Edwardian morning dress of the butler may merely seem old-fashioned to us. Military uniforms, as James Laver points out, were originally intended “to impress and even to terrify the enemy” in hand-to-hand combat (just like the war whoops and battle cries that accompanied them), and warriors accordingly disguised themselves as devils, skeletons and wild beasts. Even after gunpowder made this style of fighting rare, the desire to terrify “survived into modern times in such vestigial forms as the death's head on the hussar's headgear and the bare ribs of the skeleton originally painted on the warrior's body and later trans­formed into the froggings of his tunic.”

The wearing of a uniform by people who are obviously not carrying out the duties it involves has often suggested personal laxity - as in the case of drunken soldiers carousing in the streets.

In this century, however, it has been adopted as a form of political protest, and both men and women have appeared at rallies and marches in their Army, Navy, or police uniforms, the implied statement being “I'm a soldier, but I support disarmament / open housing / gay rights,” etc. A related development in the 1960s was the American hippie custom of wearing parts of old Army uniforms - Civil War, World War I and World War II. This military garb puzzled many observers, especially when it appeared in anti-Vietnam demonstrations. Others understood the implicit message, which was that the longhaired kid in the Con­federate tunic or the Eisenhower jacket was not some kind of coward or sissy; that he was not against all wars – just against the cruel and unnecessary one he was in danger of being drafted into.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 727