I think I've made my love for the work of Charles James known around here. He created masterpieces during the heyday of glamorous design and set himself apart as the "greatest American couturier" (according to Balenciaga). I've always been fascinated by the elaborate architecture of James's gowns. With their padding, boning, and massive tulle underskirts, you'd think it would be any seamstress's dream to inspect their construction. So I was surprised to hear someone whose opinion I value greatly in these matters declare him to be a bit overrated. The issue? His small body of work. (That's not a euphemism, I swear.) James's productive years were pretty short, his output was perhaps a bit underwhelming in scope, and he's known as much for having been a terrible business man as he was for his gorgeous gowns.
Still, I was disappointed to read in this month's
Vogue that he sounds like he was an all-around hideous person as well. The article, called "The Cutting Edge," is this month's Nostalgia column and was written by a former client of James's, M.E. Hecht. Hecht worked with James starting in 1955, saying without a discernible hint of irony that her "youth, money, and willingness to try anything once" made her the ideal James client. (Darling, your elitism is showing.)
There's very little actual nostalgia in the article, unless reminiscing about an obnoxious man's temper tantrums and arrogance counts as such. James loved to scream at his "beautiful, young, and male" assistants before firing them after a matter of days or weeks. But the real issue for me was the author's recounting of James's feelings on other designers:
Charlie considered many designers "dressmakers," amateurs, or, on very rare occasions, talented amateurs. He did consider Balenciaga a near-competitor.
How very generous of him!
Of Chanel: After her use of jersey, "What else has she produced?"
I don't know, just one of the most enduring and recognizable global brands? Oh, and tweed jackets.
Of Dior: "He appears to think lengthening and shortening hemlines constitutes as fashion."
BLASPHEMY. NOW YOU'VE CROSSED A LINE, SIR.
Though I did have to laugh at his Schiaperelli quip:
"Without Dali and a dead fur animal, where would she be?"
Overall, the author seems a bit oblivious that she's just painted a brutally ugly portrait of James, and ends on a wistful note: "For those of us who knew him, the world is grayer and poorer for his absence." (Even though the two had stopped speaking by 1960.) Mmm-kay.
I think, as a reader of this article, I was supposed to feel I was offered a rare glimpse into the private world of a colorful, madcap genius. But instead I just felt slightly offended and uncomfortable with the author's admissions and blithe romanticizing of an ugly personality. Sometimes reading
Vogue makes me feel icky, and this was one of those times. Perhaps the combination of money, high society, "Life with Andre," and Plum Sykes is a little nauseating. Anyone else?
