Though most people, when they think of Oscar de la Renta, think of the first ladies he dressed (Jackie Kennedy, Nancy Reagan, Laura Bush, Hillary Clinton) or the celebrities he clothed for the red carpet (Amy Adams, Sarah Jessica Parker, Taylor Swift) or the wedding gowns he designed (for Amal Clooney, Huma Abedin, Kate Bosworth), I think of two entirely different things.
I think, for example, of how before every show was supposed to start - a good half-hour before every show was even supposed to start, which is to say about 50 minutes before every other designer's show would really start - he would be standing backstage, in a perfectly tailored pinstriped shirt and silk tie, pocket handkerchief flopping just so, waiting for the audience to show up: keeping to the schedule in real time as opposed to fashion time.
Even during the collections last month, when he was visibly frail, he was there, proof positive of the power of dressing for the occasion.
And I think of a conversation we had in 2011 when I was working at The Financial Times and interviewed him about what he liked to do when he wasn't in the office, and he started talking about the garden at his weekend house in Kent, Conn. (the place where he chose to die), a work-in-progress for the last 30-plus years. It had, he said, taught him a lot. Namely, "That you need patience for something to grow."
And faith. Because "the trees you plant you may never see in their full glory, while the ones you enjoy now were put there by people who may never have seen the results of their work."
Though de la Renta was never considered a fashion guru - quotes of his have been working their way around the Internet since his death, especially "Walk like you have three men walking behind you," but generally he was not given to the sort of gnomic utterances that send industry watchers into fits of excited parsing - along with the other two axioms, it describes a legacy for the industry that is arguably as important, and lasting, as any of the sparkling ball gowns that made de la Renta's name.
The dresses were extraordinary, no question, both the daywear, which defined the idea of discreet luxury, and the evening gowns, blossoming in saturated shades. But while it is easy to get lost in their sheer prettiness, it's important not to forget they were built on a commitment to a value system constructed and maintained over time. De la Renta never did.
He believed in hard work and the importance of appearance. He believed in beauty, not for beauty's sake, but because he understood that elevating the outside could help elevate the inside; that confidence could be donned with a garment (just ask Oprah Winfrey, who practically glowed in his long-sleeved, cleavage-hinting navy silk gown as a co-chairwoman of the Met Ball in 2010, ending up on numerous best-dressed lists). He believed in balance, and the golden mean. He believed in lace and colour and the leverage that came with a carefully chosen ruffle - but not too many ruffles. He believed, during the rise and fall of grunge and normcore and casual Friday, in staking his higher ground: being neither out nor in but, perhaps, above. He believed in the long game. These kinds of values can be easy to dismiss as old-fashioned, especially in an industry that invented the It bag.
But as his career, which kept him relevant for 50 years, demonstrated, old-fashioned has nothing to do with it. His clothes crossed political parties, White House administrations and social groups, uniting such disparate figures as Marissa Mayer, Yahoo's chief executive and Silicon Valley female power player, and Nicki Minaj, rapper and pop culture cartoon. Not to mention generations: Laura Bush may have worn de la Renta to her husband's second inaugural ball, but it was Jenna Bush who wore de la Renta at her wedding.
At a time when consistency is often undervalued in favour of change, when designers take on houses and toss the heritage they find out the window, and private equity thinks of brands in five-year terms, de la Renta's life stands as an alternative: a case for what he learned in his garden.
He tended a career that he never forgot was seeded in the ateliers of Balenciaga and Lanvin and flourished in the world of Balmain couture. And on Seventh Avenue, he planted the roots of a business that, by definition, he would never see reach its full glory, because his success implied a company that would grow on without him.
This perspective is probably why de la Renta, alone among independent designers of his generation, was able to choose a successor before he died in the form of the British designer Peter Copping. It is why his end is also a beginning. In his impeccable suit, on his schedule, he designed it that way.
I think, for example, of how before every show was supposed to start - a good half-hour before every show was even supposed to start, which is to say about 50 minutes before every other designer's show would really start - he would be standing backstage, in a perfectly tailored pinstriped shirt and silk tie, pocket handkerchief flopping just so, waiting for the audience to show up: keeping to the schedule in real time as opposed to fashion time.
Even during the collections last month, when he was visibly frail, he was there, proof positive of the power of dressing for the occasion.
And I think of a conversation we had in 2011 when I was working at The Financial Times and interviewed him about what he liked to do when he wasn't in the office, and he started talking about the garden at his weekend house in Kent, Conn. (the place where he chose to die), a work-in-progress for the last 30-plus years. It had, he said, taught him a lot. Namely, "That you need patience for something to grow."
And faith. Because "the trees you plant you may never see in their full glory, while the ones you enjoy now were put there by people who may never have seen the results of their work."
Though de la Renta was never considered a fashion guru - quotes of his have been working their way around the Internet since his death, especially "Walk like you have three men walking behind you," but generally he was not given to the sort of gnomic utterances that send industry watchers into fits of excited parsing - along with the other two axioms, it describes a legacy for the industry that is arguably as important, and lasting, as any of the sparkling ball gowns that made de la Renta's name.
The dresses were extraordinary, no question, both the daywear, which defined the idea of discreet luxury, and the evening gowns, blossoming in saturated shades. But while it is easy to get lost in their sheer prettiness, it's important not to forget they were built on a commitment to a value system constructed and maintained over time. De la Renta never did.
He believed in hard work and the importance of appearance. He believed in beauty, not for beauty's sake, but because he understood that elevating the outside could help elevate the inside; that confidence could be donned with a garment (just ask Oprah Winfrey, who practically glowed in his long-sleeved, cleavage-hinting navy silk gown as a co-chairwoman of the Met Ball in 2010, ending up on numerous best-dressed lists). He believed in balance, and the golden mean. He believed in lace and colour and the leverage that came with a carefully chosen ruffle - but not too many ruffles. He believed, during the rise and fall of grunge and normcore and casual Friday, in staking his higher ground: being neither out nor in but, perhaps, above. He believed in the long game. These kinds of values can be easy to dismiss as old-fashioned, especially in an industry that invented the It bag.
But as his career, which kept him relevant for 50 years, demonstrated, old-fashioned has nothing to do with it. His clothes crossed political parties, White House administrations and social groups, uniting such disparate figures as Marissa Mayer, Yahoo's chief executive and Silicon Valley female power player, and Nicki Minaj, rapper and pop culture cartoon. Not to mention generations: Laura Bush may have worn de la Renta to her husband's second inaugural ball, but it was Jenna Bush who wore de la Renta at her wedding.
At a time when consistency is often undervalued in favour of change, when designers take on houses and toss the heritage they find out the window, and private equity thinks of brands in five-year terms, de la Renta's life stands as an alternative: a case for what he learned in his garden.
He tended a career that he never forgot was seeded in the ateliers of Balenciaga and Lanvin and flourished in the world of Balmain couture. And on Seventh Avenue, he planted the roots of a business that, by definition, he would never see reach its full glory, because his success implied a company that would grow on without him.
This perspective is probably why de la Renta, alone among independent designers of his generation, was able to choose a successor before he died in the form of the British designer Peter Copping. It is why his end is also a beginning. In his impeccable suit, on his schedule, he designed it that way.
©2014 The New York Times