Fashion Pedigree: Emanuel Ungaro

Have just learned that Emanuel Ungaro, a designer I long presumed to be a native Italian, was in fact born in Aix-en-Provence in the south of France. Coming from this sun-drenched, lavender-scented, open-skied region of Europe, he found common cause with the Basque Cristóbal Balenciaga, with whom he apprenticed. Despite their provincial upbringings, the two went on to dominate the salons of Paris.

I believe it's possible to see in the early Ungaro traces of his master's sense of pattern and form. Take this suit, from the Parallèle line, which is far superior to the subsequent Ter and Emanuel diffusion labels that came later on.

The tailoring is exquisite, and I'm particularly taken with the bow detail on the back of the jacket. It's saucy, but in the most elegant possible way. Keep an eye out for early Ungaro if you also love brilliant tailoring. Many secondhand sellers don't know who taught him. Let's try to keep that amongst ourselves.

Anatomy of a Masterpiece IV: Balenciaga Pinned Down

I have the arch-insider fashion site The Fashion Spot to thank twice over today. Not only did their forum lend a definitive ID of the suit at left; it also provided a link to one of the suit's immediate descendants--a more figure-friendly variation that Neiman Marcus brought over to introduce Balenciaga to the wider American world. More about that in a bit.

The original, left, was photographed for Vogue in 1950, by Irving Penn. It is informally called 'the wishbone suit' due to the pattern of its buttons, which emphasizes its hourglass form. The model, Colette, herself had prominent hipbones and for this reason was said to be Balenciaga's favorite armature for his sculptural forms.

The suit appeared in Vogue again, this time photographed by Richard Avedon on what may have been his first assignment for the magazine, after he was talent-spotted by editor Carmel Snow. Here the model is Dovima. Snow's confidence was well placed--how beautifully the lines of the suit play against the weary net curtain behind. These fashions by Balenciaga and Dior and Chanel must have glided through the war-riven Paris streets like exotic fish through a wrecked ship.



One final image, from the Texas Fashion Collection at the North Texas University Fashion Archives (via surgirl at photobucket via The Fashion Spot)--the wishbone suit in a new incarnation: in moire satin, with a wider skirt, bearing a Neiman Marcus label in addition to that of Balenciaga.

The department store was visionary in its pursuit of Paris couture in the 1950s, mounting a regular French Fashion Exhibition and contracting with the Parisian houses to send models over for elite clients. This fascinating history is meticulously detailed in Myra Walker's Balenciaga and His Legacy.

(I'm convinced that this gorgeous book brings as much pleasure as any garment possibly could: if you love fashion, get your hands on a copy as soon as possible.)

(Model with dog by Richard Avedon, for Vogue, November 1950 © 1950 The Richard Avedon Foundation)

Anatomy of a Masterpiece II: The World on his Shoulders

How lucky was the woman who saw this face, in this degree of concentration, for Cristóbal Balenciaga would not allow a client to leave his atelier until her gown, day dress or suit had reached his standard of perfection.

"Balenciaga was renowned in the trade for inspecting and resetting sleeves that were not perfect--even after the garment had been shown in a collection or was being worn by a client. He acquired these exacting standards during his training as a tailor in San Sebastian; travel guides of this period state appreciation for the skill of Spanish tailors--and the cheapness of their products in comparison with those of the French. (Lesley Ellis Miller, writing in The Golden Age of Couture).

Balenciaga's designs, like the suit at left, were far from cheap. This model from 1950 would have cost around 110,000 francs (a mind-boggling $35,000 at that year's exchange rate). What that bought in practical terms was a suit that fit a finger's breadth from the body, which afforded an immaculate line that did not constrain movement. In aesthetic terms it afforded, says Miller, less fashion than "a sense of eternity, of the reconciliation of past and present".

As a Balenciaga original is beyond the wildest dreams of most of us, what we can do is strive to take away from this master the notion of fit and how it ought to work.

Specifically, the fit of a garment at the shoulders, and from thence down the arm. I think it's safe to say that when fashion amateurs shop, they concentrate on how a garment sits at the three points of traditional measure (bust, waist, hips). If those conform in an approximate way, the garment is deemed "to fit."

Fashion professionals (and for these purposes I include in this group anybody who loves clothing enough to explore its making and history) know that fit begins at the shoulder. If a dress, jacket, or shirt doesn't sit right there, it may look just fine, but it will never be elegant, chic, soignée--all those words that define Parisian ladies looking amazing, seemingly without effort. Their secret? Their clothes fit their shoulders.



In these trendily padded days when Balmain and the like are sending scare-the-crows upper arms down the runway, shoulder fit can so easily go to hell in a handbasket--especially if one buys a knockoff. Be vigilant, even as you work a trend. Fabric should drop cleanly down from a shoulder, no matter how padded it is. No bunching, no wrinkled and sorry jowls below the set-in seam, no pinching around the underarm. Have another look at the eternally fashionable suit above. A shoulder should fit like that.

Inside the Atelier at Valentino

I love this photo from the book Valentino: Themes and Variations (click on it to see the details), because it captures how a ravishing object is created from hands, minds and raw material.

Here in the Roman studio are the technicians--the expert seamstresses--consulting over the nearly-completed prototype. Around their necks the sewers wear traditional reticules holding the tools of their trade: scissors, tape, pins. Up on the table is the gown of silk voile, model 184 in the S/S 08 collection. Several layers of its hip-level ruffles have been retracted to afford access to the lower corolla. High intensity lights permit no imprecision in stitchwork or color selection. The floor is littered with fabric scraps, muslin and a heavy-duty iron.

The gown will be worn by at least one great beauty, trained to walk and gesture in a way that showcases its craftsmanship. But for the majority of its existence, the gown will hang, or rest on a mannequin in a museum collection, which seems a necessary shame.

Home truth: it's insanely difficult to bring couture-quality perfection into one's own daily dressing, especially when there's no Valentino in the closet. But the photo does offer some universal lessons. Concentration, a willingness to redo, merciless lighting, a hot iron. These will see you looking good out the door.