Washington Winter Show 2017

47 how jeffie met coco W hen I went to Paris to visit my mother in the Fall of 1968, I had no idea I’d meet Coco Chanel. I did know that my mother had done a series of portraits and the two of them had become friends. So, when I got dressed to go to see the paintings, I was surprised by my mother’s reaction. She said she couldn’t take me in the dress I was wearing. Didn’t I know that Mademoiselle had a horror of the mini-jupe ? Chanel skirts always fell below the knee, and there I was in a short A-line dress. For me, it was the style. I had nothing else. I said I’d stay home, but Mother said we were expected, so, off we went to 31, rue Cambon. Entering the street- level boutique, we were ushered up a curving staircase to the second-floor atelier, where we took an elevator up to Mademoiselle’s private salon. She was sitting on a fawn-colored suede couch, right on the edge, reading her horoscope in the newspaper. A Coca-Cola bottle was within reach on a lacquered coffee table. She wore a hat with a jeweled pin, an assortment of chain necklaces, a gold cross, and no expression on her face—at all. She barely nodded in greeting, indicated a straight-backed chair where I should sit, and patted the couch where she wanted my mother, right next to her. She began talking with my mother in such low tones I couldn’t hear a word. I sat in exile, far across the room, trying to pull my dress down to cover my knees. But it was not just my dress that was wrong. Clearly I was. Mademoiselle was famous for her jealousies. I knew she didn’t like anyone close to her to be close to anyone else. No husbands, no daughters. It was all too obvious. When we moved across the street to the Ritz for dinner, Mademoiselle continued talking in the lowest voice imaginable to my mother, exclusively. Throughout the meal, I tried to shrink away, wishing I could disappear. Finally it was over and we went home. Phew! All that remained was the nightly ritual of Mother’s calling Coco to say goodnight. This time, however, Coco had something to add: she had observed me carefully and had decided she liked me. In her experience, most mothers and daughters were jealous of one another and their relationship full of conflict. Not so here. What she saw was a daughter who looked at her mother “with such kind eyes.” “Yes,” she concluded, “I liked your daughter very much.” She asked if I’d seen the collection. “No!” And so it was arranged. One suit—red and cream with black trim—stole my heart. I wanted to try on the model but was told it was already spoken for. Should I drain my savings for a custom-made Chanel? Yes. I would order myself that suit. While I was waiting in the dressing room for someone to take my measurements, a sad-faced vendeuse returned to say that she was terribly sorry to disappoint me, but unfortunately there was no more of that fabric. Plus de tissu . Those words quickly reached Mademoiselle. As I would soon learn, nothing escaped her attention. My short sleeveless dress was no exception. Pulling at the shoulder seams and sighing, she showed such displeasure that I finally said it was just a dress I got on sale in New York—off the rack. Her immediate reply: “ ça ce voit. ” With that, she clapped her hands and three assistants marched in with the suit I’d longed for. I was told to go behind the Coromandel screen and try it on. When I came out and Mademoiselle saw that the suit fit, she was gleeful: “See! I have the figure of a twenty-eight year old girl!” I was standing barefoot in clothes right out of Coco Chanel’s own closet! The suit I had liked was the one that she had chosen to make for herself. Then she began to frown. She crouched on the floor and lifted the skirt to examine my legs and knees, grabbing hold of them with strong hands as if to judge a prize filly. With a harrumph, she told Manon, the seamstress: “We must shorten the skirt.” Gasps all around. A Chanel skirt was always below the knee. But now she gave the order to make the skirt shorter. A bit shorter. And then, shorter still. Mademoiselle asked what shoes, what jewelry, what scarf would I wear with her suit? Exhilarated and gaining energy as she spoke, she stood up, kicked off her shoes, gestured for me to try them on and danced around in her stocking feet. But her shoes were too big, too wide. Ah, the swollen feet of old age. “That’s why I wear boots so often,” she confided. “To hide these unsightly ankles —toujours gonflées .” Finally, Mademoiselle sorted through a veritable pirate’s chest of gold chains at lightning speed—choosing, discarding. No, no! Nothing worked. And then, she had an idea. She unclasped the Baroque pearl and gold necklace she was wearing and put it around my neck. Stepping back, hand on hip, chin up, she gave a nod. She was satisfied. Jeffie is si ing in Mademoiselle’s salon, dressed in the suit she gave her.