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HAUTE STYLE
COUTURE MAY NOT SEEM SO IMPORTANT ANYMORE, YET IT
DAZZLES MODERN VIEWERS OF FASHION'S GRAND PAST
EMILY MITCHELL
FASHION WORLDS COLLIDE DAILY on the streets of major cities, but when the dressed-down confront the dressed-up in the spectral hush of a museum, the ironies abound. These two worlds are currently aligned through glass walls at the Costume Institute of New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the effect is, well, startling. On one side of the glass are the exhibits, frozen in time and draped on the ideal forms of dummy mannequins. The clothes are the epitome of fashion perfection, where fabric, feather and bead are transmuted by a designer's vision and the dressmakers' craft into objects of fantasy that reflect their creators' eras. On the other side are the spectators. Swaddled in the nondescript comfortwear of the '90s--sweaters, slacks, T shirts, jeans and sneakers--they move through the "Haute Couture" exhibit murmuring praise or stopping to stare in admiration.
Displayed austerely against pristine white walls, the 130 dresses, suits, coats and gowns selected by Costume Institute curator Richard Martin and his associate Harold Koda represent 108 years of social history and changing taste. Selected almost entirely from the museum's unsurpassed collection, "Haute Couture" begins with the luster of satin in an elaborate, sunburst-patterned 1887 ball gown from the first of the great Paris ateliers, the House of Worth. It climbs to the heights--or depths--of pop-culture chic with a sleek 1995 evening dress of industrial-weight vinyl modeled by Madonna for Gianni Versace, who with Chanel is the exhibit's co-sponsor. Separated by a century, the dresses could not be more distant in technology or in their concept of what constitutes the fashionable woman, yet each illustrates the superb handiwork and attentiveness to detail that are couture's trademarks.
Since "Haute Couture" opened in early December, a parade of women and men have gone to look and to marvel. A showstopper is the decorous 1937 wedding dress Mainbocher stitched up for the Duchess of Windsor. Standing on the opposite side of the fashion divide, museumgoers respond as much to couture's unique history as to the clothes' breathtaking beauty. "What may be a special impetus to see the show,'' observes Martin, "is the knowledge that couture is something always extraordinary, never ordinary, and that it is a phenomenon that may be at risk in our time.''
This is not the first era in which couture's relevance has been questioned. When Charles Frederick Worth, an Englishman transplanted to Paris, established his couture house in the late 1850s, the sewing machine was revolutionizing the manufacture of clothing. Yet Worth, who was court designer to the Empress Eugenie, had a reputation for opulent, handmade dresses and gowns of luxurious materials that were irresistible to the wives and daughters of men amassing dazzling fortunes in Britain and America. From the beginning, couture and "new money'' had strong links.
Soon after the turn of the century, a former Worth employee, Paul Poiret, broke from the rigid style with Oriental-influenced designs. He and others offered unstructured dresses that skimmed the body in flowing lines and freed the wearer from the corset's confines. In a spectacle that presaged today's overproduced runway extravaganzas, Poiret put his creations on young women working in his atelier so clients could view the designs on an actual female body.
Before World War I, Paris was the supreme fashion arbiter, and when the war ended, the wealthy returned with even greater desire. The world's best dressed vied for the latest by Jeanne Lanvin, the exemplary Madeleine Vionnet and the daring Gabrielle (Coco) Chanel, who adapted men's tailoring and gave pride of place to the commonplace fabric of jersey. The city held the position as fashion's capital for the simple reason that the couture houses were backed up by the petites mains, literally little hands--the many specialized workrooms of milliners, embroiderers, lace and buttonmakers. Nazi leaders during the occupation of Paris had the notion of taking couture to Berlin, but the foolish scheme was averted after designer Lucien Lelong pointed out that it would mean the relocation of hundreds of the small ateliers without which couture could not live.
With peace declared, rich Americans flocked to Paris, to see and to buy. What Paris designed, the world wore. Couture was far from becoming democratic, but its influence extended beyond the reverential atmosphere of the designer maison. A housewife or shopgirl in America or Britain--and France too--could hardly afford an original, but she could easily find a smart ready-to-wear outfit whose lineage could be traced to Paris.
For the next decade, the prevailing silhouette
from New York to Hong Kong to Buenos Aires was the nipped-waist full-skirted
"New Look'' unveiled by Christian Dior in 1947. Cristobal Balenciaga's
elegantly fluid 1955-56 chemise developed into the off-the-rack sack that
camouflaged bulges and shapely curves alike. Some years later, women bewildered
by having to make a hemline choice gratefully seized on Yves Saint Laurent's
1970 tailored pants suits as the sensible solution. Designers had once
considered style piracy a couture crime, but the canny Coco Chanel, whose
cardigan jacket became almost a uniform, sensed the value of setting a trend.
"Discoveries are made to be copied," she said. "It is the
greatest of compliments.''
Despite its enlarged influence, couture's standing as a vibrant cultural presence is on the wane. Splendid as the creations at the Metropolitan are, they are locked away as works of art, and hand-created couture may seem a wasteful anachronism in 1996. Although it flourished in past years, the appeal was always emotional rather than pragmatic, observes the Costume Institute's Martin: "It was about a will for luxury at a time when everyone could be provided with ready-to-wear.'' Couture's survival into the 21st century may be economically precarious, but to judge this small world of fantasy and craft as unnecessary is to deny an ideal of beauty in dress that can transcend even glass walls.
courtesy of time.com
