Even top designers are forced to fight the effects of an unstable
economy, but the sparks really fly when egos are bruised. Anne Simpson
reports from Milan on the style wars
IT IS nettled ego time in the fashion palazzos of Milan. Already
unnerved by the wild highs and lows of international currency, Italy's
designer kings have become more possessive than ever of their pampered
clienteles.
Just about a year ago the trade war between the big guns of style
intensified when the musician Eric Clapton defected from Versace to
Armani, claiming that he had outgrown Gianni's exuberant look. ''I
appreciate what he does, but I think his clothes are more for the
Southern Italian male or Sylvester Stallone,'' Clapton remarked to the
New York fashion press.
With that explanation out in the open Armani did not need to say a
word, but Versace -- who has practically cornered the rock star market
by kitting out Sting, Elton John and David Bowie -- retorted that
dressed by Giorgio, Clapton now ''looked like an accountant''. This
week, as the latest bout of Italian ready to wear collections
progresses, not even the fragrant vapours that drift around these events
can disguise the underlying whiff of furious rivalry.
The fact is the recession is badly bruising la moda, just as it is
inflicting nasty blows on fashion everywhere else. Some of those
retailers and manufacturers who so conspicuously stayed away from last
week's London shows have at least made it to Milan, but up to now the
buying has been sluggish and overall numbers are down. In effect this
means that too many designers are chasing too little business. Not even
the rich can be entirely trusted to spoil themselves with purchases
these days.
But if fashion is a barometer of the European economy then it is going
to require something far more creative than the present passion for
flea-market quaintness to set factory looms working overtime again. So,
even at the highest level naked aggression lies beneath the most
influential clothes. Some of the feuds, of course, have been going on
for years. It has long been noticed, for instance, that when the Versace
and Armani squads accidentally find themselves sharing a Milanese
restaurant, the atmosphere becomes laced with hostile unease.
The problem is Versace and Armani are polar opposites in temperament
and style, yet each sees himself as the emperor of Italian fashion. In
Armani's book anything that is exaggerated is a travesty of glamour, and
in the past when he has railed against those who turn fashion into ''a
porno show'' of bondage garments, no one in the business has been
confused about his target.
For Armani the art of seduction thrives on subtlety, a look which is
chaste without being prim, mannish without being masculine. But for
Gianni Versace, the fiery Calabrian, sensuality is often a matter of
brilliant bedlam and flagrant lust. He describes Armani as a sad,
unhappy figure, a ''beige'' individual who makes women look like men.
Nevertheless he is anxious to play down the tantrum factor, describing
it now as the bore of the year, and insisting that: ''It is so passe to
feel threatened.''
That's as maybe. Later this month, when Hollywood assembles for the
Oscars ceremony, designers will once again quiver with agitation over
who dresses the most Academy Awards. Look what happened last year when
Elizabeth Taylor wore a Valentino tunic to the occasion. Versace
allegedly remarked that the star appeared like Poppaea Nero's wife,
adding that when Taylor wore his jeans and jacket at the homage to
Freddy Mercury she ''looked much cuter''.
Blood up, Giancarlo Giammetti, Valentino's spokesman, revelled in
counter-attack: ''Ms Taylor is not easy to dress,'' he told reporters
ignobly, adding: ''But she looks better as a woman than a cowboy.''
Although it continues every season the unseemly hustle for celebrities
is often self-defeating. Even if a star looks breathtaking in a
particular designer's outfit, the focus tends to be on her, not on the
clothes.
SO IN the end a dazzling name is a distraction from design. Giammetti
considers that Dolce and Gabbana were foolish to invite Madonna to a
previous show and even more mistaken when they threw a party in her
honour on the night the Emporio Armani collection hit the catwalk. As a
result all the publicity centred on the blonde with the upstart bosom.
Gianfranco Ferre stands apart from all this stramash, a man whose
physical appearance seems pleasantly at odds with the edgy universe he
inhabits: Ferre possesses that benign corpulence which is more the
hallmark of a great chef than a great couturier.
Just occasionally, however, his simmering irritation with his Milanese
brothers goes on the boil: ''These rows are debilitating for Italian
fashion,'' he says, ''leaving the impression that one designer is
ridiculously afraid of the other's power.''
But in the end it may just be the same old petulant trick of feigning
rage to seek attention. And, of course, it never fails because within
fashion's profligate domain there is little that thrills the acolytes
quite so much as spinning rumour and gossip about the opposition;
planting perfumed mischief in the ear of a world gone whacko over
clothes.
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