In His Own Fashion

by Vita Amory

Cyprian DeSol was a household name. Which was remarkable, because few households could afford anything that had his name on.

Only those already covered financially wore Modes DeSol; only women already reeking of wealth smelled also of Parfums DeSol; Baggages DeSol were carried only by those who never carried anything; and, to the purchasers of Montres DeSol, time really was money.

Then there were DeSol's famous 'special editions', such the great niello-and-silver sundials "Soleil-en-Sol": so expensive that not one was installed out of doors (for security reasons), which seemed a pity, because—at the longitude of Paris—they worked quite well.

And they sold very well: like all the rest.

DeSol was an international name. A city without an emporium bearing the orb-and-pine-cone logo ("The Sign which is Fashion") cut into its plate-glass windows could hardly call itself a city. But few had to: from Aachen to Zürich, from Tromsø to Tierra del Fuego, the DeSol logo was everywhere. DeSol had moved into Capetown with Mandela, into Danzig with Walesa; and into a building in Dresden before the Stasi had moved out (or so they said: and the same people would tell you that there was a prime site waiting in Pyongyang).

DeSol was a dynasty. An empire that seemed to last forever.

And then one day there was a rumour. DeSol was not, after all, going to last for ever. He had an unstoppable disease of the blood and was about to die. Soon. Reporters camped outside his château in Evreux, television crews held interviews with one another at its gates, and helicopters buzzed pointlessly over its turrets.

But no one saw DeSol.

Then another rumour started. An extraordinary rumour. That DeSol was not dying at all, but that (despite the noise of the helicopters) he was working night and day behind the drawn curtains of his château...

...on something New.

Something that would turn the fashion world upside-down. Not just something slightly New: that burgundy was out and French Navy was in, or that next season jackets would have two vents rather than one. Not just something surprisingly New: that tangerine would be worn with violet, or that jackets would have five vents. Nor even something bizarrely New: that jackets would have a hundred vents, or that black was out....

No. This was something really, really New. Something as important as trousers for men, high heels for women.

What could it be? What could be really, really New? High heels for men and trousers for women? How jaded we are: that would hardly be original.

The fashion magazines resurrected twenty-five years of DeSol's fabulous shows. Surely everything had been done already? Every colour, from basic blue to plasma pink, from daffodil yellow to Hooker's green (a sophisticated shade, which hookers never wear) had already made its splash on the catwalks; every material had been pressed into service, from tulle and bombazine to industrial coatings fresh from the labs of Merck and Du Pont, applied by spray and barely removable afterwards.

And as for shapes and cuts.... What geometric figure, what line, angle, curve or drape could possibly be left? Bias-cut, ruched, pleated, shirred; faced, edged, relieved, lined, interlined, lined and slashed; long, short, long-on-the-left and short-on-the-right, short-in-front and long behind; and vice versa, contrariwise and widdershins.... Everything had been done.

Nor could the absence of covering generate any heat. For ten years at least, models had provided a living endorsement of van de Rohe. Topless, bottomless, backless, frontless and sideless women had all strutted with hardly any stuff at all; and men too (as far as the law allowed).

Sandals, stilettos, platforms, stilts; bangles, bracelets, tiaras, crowns, helmets, scarves, muffs; boleros, jerkins, capes, short coats, long coats, trenchcoats; trains with pageboys attached. Jackets with angel-wings and hats with rotating propellors. Surely everything had been tried?

And, as they ran their multi-part retrospectives, the fashion editors at first pooh-poohed the New thing (although respectfully).

Certainly (it was argued) you might make subtle changes: half an inch here, some contrasting piping there. It was happening all the time: that was fashion. Or you could combine things in unusual ways: picture hats with pinstripes, corsets over plus-fours. And who better to do it than DeSol? But even for him, there could be nothing really, really New.

However, it is difficult to prove that a thing cannot be done. Someone (fed up with the draught) must have invented trousers. Some lucky girl got to try out the first pair of high heels; some lucky man approved of her wobbles and the rest was history.... Indeed, it really was history: Caesar had been attracted by Cleopatra wearing heels, and repelled by the Gauls wearing trousers (although both Cleopatra and the Gauls were undone in the end, of course). But that still didn't prove that there couldn't be something fundamentally New. Now. Surely there can be progress?

DeSol was progress personified. DeSol would show that the end of fashion history was still to come.

Gradually, the fashion magazines talked themselves round. The weeklies followed. Then the broadsheets. One fashion page became two; two became four; four became eight. Articles came forth and multiplied. Supplements spawned. Even the editorials (written by men so badly dressed that DeSol wouldn't have employed them as gardeners) cut into the fray.

The columnists - and everyone else - knew what this forthcoming fashion revolution had to do (that is, be really, really New), but what could it be? Bustles for men? Cocked hats for women? Chadors for everyone? Television programmes showed us what all these would look like... and more.

Even the specialist press had a field day. Motoring magazines toyed with accessories which would do for cars what spurs did to horses. Horsey magazines reviewed equestrian contributions to fashion—from Godiva to Jorrocks—and provoked uproar (amongst their readership) with the outrageous prediction that DeSol had invented a two-tone riding hat. Less aristocratic sports magazines made even more colourful suggestions (although they mostly involved Spandex and were rather predictable). And, on the fringe: roller-boots, pogo-sticks, unicycles, penny-farthings; hundreds of hobbyhorses galloping over acres of newsprint.

Then, when all this uproar was at its height, some hard news broke: Cyprian DeSol was not dying. He was already dead.

He had been dead for weeks (and the authorities squared in a way that cannot be dealt with here, for fear of reprisals). There would be no revelation, nothing to secure the ascendancy of the twentieth century in fashion history.

That is, nothing else.

That day, papers across the world carried a full-page advertisement. It was the famous DeSol orb-and-pine-cone logo, intaglioed out of solid black. From Aachen to Zürich, from Tromsø to Tierra del Fuego, you couldn't open a paper without getting your hands covered in ink.

And, in every paper, the DeSol sign (which is Fashion) was printed the wrong way up.

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