Happy birthday, Coco.
A mere 125 years ago today, in a small corner of the Loire Valley, Coco Chanel was born. She is famous and infamous for many things, including handbags, perfume, pearls, and (alleged) lesbianism. Generally speaking, I don’t partake of such highbrow folderol; what I enjoy most about Chanel are the many tales of her strong, distinct character. Among the best is this brief anecdote from the late, great editrix, fashion icon, and Kabuki fan, Diana Vreeland:
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One night, Coco was going to stay in New York on her way to Paris from Hawaii. I said, “Would you like to come for dinner on your way through?” She said, “No, no, no. Too strenuous. I’m too tired. I’m too bored! I can’t wait to get back to Paris.” Then there was a phone call saying, “Mademoiselle would love to come for dinner if she doesn’t have to talk.” I said there would be only four of us; she didn’t even have to come to the table–but I would so love to see her. She didn’t often come to this country; I think she came three times in all. In those days, the French seldom crossed the Atlantic. I have no idea why the French complain about travel. Of course, they complain about everything…including France.
So Coco came with a very charming man, French, she’d been traveling with. She sat exactly where you are, crossed her legs, and started to talk. Dinner was announced; she came to the table; she ate everything in sight. She never stopped talking. In the middle of dinner, she asked: “Couldn’t we send a message to Helena?”–meaning Helena Rubenstein. Did you ever see any pictures of her? Marvelous looking. Polish Jewess of splendor. Splendor! So I telephoned Helena and said, “If you don’t mind coming after dinner, we’re half through, but Coco wants to see you.”
She arrived. It was summer, and Coco had on a little white quilted satin tailleur, skirt, below the knee, but short, a white ribbon and a gardenia in her hair, and a white lace shirt. I have never seen anybody look as delectable, as adorable. What age was she then? She died at eighty-eight. What difference did it make? Helena Rubenstein was in a very distinguished coat to the ground. By “distinguished” I mean the buttonholes and the loops were so beautiful; the collar was really high; the coat was bright shocking-pink Chinese silk. The two women stood facing each other. Then they went back to Reed’s room. After a while, I went back to see if they were all right. I thought perhaps they had a suicide pact! They hadn’t moved. Helena said, “I only like your husband’s room. I love it here.” The two of them stayed in there the rest of the evening talking about God knows what. I went in from time to time to check up on them. They never sat down. They stood–like men–and talked for four hours. I’d never been in the presence of such strength of personality. Both of them. Neither of them was a real beauty. They both came from nothing. They both were so much richer than most of the men we talk about today being rich. They’d done it all alone. Of course, there’d been men in their lives who had helped them, but they earned every cent they made. You ask if they were happy. That is not a characteristic of a European. To be contented–that’s for the cows. But I think that they were, at least when they were in power, at the wheel, and when they were running everything. And they did–these two women ruled empires.
–from D.V. by Diana Vreeland (which you seriously have to read)
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Happy birthday, Coco. (And Bill Clinton. And Tipper Gore. And Bryan Block. And Robert Spark. And Melissa Bergeron. And Flynn De Marco.) I’ll knock back a French 76 on your behalf.
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