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Buying clothes has never been a simple pleasure. In recent times we’ve grown familiar with the concept of the ‘brand experience’ – but more than a century ago retailers understood that they had to make shopping an adventure. In his book Au Bonheur des Dames (The Ladies’ Paradise) Emile Zola presents a lightly fictionalized version of the Bon Marché department store in Paris, which he describes as ‘devoted to consumerism’. The store’s roguish manager, Octave Mouret, unhesitatingly equates shopping with lust. The sight of women scrabbling to get a look at the latest silks leaves him breathless: ‘[They] paled with desire and leaned over as if to see themselves, secretly fearing they would be captivated by such overwhelming luxury and unable to resist the urge to throw themselves in.’ In another scene, he catches one of his salesmen laying out swatches of silk in harmonious gradations of colour, blue next to grey. Mouret pounces on the man, exhorting him to ‘blind them!’ with red, green and yellow. Zola portrays his hero as the best étalagiste – display artist – in the whole of Paris. The year is 1888. Many of the earliest department stores are still open for business today. The Bon Marché, which opened in 1853, is generally accepted to have been the first. Its owner, Aristide Boucicaut – the model for Zola’s central character – was a retail pioneer and marketing visionary. At the beginning of the 19th century, French shopkeepers were still mired in a positively medieval system. Historically, access to trades and professions had been regulated by a system of unions. Traders were required to specialize in a single product or service and could not, legally, branch out into other markets. Firms were passed from father to son, and business was done with regular customers on a one-to-one basis, often by appointment. Clients rarely ventured beyond their local vendors. Prices were not displayed, and bargaining was expected. This meant there was little need for advertising, window displays, or any other form of visual merchandizing.
The system was scrapped in 1790, but for more than 30 years traders stuck tenaciously to the traditional structure. It was only in the 1820s that a new type of boutique, called a magasin des nouveautés, began to appear. Grouping textiles, parasols and other items under one roof, these small shops developed revolutionary techniques like tempting window displays, clearly marked prices and the division of merchandise into aisles. It was in one of these stores that Aristide Boucicaut started his career in 1830. Some 20 years later, he formed a partnership with one Paul Videau to run a more prestigious concern. Located at the corner of Rue de Sèvres and Rue du Bac, it was called Le Bon Marché, or ‘The Good Deal’. Thanks to Boucicaut’s innovations, notably discounting and the rapid rotation of stock, in a few years its profits rose from 450,000 French francs to more than 7 million. At that point, Boucicaut bought out his partner and embarked on an ambition expansion plan. Boucicaut’s idea was to create not merely a ‘shop of novelties’, but a shopping emporium. He brought in none other than Gustave Eiffel to help him build his dream. Eiffel was an expert in manipulating iron and glass, which meant he could construct the huge display windows and open shopping spaces that Boucicaut had in mind. The new, improved Bon Marché store opened in 1870. It was a veritable cathedral of commerce, with light pouring through lofty skylights and departments accessed by swirling staircases. The structure covered 52,800 square metres and eventually employed 3,000 people. The techniques that Boucicaut used to ensnare customers were astonishing in their modernity:
home delivery, reimbursement, seasonal sales, illustrated catalogues and commission for sales staff were just some of the advances he brought to the retail business.
Of course, Le Bon Marché was not alone. In the cities of Europe and America, economic growth driven by industrialization was creating an eager market of consumers, and giant stores were springing up to serve them. In 1862, AT Stewart opened New York’s first department store, straddling an entire city block at Ninth Street and Broadway. Macy’s –originally a smallish haberdashery – expanded in the 1900s to become the world’s largest department store. In 1851 William Whiteley opened a small shop in the unfashionable Bayswater quarter of London. As his business grew, he acquired the shops around it, becoming one of the city’s most successful entrepreneurs. Whiteley was murdered in 1907 by a man who claimed to be his illegitimate son. The department store that bore his name – today a shopping mall – opened in 1912. Six years earlier, an American entrepreneur called Harry Gordon Selfridge had opened his eponymous store in London. Just around the corner, in Regent Street, Liberty was closer in ambience and clientele to today’s Asprey; opened by Arthur Lasenby Liberty in 1875, it catered to a craze for fabric and objets d’art from the Orient. Like Whitely, Liberty gradually acquired neighbouring properties, and his emporium soon became London’s most fashionable shopping venue. For decades, the department store remained an appealing ‘destination’, reflecting Gordon Selfridge’s foresighted philosophy that shopping should be a form of entertainment. Unfortunately, though, the stream of innovations that had originally lured customers into the stores began to dry up, and eventually trickled into nothingness. A century after their creation, the giants began to seem more like dinosaurs. Certainly, they would have looked familiar to Boucicaut and Selfridge. While bright, spirited chain stores such as Topshop began taking cues from high fashion, department stores were bogged down with dull ownbrands and risk-averse buying.
Selfridges was one of the first to break out of the time bubble. It commenced a five-year overhaul in 1994, pulling in a host of cuttingedge brands and refiguring the store to target young, upmarket shoppers. Now it is described as ‘creating lifestyle trends and offering a rather fun and slightly bonkers experience to its consumers’. (‘The Cool Guide’, The Independent, 30 October 2004.) At the time of writing, Harrods –one of the dustiest of the lot – had just hired Susanne Tide-Frater, who previously helped to transform Selfridges, as its creative director, and engaged advertising agency M&C Saatchi to brush the cobwebs from its image. It was pipped at the post by the John Lewis Group, which recently unveiled a £100 million renovation of its flagship Peter Jones store in Sloane Square. On the other side of the Channel, the venerable Galeries Lafayette has opened a far-from-bargain basement space targeting 12-to-25-year-olds. Called Version Originale, it features graffiticovered walls, live DJ sessions, a nail bar, a vintage section and a café. The young, good-looking sales assistants present a sharp contrast to the stern femmes d’un certain age who still preside over the tills upstairs. One UK name that has been linked with fashion since the 1990s is Harvey Nichols, which as well as its Knightsbridge flagship has stores in Birmingham, Leeds, Manchester and Edinburgh. Affectionately known as ‘Harvey Nicks’, championed by the shopping- and Champagne-addicted Edwina and Patsy in the cult sitcom Absolutely Fabulous, the store, notes The Independent, ‘doesn’t sell washing machines or have a self-service cafeteria; 80 per cent of its stock consists of the best fashion from the best designers the world has to offer’. It is also one of the few department stores to back up its positioning with a genuinely striking print advertising campaign, which in recent seasons has resembled a collision between a model’s tear-sheet and a Hieronymous Bosch painting.
Benjamin Harvey opened his linen shop in a terraced house on the corner of London’s Knightsbridge and Sloane Street in 1813. In 1820, the business passed into the hands of his daughter, who went into partnership with a certain Colonel Nichols to sell oriental carpets, silks and luxury goods. The existing Knightsbridge store was opened in the 1880s. Today, the group is owned by Hong Kong-based retail entrepreneur Dickson Poon (www.harveynichols.com).
With its award-winning window displays and tempting array of designer brands, Harvey Nichols is an ideal place to examine the interplay between a department store and its customers.

In London’s New Bond Street, on a chilly November afternoon, the recently re-opened Asprey store is dressed for Christmas. Thousands of fairy-lights twinkle enticingly around its windows, and in the central atrium a splendid Christmas tree (could it actually be in British Racing Green?) soars almost to the ceiling. But there is nothing tacky about the festive décor, because, along with pine and the aroma of scented candles, Asprey exudes class.
‘Good afternoon, sir, can I help you?’ enquires a smartly suited doorman, seconds after I’ve stepped into the fragrant trap. I reply that I am just browsing, thank you, and he discreetly retires with a faint sketch of a bow, as if he is my brand-new butler. Asprey has been selling luxury goods and jewellery from these premises since 1847, but in past decades it is unlikely that anybody with an eye for fashion would have paid it a visit. All that changed in May 2004, when Asprey’s new owners, investors Laurence Stroll and Silas Chou, re-opened the store after a two-year, £50-million refit. The pair had acquired Asprey & Garrard from Brunei royalty in 2000. Asprey was known for selling prestigious but hardly pulse-quickening items such as silver and leather goods, watches, porcelain, crystal, rare books and gems. But Stroll and Chou promised to turn it into ‘the ultimate British luxury lifestyle house’ – Louis Vuitton with an English accent.
When the refurbished Asprey threw open its doors, it was backed by an advertising campaign featuring the British actress Keira Knightley and styled by New York-based art director Fabien Baron. On display in the store, alongside an extravagant array of baubles and accessories, there was a line of ready-to-wear designed by Hussein Chalayan. Now that Asprey has had a chance to settle in to its spiffy new image, it’s clear that the space itself is the star of the show. Before the revamp, the store was a stuffy warren formed by five 18th-century townhouses clustered around a concealed courtyard. Architect Norman Foster –whose previous, rather larger, refurbishment projects include the Reichstag and the British Museum – uncovered the courtyard, sheltered it with glass, and added a grand sweeping staircase reminiscent of a luxury liner. Interior designer David Mlinari – who refurbished Spencer House, the former home of Diana, Princess of Wales, in 1990 – retained and recovered historic elements such as decorative pillars and an 18thcentury fireplace, without undermining Foster’s modernity. The 6,000-square-metre retail space feels even bigger, thanks to a mirrored wall alongside the staircase. There is an air of understated elegance that invites shoppers to linger, to wallow in the luxury. The carpets are plush underfoot; cream leather sofas beckon here and there. Various touches indicate that this is a branding concept as well as a retail one: the subtle references to the 1920s, the last period when Asprey was remotely fashionable; and, more obviously, the use of a signature hue. This colour, a purple so deep that it is almost aubergine, is seen on the banner outside the store, in the suits sported by Asprey’s doormen, and in a branded fragrance called Purple Water. ‘The store is absolutely the key to the brand,’ confirms Gianluca Brozzetti, the CEO of Asprey & Garrard Group, and former president of Louis Vuitton in Paris. ‘Customers today expect shopping to be a brand experience. As they move from store to store, they move from atmosphere to atmosphere. And Asprey has an atmosphere that is absolutely unique. Where else in London can you have a bespoke item created for you by a team of craftsmen based under the roof of the same building? It is the perfect combination of ancient and modern. Many brands today try to create a patina of history. But such a patina is not made – it is acquired.’
Surveyed from the staircase, the store definitely has a nostalgic, other-worldly atmosphere. Asprey is, in effect, a luxury department store. Perhaps, long ago, they were all like this.

A few weeks after my encounter with Jean-Paul Gaultier, I am hurrying down a street in the centre of an unexpectedly hot London, perspiring heavily and late for an exclusive interview with one of the city’s favourite designers. The Gaultier event was a crowded affair, where I was one of dozens of journalists. But Matthew Williamson and his business partner Joseph Velosa have agreed to put some time aside specifically for me and my book.
Williamson burst on to the scene, as they say, during London Fashion Week in 1997. His debut collection was modelled by, among others, Kate Moss, Helena Christensen and Jade Jagger. Not bad for a start, and the press couldn’t fail to notice. The show made front pages in the UK and Williamson was soon being fêted not only by the UK edition of Vogue – which had known about him for some time, as we’ll see later – but by glossies all over the world.

These days Williamson shows in New York. His clothes are stocked in more than 100 stores worldwide, and he has his own shop in London’s Mayfair. A celebrity magnet, his designs have been worn by Madonna, Sarah Jessica Parker, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kirsten Dunst and Nicole Kidman. He is, perhaps, Britain’s most unashamedly commercial designer.
Williamson’s business is located in a beautiful townhouse in a street off Tottenham Court Road. It is colourful and cluttered and very neo-Bloomsbury; and the first thing I do on entering is almost trip over a small dog. ‘You’ve met Coco, then?’ says the receptionist, when the shiny-eyed spaniel follows me into her office. A few moments later, I climb the stairs to what seems like the top of the house, getting glimpses of people working in warren-like spaces; a PC here, a pile of drawings there. The walls are painted in warm, rich shades that recall Morocco or India – locations that have inspired Williamson’s designs. Joseph Velosa – a dark-haired young man with a calm, measured voice – shows me into a bright and spacious office. My eye is drawn to the colourful illustrations tacked to the far wall – Williamson’s spring/summer 2005 collection, which he’ll be showing in New York in September. Velosa and Williamson met when the designer was still at Saint Martin’s. At the time Velosa was doing a philosophy degree – something that sits oddly with his obvious talent for marketing. Mutual attraction evolved naturally into a partnership, with Velosa taking care of the strategic side while Williamson concentrated on designing and giving the brand a public face. But the delineation between the two is much less strict than it appears, as Williamson is quick to point out. ‘It’s always presented as though [Joseph] is poring over bank statements while I’m mincing around with a pencil,’ jokes the designer, whose faint Manchester accent gives him a sardonic, self-deprecating air. ‘In fact I love the business side – and Joseph is very creative.’
The arrangement is not without precedents. Perhaps the most obvious comparison is the partnership between Pierre Bergé and Yves Saint Laurent. Partners in life as well as in business, they founded their company in 1961, with Bergé as managing director – the same position occupied by Velosa. The museum in Paris devoted to Saint Laurent’s work is called the Fondation Pierre Bergé/Yves Saint Laurent. Williamson is slight and energetic, and the rakish beard he has adopted can’t conceal a certain boyish quality. This should not be confused with lack of seriousness or ambition, however. He is one of those rare people with a vocation: ‘I always knew what I wanted to do. Even at the age of 11 or 12 I knew that I wanted to be involved in art or design; and shortly after that I realized it was fashion I was really interested in. It was instinctive, somehow. I’d been good at art all the way through school, and I was interested in clothes. I was always sketching. By the time I applied for a foundation course at Manchester Polytechnic, the woman there took one look at my portfolio and told me it would be a waste of time: I should apply directly to Central Saint Martin’s.’
He did so – and was accepted after his first interview. ‘I didn’t think I had the slightest chance of getting in, so I must have come over as rather blasé,’ he recalls, smiling. ‘They misconstrued what was actually nervousness as coolness and confidence.’
He studied fashion design for four years, specializing in textiles and print. But life at the famous college – whose alumni include John Galliano, Alexander McQueen and Stella McCartney – was not to Williamson’s liking. In fact, he’s one of the few designers to have spoken out against the school: ‘It has a phenomenal reputation, but I didn’t really fit in there. They’re not interested in the business side of fashion. I had the feeling you were left to sink or swim. And either you flourish and become fabulous, or you don’t. I was a bit of a black sheep because I was the antithesis of what they try to promote. They’re interested in fashion as art. So while I was trying to design clothes that somebody might actually want to wear, my fellow students were doing things like going to mental institutions to seek inspiration. It wasn’t the greatest period of my life.’
After leaving Saint Martin’s, Williamson went to work at Monsoon, the ethnically inspired chain store. He was there for two years as a freelance designer, dealing largely with the accessories division. ‘After Saint Martin’s it was an incredible release. I was doing my own thing,

I was gaining experience. . . Part of my job was to go to India at least twice a year, but usually three or four times. I learned a lot through, firstly, working for a massive company – because even though it’s high street, the same principles apply – and, secondly, the travelling. The trips to India were inspirational, but they also provided the first sign of a resource. Before that, I had no idea how to go about sourcing fabric.’ After two years at Monsoon, Williamson associated with two suppliers in India and started his own label. ‘At first I just made scarves, because I was still too scared to make clothes. I wanted to get some publicity, so I opened a copy of British Vogue and scanned the editorial page. I thought going straight for the editor might be a bit overambitious, so I chose a writer called Plum Sykes, because I liked her name.’ He laughs at the naivety, which, at the beginning of his career, turned out to be his greatest asset. ‘I sent her a letter with a scarf. She was impressed by that and invited me in to the Vogue offices. So I took a box full of scarves and swatches and a few trinkets, and suddenly I had about 20 women around me, all screaming, telling me that they loved this stuff and that I had to make dresses for them all. That was my first order. I went home to Joseph in a state of shock – and told him I’d have to make some clothes. Joseph became involved organically from that moment on.’
Vogue told Williamson that if he could come up with some clothes and sell them to a boutique, they’d run a full-page piece on him. Velosa recalls, ‘He came home saying something like “I’ve got what I wanted – now what do I do?” So we sat down and worked out how much it was going to cost to produce the garments, what the mark-up needed to be in order to make it worth our while. . . and before we knew it we’d created this cottage industry.’
On Vogue’s advice, the pair trotted along to a Knightsbridge store called A La Mode. Although at that point Williamson had made only two dresses, the buyer immediately placed an order for several dozen pieces. Williamson says, ‘I was overwhelmed, but Joseph reckoned that if we could get into A La Mode, we could get into [the temple to style on London’s South Molton Street] Brown’s. So we went around the corner to Brown’s and got another order for 50 to 100 pieces. By then we were getting very excited with ourselves, so we started thinking about Barney’s in New York and Colette in Paris.’
Fired up with enthusiasm, they got on a plane to India and started the production process. Velosa says the anecdote is illustrative of fashion’s insatiable hunger for novelty: ‘It shows you how little you really need to do in order to impregnate the market. As it’s based on change, fashion is inevitably attracted to anything new. Clearly, Plum [Sykes] saw something in Matthew’s work that appealed to her, but I don’t think there is any other industry that is so accepting of this kind of approach. As you go on, of course, you realize that, while there’s a certain amount of tolerance for new talent, it’s actually quite a conservative industry, with almost scientifically defined parameters.’ In this respect, Williamson’s overnight success has a perfectly logical explanation. Velosa elucidates: ‘It’s known as “confetti buying” or “confetti press”. Whether you are a buyer at Barney’s or the editor of a fashion magazine, it’s the same principle. You have to dedicate 80 per cent of your floor space to your mega-brands, or 80 per cent of your editorial to your biggest advertisers. So you’re left with 20 per cent of what’s called “confetti” – the fun, new and innovative stuff that you sprinkle around to make your store or your magazine look fresh and interesting.’
The problems start when you want to hang around for a while. Velosa says that the British fashion scene, in particular, is extremely fickle; the latest big thing can turn into yesterday’s news in the blink of an eye. ‘Sooner or later you realize that, like any other industry, fashion is controlled by money. If you have money, you have advertising muscle, so you can control your editorial presence, which then affects how the customer perceives you, which in turn maintains the buyers’ interest in your label.’
For the same reason, the label no longer shows during London Fashion Week. Velosa explains that New York was chosen because the Paris and Milan collections are dominated ‘by huge advertising brands and heritage brands’. ‘With the heavyweights controlling everything, it’s almost impossible to get a good slot in the schedule – and if you don’t, you’re immediately regarded as b-list. New York is less crowded, so you can get a decent slot, yet everyone goes there. London Fashion Week is known as exciting and innovative, but it’s also seen as a distraction. Because young designers receive little support in the UK beyond an initial burst of enthusiasm, few of them make it to an international level. So London has come to be seen as interesting, but not serious.’
Matthew Williamson has survived by adopting smart marketing tactics that have not, by and large, required a great deal of outlay. Most importantly, he has used his natural charm and his ability to attract supporters, mainly in the shape of beautiful young women. The first in a long line was Jade Jagger, whose papa is a Rolling Stone but who, as a jewellery designer, is these days better known for gemstones. After modelling a neon-pink Matthew Williamson dress for society mag Tatler, she contacted him to find out where she could get her hands on another one. Velosa, who answered the phone, told her very innocently how much it would cost her. He recalls his partner’s reaction: ‘When I told Matthew, he said, “Are you crazy? She needs to be wearing it! And we should give her some others too.” So he arranged to see her and they had what I can only describe as a meeting of minds.’ Williamson admits that he saw the potential of the relationship – but he stresses that all his celebrity links are driven by genuine admiration. ‘I am inspired by people who have a certain sense of style and way of life. So I’ve built this little. . . collective, if you like. But it’s always a creative relationship. When I met Jade there was a spark creatively – we loved each other’s work and we were drawn to the same things.’ By the time Helena Christensen, who had seen the same dress in Tatler, called up, Velosa had got wise to the strategy: ‘I asked her whether, in exchange for a few free frocks, she’d agree to model them for us.’ Another key member of the coterie is Bay Garnett, who styles Williamson’s shows. Actress Sienna Miller is also a fan. Williamson adds, ‘Socializing with these girls and delving into what they’re thinking has been crucial, because obviously as a guy doing womenswear you need to get some insight and feedback. But it doesn’t have to be famous women – it can just as easily be my mum or my sister.’ Away from his limelight-grabbing celebrity links, Williamson has embarked on a number of business collaborations designed to raise sponsorship cash and generate PR coverage. These have included a limited-edition bottle design for Coca-Cola, a range of rugs for The Rug Company and exclusive stationery for Smythson of Bond Street, as well as a line of Williamson-designed clothes for department store Debenhams.
Williamson and Velosa maintain strict control of the brand’s image, and have no desire to go on a Cardin-style licensing spree – but, at the same time, they clearly envisage a future filled with Matthew Williamson sunglasses, shoes, bags and other accessories. The store already sells scented candles, and the launch of a fragrance in 2005 – backed by an international advertising campaign – indicates that the brand is on the verge of moving to the next level.
Eight years after that initial meeting at Vogue, Williamson still regularly meets up with Plum Sykes, and he works with the same two factories in India. But these days his company employs 25 people and his clothes are sold all over the world. ‘On the surface it’s still about me, but increasingly I’m a cog in the wheel,’ he says, almost apologetically. ‘Joseph always says the things we produce are at their best and most pure when they come directly from me, so I realize that I have to remain heavily involved in the design process. But as the business grows, my job becomes more fractured and I have to deal with a number of other things. It’s overly romantic to think that I sit around designing 24/7. And I’m not sure I’d want to, because developing the business is important to me. I’m a businessman.’
He’s certainly down-to-earth (although he claims to have a more exaggerated ‘fashion’ persona that he can wheel out when required). Williamson says he’s not an intellectual designer ‘intent on changing the way we dress’. He designs for women who want to look sexy and of the moment – and that’s it. ‘I don’t think fashion is theatre, so my clothes aren’t costume or avant-garde. A critic might say that they don’t have any content other than being whimsical, feminine and decorative. But I don’t have an issue with that. I think you have to find out what you’re good at and then do it to the best of your ability.’ Nor does he pay much attention to the vagaries of fashion. Like most designers at his level, Williamson is intent on creating his own style: ‘I don’t follow trends. If anything, I think it’s my job to create trends.’ So how big could the Matthew Williamson brand be? Does he want to be a Gucci, or a Prada? He shakes his head. ‘I think we’re niche. But you can be niche and global at the same time. I’m particularly thinking of Missoni, Chloé, Pucci and Marni. Those four labels are international fashion brands, but they’re not necessarily household names. And that’s where I think our future lies, when I’m at my most optimistic.’ For now there’s the shop, and the perfume. The store in Bruton Street is a strutting peacock of an establishment, embracing all the elements of the Williamson brand: colour, glamour, ethnicity, and even an unexpected Arts and Crafts sensibility. Needless to say, it sent interiors magazines into ecstasies of delight.
According to Velosa, ‘The store is the cornerstone of why we’re here today – how we can even discuss the future. We weren’t an advertising brand; we were a small British designer brand struggling to break through to an international market. We thought about ways that we could stand out, and we realized we had to compete with the likes of Stella McCartney and Alexander McQueen. Even though their stores are backed by the Gucci organization, we knew we had to come in at the same level, at least in terms of perception. It was no good fading into the background with a little boutique in Notting Hill. So we raised the money through the Debenhams venture, and by re-mortgaging our own properties.’
It was a risky venture that appears to have paid off – at the time of our interview, Velosa says takings are six times higher than predicted. The formula will shortly be replicated in New York. ‘It’s unprecedented in that we’ve been able to open a retail operation without the backing of a major conglomerate, and yet be seen as almost as powerful as our neighbours. [Stella McCartney’s store is two doors down on Bruton Street.] It also provides a fantastic expression of the brand and an invaluable contact with consumers.’
He points out that the fragrance works on a similar, but micro, level. ‘You literally have to condense everything you stand for into a box. I think you’ve got a very successful brand if you can do that.’ Williamson describes creating his fragrance as ‘one of the most satisfying projects I’ve ever worked on’. ‘The man who was responsible for the bottle design was a very chic, elegant character from Paris. He sat opposite me and said almost nothing as I struggled to explain my point of view and where I was coming from. I’d cobbled together a few. . . odds and ends, for want of a better expression: a tea-cup; a Venetian mirror; various objects that had inspired me over the years. And he nodded and went away, and I said to Joseph, “That was probably the worst meeting of my life.”’
Three months later, the bottle designer reappeared. This time he donned white gloves and placed eight black velvet pouches on the table. ‘I opened the first one, and it was, “Oh my God!” The next one was the same. In the end, I loved all of them. The guy had not only listened to every word I’d said, but he’d perfectly interpreted my ideas.’ The fragrance launch was supported by the brand’s first print advertising campaign, created by the agency M&C Saatchi. But Williamson is keen to emphasize that his approach has not changed. As he underlines, ‘I’ve overseen every detail, from start to finish. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. After all, with each product area you go into, you’re still trying to express your personal vision. However big your company ultimately becomes, it’s vital you keep control over that.’

Jean-Paul Gaultier was one of the first fashion designers to cross over into the realm of the pop star. Indeed, back in 1989, he actually made a record – How To Do That (‘Ow To Do Zat’). His boundless energy and inventiveness have always appealed to the media and the public alike. The press has only just managed to stop calling him an enfant terrible (it had become a tradition to use the term in every article about him). But Gaultier is also a businessman, having created an array of subbrands, fragrances and – in his latest coup de théâtre – a range of cosmetics for men. His company employs around 175 people and Hermès has a 35 per cent stake in it. In 2003 it announced its first loss for 12 years – blamed on the economic downturn and Gaultier’s costly move into haute couture – but it expected to break even in 2005 after a restructure. (‘Gaultier fashion house plans restructuring’, Agence France Presse, 2 November 2004.)
All successful designers, from an icon like Gaultier to a young tyro emerging from the backstreets of New York, understand that they are running a business. Tom Ford, when he was at Gucci, took pride in it. ‘I don’t understand people who say that business and creativity aren’t compatible,’ he says in the (2001) book Visionaries, a collection of profiles by Guardian fashion writer Susannah Frankel. Ford points out that he started working in New York, where ‘if the collection you designed didn’t sell, you were fired the next day’. He goes on to explain, ‘What some fashion designers do is art and I have an incredible respect for it, but I don’t pretend to be anything other than a commercial designer and I am proud of that.’
Others have a more conflicted attitude. Miuccia Prada told the French edition of Vogue (not without a hint of irony), ‘I want to rule the world . . . I want the name Prada to be immense. But I also want to be free to create.’ Later in the piece, she explained her feelings, that ‘[the clothes] need to be fashionable. . . but also commercial. It’s there that I really suffer. Because there are three fundamental questions I must ask myself:
Do I like these clothes? Will they sell? And are they original?. . . If I try to transform [a garment] into something that’s perhaps easy to wear, it becomes banal. . . And that’s my problem. Do I make clothes that people want or clothes that I think they should wear?’ (‘Drôle de Dame’, September 2004.)
The big difference between Prada and Ford is that, by and large, Miuccia stays in the background and lets her clothes do the talking. On the other hand, during much of the time he worked at Gucci, Ford had a very public image that could not be divorced from his designs. He became fused with the Gucci brand – very successfully so. As an article in Le Figaro notes breathlessly, ‘The standard-bearer of Gucci. . . [was] Ford himself. . . The three-day beard, the impeccable suits, the white shirt open at the chest, the burning gaze: Tom Ford inspired desire in men as much as he did in women.’ (‘Quand les créateurs incarnent les marques’, 4 August 2004.)
Ford joined Gaultier on the list of designers whose fame transcends the close-knit world of fashion. Also on the roster are Alexander McQueen, Stella McCartney, Paul Smith, Marc Jacobs, Karl Lagerfeld and, of course, John Galliano; that great showman whose runway shows are renowned for their entertainment value. Galliano’s clothes are flamboyant – and so is the designer, who resembles a swashbuckling Salvador Dali.
Galliano and Ford are perfect examples of designers whose personal image has helped to transform brands. A dead or dormant brand, whose founder has passed on or ceased to be involved, often needs an identifiable figurehead to incarnate it in the eyes of consumers. The designs must be compelling, of course, but that’s only part of the job. Just as Ford became linked with Gucci, Galliano breathed new excitement into Dior when he was installed as its womenswear designer in 1996. Over a decade earlier, Lagerfeld had achieved much the same transformation at Chanel. Until certain chain stores began adopting the same strategy, a glamorous star designer – parachuted in for a huge fee, like a successful soccer player – was the main factor that separated a luxury brand from a high-street one.
These days, the process has become so familiar that it is beginning to sound formulaic. With each new appointment, we read that the incoming designer has foraged in the archives of the brand, uncovering a system of codes and values that they can use to inform their own vision. In this way they don’t reproduce the original designs, but reinterpret and remix them in order to arrive at something entirely new – while at the same time giving a respectful nod to the owner of the name they are about to inherit.
British designer Ozwald Boateng arrived in Paris to design Givenchy’s menswear collections in 2003: ‘I looked in the archives. I took inspiration from the elegance of Hubert de Givenchy. . . That’s how I discovered the emblem of the tulip, a flower that could often be seen in a vase on his desk. The polka dots that you can see in the linings of suits and hats or on pocket handkerchiefs recall the motif of his favourite ties.’ (‘Ozwald Boateng: Paris-Londres’, Le Monde, 8 October 2004.)
After being named artistic director of Kenzo Woman in September 2003, Antonio Marras ‘immersed himself in the archives of the House, discovering points of similarity with his creations, notably the taste for a métissage of cultures and styles’. (LVMH.com article, 23 February 2004.)
When Nicolas Ghesquière became head designer at Balenciaga in 1997, he was forbidden access to the archives by their imposingsounding guardian, Madame Jouve. As he recounts, ‘They must have thought I’d make poor use of them. I discovered [Balenciaga’s collections] by another means, in the museums of the United States and in Irving Penn’s images, which at the same time meant that I was not overloaded with references, didn’t end up making reproductions.’
(‘Nicolas Ghesquière sort de l’ombre’, Le Figaro, 28 September 2004.)
When a brand decides to make the most of its designer, the media is only too happy to play along with the game. After all, in the fashion press as well as in the newspapers, a people story is a good story. When the talented Antonio Marras took over at Kenzo Woman, articles appeared establishing him as the perfect embodiment of the brand’s vagabond deluxe positioning. French Vogue (November 2004) waxed lyrical, telling its readers that Marras has ‘never imagined living anywhere but Alghero, in Sardinia, where the faces of his childhood, the smile of the sea, the colours of stone, the grace of the olive trees and the games of his sons mean real life’. We heard how the designer started out working in the family fabric store. We learned that his sources of inspiration range from the Far East to South America, embracing Japan along the way. He loves art, museum and movies, particularly Visconti, Pasolini, Kubrick and Truffaut. In short, the press office of LVMH (the group that owns the Kenzo brand) could hardly have done a better job. However, on 3 March 2004, something happened that may call into question the wisdom of associating a designer too closely with a brand. The story in The Wall Street Journal Europe was headlined ‘Gucci launches makeover of its designer strategy’. Underneath, in smaller type, the sub-head read ‘No-name team to succeed fashion celebrity Tom Ford: can the brand alone sell?’
Can it indeed? At the time of writing the results were not yet in, but responses to the latest collections have been lukewarm, and Gucci certainly lacks excitement now its star designer has gone. It may be that Ford’s legacy is strong enough to keep the brand ticking over until another celebrity is recruited, or until an equally potent personality emerges from Gucci’s own ranks. (Yves Saint Laurent, Ford’s other responsibility at Gucci Group, may fare rather better. The prestigious French label never took quite as well to Ford’s hard, dark and coruscating aesthetic; its elegant new designer Stefano Pilati – who worked quietly behind the scenes during Ford’s tenure – seems to capture quite successfully the refined, classic quality of the brand.) What might happen if Galliano were to leave Dior? He’s such a thorough incarnation of the brand. And what will happen to Paul Smith, the brand, when Paul Smith, the designer, decides to retire? Mulling over this question recently, Smith said, ‘I always have a hard time thinking of myself as a brand, even though I occasionally talk about this entity called “Paul Smith”, as if it’s not my own name. I got into this business because I loved it, then woke up one day and realized I was locked into this system of marketing. I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see. The business is structured so that everything is taken care of, except my own personality.’
The star status of designers has had an unexpected corollary. When, in July 2004, the US magazine Elle Girl asked more than 1,000 adolescent readers what they thought was the coolest profession, ‘fashion designer’ came out on top – ahead of film star or musician. ‘For teenagers, fashion designers are the new rock stars,’ said the magazine’s editor, Brandon Holley. (‘The coolest profession in teen dreams: designer’, International Herald Tribune, 13 September 2004.) Adolescents are also inspired by genuine pop stars’ forays into fashion:
Beyoncé and Gwen Stefani both have clothing lines, and Kylie has her own brand of lingerie, Love Kylie.
But the showmanship of a Galliano and the insouciant elegance of a Ford put a smooth façade on an abrasive industry. As a choice of career, fashion designer makes even freelance journalist seem a responsible and financially secure way of earning a living. Despite Galliano’s acclaimed degree collection at Central Saint Martin’s College of Art, he struggled to obtain financial backing in London. Arriving in Paris, he was forced to sleep on friends’ floors while he created his next collection. It was only when Anna Wintour, the editor of US Vogue, helped him to secure backing that his career began to take off. Ford, meanwhile, worked as an assistant to two designers in New York before moving to Gucci in 1990 – where his clothes were barely noticed until a breakthrough collection in 1995.
In the same issue of the IHT that mentioned the aspiring teenagers, an article by Suzy Menkes compared two very different designers: up-andcoming Zac Posen, whose backers include Cartier and music mogul Sean ‘P. Diddy’ Combs; and Miguel Androver, a thoughtful, multicultural designer who bounded on to the stage at the end of his New York show in a T-shirt bearing the question ‘Has anyone seen a backer?’ As well as being talented, you have to be lucky, on a mission, and skilled at the art of self-promotion. Only a few have it all.

‘I don’t follow trends. It’s my job to create trends.’

A particularly well-dressed Parisian crowd packs the Fondation Cartier, a giant glass and steel art gallery designed by Jean Nouvel and created 20 years ago by Alain-Dominique Perrin, the former CEO of Cartier. That’s a lot of names in a single sentence – but the star of the show is still to come. Addressing journalists in the middle of the room is a familiar figure with peroxide blond hair and a stripy sailor’s sweater. He makes playful, self-deprecating pronouncements and booms with laughter. Even somebody with a limited interest in fashion would immediately recognize Jean-Paul Gaultier. We’re standing in the French designer’s first retrospective. But, this being a Gaultier show, something is out of kilter. The delicate aroma in the air gives it away: every dress on show is made out of bread. Actually, it would be more accurate to say that the designer has used basketwork, dough and armfuls of baguettes to make pastiches of dresses for a show called ‘Pain Couture’.
Gaultier tells the press that he shied away from the original suggestion of a straightforward retrospective, featuring real dresses on static mannequins, because ‘clothes are only interesting when they are on a body in motion’. He came up with the bread idea while recalling his childhood, when he used to go to the boulangerie and yearn to work behind the counter. ‘There are a lot of similarities between the act of sewing and the act of baking.’
Around us, willowy girls in space-age pinafores à la Gaultier proffer phallic baguettes. Downstairs, an oven installed for the duration of the exhibition turns out ‘designer’ pastries that can be consumed on the premises – a handy metaphor for the ephemeral nature of fashion. As JPG says, ‘You know, when you see a girl in a beautiful dress, you just want to eat her!’
The journalists seem to be taking the whole thing a lot more seriously than Jean-Paul himself. This is not entirely surprising, as his creativity goes hand-in-hand with a surreal sense of humour. His appearances on the vulgar-but-ironic television show Eurotrash endeared him to millions of British viewers – and, some say, upset the French fashion establishment.
But while ‘Pain Couture’ is a great deal of fun, it also does no harm to Gaultier’s image. It garners plenty of press coverage and fits right in with his brand profile, which is off-the-wall but pure Parisian. And what could be more French than a baguette?

The reception at Inditex is very big and very white. It is, in fact, a glistening expanse of white tiles, with a horseshoe-shaped reception desk way over there in the distance. The walls are pale too, and entirely picture-free. I’m later told that this minimalism is for the benefit of employees: we’re in Galicia, in grey and rainy northern Spain, and these spacious, pristine, light-deluged surroundings keep staff cheerful and motivated during the winter months.
Less than an hour ago, a taxi picked me up outside my hotel in La Coruña, the faintly raffish port that is the nearest large town. It feels a long way from cosmopolitan Barcelona or frenetic Madrid. This is the kind of place where fishing boats pull into the harbour every morning; where lunch is a slice of tortilla and a beer; where couples promenade in the square at dusk, surrounded by kids kicking footballs and observed by creased oldsters nursing coffees. The shopping district is a grid of well-preserved streets dotted with affordable boutiques, many of which belong to Inditex. One of them, in Calle Juan Flórez, is the first-ever Zara store.
It was in a shop window in La Coruña, so the story goes, that Zara founder Amancio Ortega and his fiancée saw a beautiful silk negligée with a barely believable price tag. Ortega, then working at a local shirtmaker, ran up a variation on the high-priced number. His fiancée loved it, and Señor Ortega started his own business producing glamorous but affordable nightwear. He later moved into general fashion, with the affirmed aim of bringing catwalk style to the street. He opened the first branch of Zara in 1975. Originally, the store was to be called Zorba, after the character played by Ortega’s favourite actor, Anthony Quinn, in the film Zorba the Greek. He couldn’t obtain permission to use the name, so he played with the letters until he arrived at Zara, which sounded feminine and exotic. (The name should be pronounced the Spanish way: ‘Thara’.)
The chain grew steadily throughout the 1980s, but did not open its first store outside Spain until 1989, when it hopped across the border to Oporto, Portugal. Paris followed, then New York. The store didn’t reach London until 1998, by which time the fashion pack had carried news of the brand back from shopping excursions to Barcelona. On opening day, the place was mobbed. In May 2001, the brand launched on the Madrid Stock Exchange – and Amancio Ortega’s billionaire status was assured. Today, the Inditex group embraces Zara – which provides 70 per cent of its income – and a clutch of other brands: Bershka (young mainstream fashion); Pull And Bear (urban streetwear and accessories);
Oysho (lingerie); Massimo Dutti (classic fashion); Kiddy’s Class (children’s clothing); and Stradivarius (fashion and accessories). Zara Home, which aims to do for interiors what Zara has done for fashion, launched in 2003 as a separate chain. The Inditex group has more than 2,100 stores across 54 countries, 40,000 employees and a turnover of almost €4.6 billion a year, with profits of €447 million. The secret to Zara’s appeal is that, although shopping there is cheap, it doesn’t feel cheap. The stores are large, swish and centrally located. The clothes are given room to breathe and usually – unless it’s a Saturday afternoon during the sales – so are the customers. And then there are the clothes themselves. Zara is renowned for whisking budget interpretations of catwalk styles into its stores with breathtaking speed. A designer dress photographed on a model during fashion week won’t arrive in department stores for months – but something very like it can be spotted hanging in Zara in a couple of weeks. This infuriates the designers, but delights customers who can’t stretch to the originals – or no longer see the point of trying.
‘I am sorry, but I don’t think it will be possible for you to interview any employees,’ apologizes Carmen, the press officer who will be my guide at Inditex, after greeting me in the blinding-white reception area. This is not entirely surprising, as the company is famously enigmatic. Before its stock-exchange flotation, few journalists had set foot in the Inditex headquarters. Even today, Señor Ortega never, ever gives interviews. (I glimpse him during my tour, though: a sturdy, tough-looking figure with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, as hands-on as he has always been, even though he is one of the richest men in the world. Later, I spot him again – this time in the staff canteen.) The company prides itself on having spent hardly a penny on conventional advertising throughout its history. No posters, no print and certainly no TV. Carmen tells me, ‘The reason for not spending money on publicity is that it doesn’t bring any added value to our customers. We would rather concentrate on our offering in terms of design, prices, rapid turn-around of stock and the store experience. That’s why we have stores in the smartest locations and devote a lot of attention to façades, interiors and window displays. Our stores are our way of communicating.’
Everything about Zara is streamlined for efficiency. The building I’m standing in is the hub of the brand, and there are very few stages between here and the customer. Design, purchasing, pattern-making, samples and visual merchandizing are all handled in-house. More than 50 per cent of the clothes, particularly high-fashion items, are made in Zara’s own factories in Spain, most of them close to its headquarters. An enormous 480,000-square-metre logistics centre is capable of handing 60,000 garments an hour, whizzing orders twice a week from the green suburbs of La Coruña to stores all over the world. ‘Each order contains our latest items as well as those requested by the store managers,’ Carmen explains. ‘The store managers are a vital part of our strategy. They monitor the tastes and demands of their customers, and tailor stock accordingly. That’s why different Zara stores in different cities – or even two stores in the same city – rarely stock exactly the same products. The clothes reflect the profile of the customers.’ Zara’s product managers keep in touch with stores, seeking feedback from customers and monitoring the popularity or otherwise of items. Tills are computer-linked with headquarters, providing a constant stream of sales data: ‘We know within a day or so whether or not a product is successful.’
The tour takes me through each element of the production process. In the design area, I comment on the pile of fashion magazines next to a designer’s computer terminal. Carmen says, ‘We don’t invent trends, we follow them. Styles, colours, fabrics – we don’t guess any of these things. We are a business catering to a demand, and we’ve never made any secret of that. But we need to know what the trends are, so we follow them through magazines, fashion shows, movies and city streets. We use trend-trackers and forecasting companies. We keep our eyes open.’
Zara has been accused of flagrant piracy, which it denies. And there’s perhaps a certain amount of snobbery in the implication that a company from an obscure corner of northern Spain has no right to ape catwalk styles. In fact, the region has a strong fashion tradition, and is home to leading Spanish designers such as Adolfo Dominguez, Roberto Verino and Purificacion Garcia. It is true to say, however, that Zara specializes in ‘fast fashion’, cranking out some 11,000 different models a year. As I continue my tour, we come across a visual merchandizing specialist laying garments flat on the floor, then standing to see how the colours look together. When she’s happy with the arrangement, she transfers the clothes to shelves that mimic those in the stores. (‘That’s another reason for the white floors,’ remarks Carmen.) Nothing about the stores is left to chance. Passing through a doorway, we emerge into a ghostly street of ‘pilot stores’, where window and interior displays are mocked up before being transmitted to branches around the world. Although it is June, the windows are dressed for winter. (I make a mental note to snap up a dandyish black corduroy jacket.) The posters inside the stores – the closest Zara ever gets to advertising – are the responsibility of the corporate image department. Breaking for lunch in the Inditex canteen, I can’t help remarking on the college refectory atmosphere. In fact, with its modernity, bustle and hordes of scrubbed, trendy young people, the entire building resembles a college campus. Carmen tells me that the average age there is 26. There are romances, relationships, even marriages. Apparently, Señor Ortega approves: ‘He likes the idea of a family atmosphere. He tries to make working conditions pleasant because he wants to attract talented people, and to keep them here. After all, it’s not an obvious place to live and work, compared to Barcelona or Madrid.’ We hop into a car to tour the peripheral buildings that make up the Inditex estate. Our next stop is a factory floor, where four cutting tables can cut as many as 8,000 garments a day. The highlight, though, is inevitably the logistics centre, whose immense size defies description. It works rather like a mail-sorting office, except that the envelopes and parcels are boxes or hanging plastic sheaths of garments. Each of the system’s 1,200 slots corresponds to an individual store somewhere on the map. ‘Everything is computerized, and there are very few errors,’ says Carmen.
After what seems like half a lifetime of writing about advertising, I’m slightly numbed by Amancio Ortega’s achievement: a global fashion brand with barely a photographed pout in sight. But it’s not entirely accurate to say that Zara’s stores are its only form of communication. There are also those dark blue paper carrier bags, dangling smartly from wrists on buses and trains and in the street, in every city, everywhere.

‘What is it with you Swedes?’ I ask Jörgen Andersson, the marketing director of H&M. ‘First Ikea democratized interior design; now you’re doing the same thing with fashion. Are you lot on a mission, or something?’ Andersson – who is, as you might expect, tall, good-looking and fairhaired – smiles at the thought. ‘It’s part of our heritage. We’ve been brought up with a Social Democrat government. Since we were young we’ve always been taught that everyone should have an equal choice. It’s not just a business idea, it’s a political one. Ikea was born out of the theory that you don’t have to be rich to appreciate good design. We have the same standpoint on fashion. You can dress from head to toe in Gucci if you like – that proves you’re rich, but it doesn’t prove you have taste. It’s more imaginative to wear your Gucci with some H&M. That’s why Vogue readers are among our most loyal clients.’ H&M’s base at Regeringsgaten 48, Stockholm, is certainly democratic in appearance. Located in the commercial centre of the city, just up the road from an enormous H&M flagship store, it is blocky and practical. The lifts, to be quite honest, could do with a bit of a makeover. Annacarin Björne, the company’s press officer, tells me that this nofrills look is quite deliberate: ‘We pride ourselves in being costconscious, so we can pass those savings on to our customers. We don’t see the point of flashy offices.’
Company founder Erling Persson opened his first store in Västerås, a small town one hour south of Stockholm, in 1947. Persson had been inspired by a trip to the United States, where he had marvelled at a new kind of ready-to-wear boutique offering fashionable garments at affordable prices. He called his concept simply Hennes, or ‘hers’. In the early 1960s, the chain expanded into Norway and Denmark, and in 1968 it acquired the Stockholm store Mauritz Widforss, which specialized in hunting apparel and equipment. Crucially, the fusion allowed the newly created Hennes & Mauritz to add a masculine dimension to its collection. The first UK store opened in 1976.
In 1982, when Erling Persson’s son Stefan took over as chief executive (he is currently chairman), the company entered a period of international expansion that continues to this day. At the time of my visit, H&M had just added Canada and Slovenia to the map, with Hungary and Ireland due to follow at any moment. The brand has been present in the United States since 2000. In total, it has more than 1,000 stores in 20 countries, selling over 600 million items a year. It has an annual turnover of more than 56.5 billion SEK (US$7 billion). Sales outside Sweden account for 90 per cent of this figure, with Germany adding the biggest chunk at 29 per cent. ‘We see the United Kingdom, the United States, France, Germany, Spain and Poland as expansion markets,’ says Björne.
H&M says that it owes its success to three factors: inventive design, the best quality at the best price, and efficient logistics. The team of 100 designers is based in Stockholm – and Björne stresses that, contrary to popular belief, they do not copy styles that have already appeared on the runways of Paris and Milan. ‘They travel all the time and pick up any number of influences, from street trends, exhibitions, movies, magazines and trade fairs. We’re a bit tired of being accused of copying famous designers. If we did that, we’d be up to our neck in court cases – and that’s money we’d rather save.’ The company’s basic products have long lead times – from six to eight months – but it aims to have high-fashion items in stores two to three weeks after the pattern has left the designer’s PC screen. The company’s 21 production offices (10 each in Europe and Asia, another in Africa), with a total of more than 700 employees, are responsible for liaising with around 750 factories. About 60 per cent of these are in Asia, the rest in Europe. H&M does not own any factories, but it has a lengthy code of conduct that all its suppliers must sign, as well as a team of quality controllers who can swoop in unannounced to ensure the rules are being followed (see Chapter 20: Behind the seams). According to Jörgen Andersson, ‘Over the past 10 years, [H&M] have become preoccupied with the question of quality. We expect our suppliers to provide products of the highest possible standard at a very fair price, because that’s our promise to the consumer.’ In terms of logistics, no fewer than 3,200 people are devoted to the task. The completed garments pass through a transit warehouse in Hamburg before being dispatched to distribution centres in individual markets. Only transportation is contracted out; otherwise, H&M conWhen trols every step of the process, acting as importer, wholesaler and retailer. Computerized stock management ensures that new items arrive in stores every day.
This logistics approach is at variance with Zara’s centralized distribution model (see page 51), and there are other points of difference between the Swedish giant and its Spanish rival. One of them is marketing strategy. Unlike Zara, H&M has never shied away from advertising. Its simple but effective posters – showing models in casual poses against plain white backgrounds – have become a familiar part of the urban landscape. And, until recently, its Christmas lingerie campaign, featuring provocative shots of the hottest models, was a festive tradition attracting frank stares of appreciation, mutters of disapproval and free media coverage in equal measure. (A 1993 series of posters featuring the voluptuous Anna Nicole Smith in retro pin-up mode – right in the middle of the skinny-girl ‘heroin chic’ period – is regarded as a landmark in the brand’s development.)
But all that has changed. In accordance with the new era of ‘massclusivity’, H&M is going upmarket. Jörgen Andersson says, ‘What we have done very well throughout the 50 years of our existence is to keep our focus on the customer. We have a lean organization and a constant eye on the market, so, as soon as tastes change, we change with them. We don’t dictate style. Our style is whatever our customers demand.’
What the customers want now, according to Andersson, is glamour:
‘Fashion always mirrors society. Many people today can afford a lifestyle that was previously only available to the rich. With low-cost airlines, they can travel to places their parents only dreamed about. You want to be famous? What’s fame, today? You only have to go on a reality TV show to become famous. Celebrity seems just around the corner, so why not live it out while you’re waiting?’ Enter Karl Lagerfeld. A decade ago, it would have been hard to imagine H&M’s young customers evincing much interest in either Chanel or its courtly, white-haired designer. The launch of Lagerfeld’s collection for H&M was promoted worldwide with giant posters and a two-minute TV commercial, all of which replaced the traditional Christmas lingerie campaign. Andersson says, ‘We had been running the underwear campaign for 10 or 12 years, and we felt that it had lost its relevance. We said to ourselves, “Hold on, we’re supposed to be a contemporary company, a fashion company, we need to do something different.” The underwear posters were very much focused on “this year’s most famous model”. But consumers don’t care about that any more. They have become interested in design. They want to know what the new collection looks like.’
H&M linked up with Lagerfeld through the Paris-based freelance art director Donald Schneider. Andersson recalls, ‘Donald created our new customer magazine and worked with us on our advertising. Through his work for Vogue he got to know Karl, and we had a conversation about whether Karl might be interested in doing something with us. A short time later, Donald called to say that Karl would like to meet us. So we flew to Paris and after sitting and chatting for a while, Karl said, “Let’s do it – when can we get started?”’
Andersson says Lagerfeld was attracted to the ‘youthful and creative’ elements of the H&M brand. Lagerfeld himself confirmed as much in a flurry of interviews. He told French news magazine L’Express, ‘One day I was in the elevator at Chanel with one of the girls who worked there. She looked very pretty in her tweed coat, and I complimented her on it. She told me, “It comes from H&M – I don’t have the money to buy one here!” Obviously, I hadn’t seen the buttons or the lining up close, but it had a lot of style; modern and well-cut.’ (‘Karl Lagerfeld, couturier chez H&M’, 20 September 2004.)

In the same article, Lagerfeld mentions that when H&M sent him a suit for publicity photographs, ‘I didn’t have to make a single alteration.’ He adds, ‘Naturally, the fabric and the finish make a difference, but it’s honest work – certainly more so than the second lines of some designers, [which are] criminal in their condescendence and dullness.’ It doesn’t take a marketing genius to grasp the value of quotes like that to H&M. Partnerships with leading designers have now become an important component of the retailer’s strategy. Not with Lagerfeld, though, who complained to German magazine Stern shortly after the line’s launch that not enough of the clothes had been made available, adding for good measure the suggestion that H&M’s larger sizes did not flatter his designs. The statement did no harm to either party: the Karl Lagerfeld for H&M line remained a rare one-off, collectible for ever more, and Lagerfeld retained his dignity; H&M was the overall winner, in terms of publicity and prestige.
But Andersson observes that a shift in perception is not enough – the upward sweep must be visible at every intersection with the customer. ‘As well as the qualitative aspects of the garments and the production process, we have been working very much with the appearance of stores. We’ve begun to radically rebuild and redecorate. We know that our customers love to shop – they consider it entertainment. And if the store is the main contact with the customers, we have to enhance that experience.’
Aware that its slick new image could create a distancing effect, H&M is building closer links with consumers in other ways. It has tentatively launched a Web-based loyalty scheme, available in Sweden and Denmark at the time of writing. Those who sign up receive the H&M magazine – a cross between a catalogue and a traditional glossy – as well as email bulletins, special offers and discounts. In Andersson’s view, ‘If there’s a group of loyal consumers who love H&M, we should foster that relationship. Mass communication is not always the answer – it’s more efficient to address those who are the most receptive to the message.’ Above all, Andersson believes it is crucially important to keep sight of the brand’s core values, which he lists as ‘fashionable, exciting and accessible’. ‘Traditionally, fashion has been aloof and superior. You look at the advertising; it takes itself very seriously. H&M is not like that at all. I want people to come to the store because they’re going out that night and they need a new top. And they don’t hesitate – they buy something for 10 euros, because, let’s face it, why not? For that price, you can give it to the Salvation Army the next day if you want. It hardly costs more than a couple of glasses of wine.’

Upmarket brands may have begun stalking mass consumers, but the trend labelled ‘massluxe’ (or ‘masstige’, take your pick) is more about chain stores smartening up. Gap, for instance, went one step further than H&M by naming Domenico De Sole, the former chief executive of Gucci group, to its board, and hiring designers who had previously worked with Marc Jacobs and Calvin Klein. To underline the change, a subsequent print advertising campaign starred Sex and the City’s Sarah Jessica Parker, a style icon for millions of women. Gap is in better shape right now than it has been for years. Back in 2002, the company was limping as customers turned their backs on a brand that looked bland and baggy next to trendy newcomers from Spain and Scandinavia. The turnaround has been attributed to Paul Pressler, who took over as chief executive in 2002. The former Disney theme-park executive halted expansion, closed underperforming stores, and strove to redefine the chain’s brand identity – along with that of its sister brands Old Navy and Banana Republic. Although Gap still has some work to do, it emerged from the revamp looking younger, sharper and more fashionable, and is about to start expanding again. Even Laura Ashley is in on the act, having appointed Alistair Blair –who previously worked with Lagerfeld, Givenchy and Dior – as its design director. ‘I walked into the store, saw the cut and quality of the clothes and thought, “This is so un-high street. I cannot believe how good these clothes are,”’ marvelled Joan Rolls, a ‘fortysomething former Vogue staffer’, in The International Herald Tribune. The article quoted Rolls as saying that the clothes had ‘the same ethos as, dare I say it, Burberry, but at a fraction of the price’. (‘Massluxe, the buzz on high street’, 23 September 2004.)
In a variation on the theme, at around the same time that H&M was counting the press clippings from its Lagerfeld coup, French clothing catalogue La Redoute brought out a line designed by Jean-Paul Gaultier.
Several elements combined to drive this evolution. The post-9/11 economic fall-out forced luxury shoppers to tighten their belts, while casting around for a viable alternative that would fool as many observers as possible. High-street shoppers, having spent years soaking up articles about Ford, Galliano, Jacobs, Prada and the rest of the fashion firmament, became design-savvy and demanding. And the retailers wanted to distance themselves from the flood of bargain-basement supermarket labels that was lapping at their heels – a tendency that has been accelerated by the end of textile-trade restrictions at the end of 2004 (see Chapter 18: Brave new market).
The emergence of supermarket brands and ‘value-led’ fashion is worth a brief detour. The reference in the sector is Wal-Mart, the world’s biggest store group. When Wal-Mart acquired Asda in 1999, the British supermarket chain was already famous for its cut-price clothing brand George, created by Next founder George Davies in 1990. Although the store didn’t offer a dramatic retail environment or imaginative marketing, it sold jeans for £4 – along with other cheap and cheerful garments that, while not exactly fashion-forward, were perfectly wearable. Wal-Mart has since taken the brand global, and by the end of 2004 was promising stand-alone stores. In the UK, Asda began crowing that George now sold more clothes than fallen British favourite Marks & Spencer. Asda is not alone in this growing niche. Tesco has two brands, Cherokee and Florence & Fred, which are edging ever closer to the type of ‘fast fashion’ items sold by the likes of H&M. These brands are given space in fashion magazines and sold in separate sections of the store, giving them an increased legitimacy. Away from the supermarkets, ‘value’ outlets such as Matalan, TK Maxx and Primark are nibbling away at the mid-market retailers. One of the first into the sector, Matalan has been selling discounted high-street brands for 20 years. Customers must become ‘members’ of the organization before they can shop at its 170 or so outlets across the UK. With a loyal customer base thus assured, Matalan saves money by locating its stores out of town, buying clothing in bulk, and selling it in no-nonsense environments. But Matalan faces major competition in the form of TK Maxx, which stocks genuine designer brands at rock-bottom prices. It’s part of the American group TJX, which was founded in 1976 and now bills itself as the world’s largest ‘off-price’ retailer. The magazine Management Today explained its approach as follows: ‘Like others in the sector, [TK Maxx] keeps costs low with little in the way of merchandizing or advertising, although, as its fame has spread among the more wellheeled shopper in recent years, it has started advertising in magazines such as Heat and the Sunday Times Style supplement.’ (‘The low-cost retail revolution’, March 2005.)
In the same article, Geoff Lancaster, head of external affairs for Primark’s parent company, Associated British Foods, reveals that his chain has a similar strategy: ‘We don’t have a glossy headquarters. . . Nor do we spend on advertising; it’s word-of-mouth. But we are not cheapskates when it comes to distribution; we’ve invested heavily in logistics.’
As the writer of the article goes on to comment, ‘The tills are buzzing. Primark’s prices are so low, there’s simply no comparison with [Marks & Spencer].’
The seeming inability of Marks & Spencer to respond to these various threats is in large part the cause of its current woes. M&S, which prided itself for years on the fact that it never had to advertise to attract customers, appears to be locked in a protracted and painful decline. Despite closing stores, cutting staff and promising time and time again to get its design act together, the once-respected store is struggling to rejuvenate its ageing clientele.
Fortunately for the other high-street chains, not everybody wants to buy cheap clothing in Spartan surroundings. For fashion-led stores, the rise of bargain-basement brands represents an opportunity as well as a threat. If they continue to develop exciting shopping environments, creative advertising, hawk-eyed buying and cutting-edge design, they can retain customers and justify their prices. ‘Masstige’ is their not-sosecret weapon. A whole range of previously uninspired retailers – Oasis, New Look, Target in the United States (fashionistas have taken to giving it an ironic French inflection, as in ‘Tar-jay’) – have ramped up their creativity with the aid of young designers. Topshop is way ahead of the game, in the United Kingdom, at least. Even before H&M and Zara came along, its flagship store on London’s Oxford Circus was the haunt of beady-eyed stylists and model agency scouts; which led to winking ‘you didn’t hear it from us’ references in the glossies. And although its design has been a cut above the rest for some time, Topshop now has a massluxe range, positioned at a slightly higher price point as a signal to the discerning. However, when writing about the democratization of fashion, there’s no escaping the twin titans of high-street style.

There may have been a time when fashion was constructed like a pyramid, with haute couture at the apex, designer ready-to-wear just below, challenger brands in the middle, and a big slab of mass retail at the base. This is no longer the case today – if, indeed, it was ever that simple. Hovering around the structure are streetwear, sportswear and semicouture, among others. Consumers, too, rather than being content to stay in their allotted sectors, scurry promiscuously from one to the other, picking up a Louis Vuitton bag here and slinging it over a Zara jacket there; wearing a Topshop T-shirt and Gap jeans under a coat from Chanel.
‘It’s not enough to look fashionable – one wishes to appear intelligent as well,’ remarks fashion guru Jean-Jacques Picart. ‘There are two different shifts happening at once. First of all, Chanel, Dior, Gucci and the others will continue to develop luxury as a business. At the same time, we are seeing a complementary reaction, which is that a consumer may accept paying for the latest Dior bag, very trendy, that she’s seen in all the magazines and advertisements; but she’ll see no shame in going to Zara and buying a T-shirt for 10 euros, because it’s pretty and it’s a fair quality for the price. Then she may go to another store, a bit more expensive but not as well known, perhaps run by a young designer, where she’ll buy a skirt. And these items, when brought together, reassure her and send a message to others that she’s an intelligent consumer, not dazzled by marketing, in charge of her own image.’ In other words, the era of slavish brand worship is over. Just as everyone today is to some extent a marketing expert, we are also our own stylists. The designer Alber Elbaz, of Lanvin, recently commented, ‘We’ve reached a turning point. Nobody wears logos any more. People aren’t hesitating to mix Lanvin with Topshop. Everything is becoming more democratic.’ (‘Mr Nice Guy’, Numéro, August 2004.) The thinking behind the partnership between Lagerfeld and H&M was simple: if the mass market was attracted to the rejuvenated luxury sector, even to the extent of saving up for the occasional pricey item, and if upmarket customers were getting their kicks from unearthing fashionable fripperies at inexpensive stores, then why not formalize the relationship? Luxury brands could show they knew how to talk street, the chain stores would benefit from the glitter, and there would be lots of free publicity for everyone.
The trend can be compared to a parallel evolution among sportswear brands. Rappers have long enjoyed mixing solitaires and sneakers, and multi-brand lifestyle stores such as the pioneering Colette in Paris have been selling sports shoes alongside designer dresses for years. So it’s not surprising that names previously associated with the rarefied world of the catwalk have started hooking up with sportswear brands. Perhaps the most successful of these chimeras is Y-3, the partnership between Yohji Yamamoto and Adidas. The collaboration began when Yamamoto contacted Adidas to ask if he could produce a customized version of the brand’s classic Stan Smith sports shoe. Talks led to a cobranding exercise that now has its own identity, complete with standalone outlets. The collection runs not only to trainers, but also to clothing, accessories and swimwear. Many of the items utilize the threestripe Adidas logo. As a whole, the collection resembles a futuristic take on vintage sportswear, as if somebody has strapped a bundle of 1970s Adidas gear to a time machine and hurled it into 2020. Michael Michalsky, global creative director of Adidas, describes it as a ‘win-win situation’. (‘Teaming up from arena to runway’, International Herald Tribune, 10 October 2003.) He has good reason to do so. A sportswear brand that forms this kind of partnership gets the kudos of working with a major design talent, while the designer gains an extra layer of gritty credibility. Adidas is clearly pleased with the outcome, because it has since teamed up with a second top-name designer, Stella McCartney, to create a ‘functional sport performance range’ for women. Other designer/sports collaborations include a Fred Perry shirt by Comme des Garçons and a Reebok dress designed by Diane Von Furstenberg.
Taking a slightly different (and arguably more imaginative) tack, Puma has embarked on a partnership with French designer Philippe Starck. Starck is best known for architecture and interiors, although he is increasingly branching out into other areas, from eyewear to beer bottles. In a press release announcing the alliance, Puma’s director of global brand management, Antonio Bertone, explained the thinking behind the collaboration: ‘The objective of Puma’s co-op projects is for an outside designer to share a different perspective so that we can learn from one another.’ He added that the project was all about ‘pushing the boundaries of design’. But the venture also adds sheen to the brand’s image, pushing it further from the locker room and closer to the loft conversion.

In the end, the New York Daily News summed it up best of all. ‘Fashion king Karl Lagerfeld is a mega-hit for the masses from Manhattan to Milan,’ the newspaper gulped, the day after the pillage (13 November 2004). ‘Throngs of style-seekers stormed H&M stores around the world to scoop up the first moderately priced collection from the worldfamous Chanel designer. By the end of the day, the Karl Lagerfeld for H&M line had sold out at the chain’s seven Manhattan stores and across the Atlantic in cities from London to Milan, Munich to Stockholm.’ It was the same story in Paris, where Lagerfeld lives and works. The great man may have even cast a bemused eye upon proceedings from the shadows as shoppers ransacked a store in Les Halles. ‘I reckon I’ve got a collector’s item now,’ 34-year-old Fabrice told Le Journal du Dimanche (‘Razzia chez H&M’, 14 November 2004), after snapping up a €150 Lagerfeld suit, clearly unaware that six-Euro pairs of sunglasses from the collection were already being hawked on eBay. Fabrice confessed that, rather than selecting his size and waiting for a changing room, he’d wrenched armfuls of jackets and trousers from their hangers and tried them on in the corner of the store. The newspaper opined that we could expect to see a lot more of these ‘new adepts of low-priced luxury’.
The launch of Lagerfeld’s ‘capsule’ collection for H&M was the consummation of a long-time hot and heavy flirtation between haute couture and high street; the two disparate worlds had been moving inexorably towards each other for some time.