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Among the hundreds of funny, naughty, outrageous, poignant and scary WWD stories I could tell, the one about the bomb is one of my favorites.
The buildings they blew up were mostly public: train depots, metro stations, department stores and Fauchon, the legendary French food emporium. One perfectly beautiful Parisian morning, the Brigade ignited a big one just outside the Chanel headquarters, which I happened to be passing in front of. When the smoke cleared, everyone who remained intact was somewhat shaken by the experience: I think I went home early and took a couple of aspirin. Where are your journalistic instincts? Where was the sympathy and comfort and soothing, fatherly empathy?
And then it came to me. What a terrific story the whole thing would have made — of course he was right. To me, an Australian newly arrived from Hong Kong, those initials stood for the state of South Australia or the nation of South Africa. Seventh Avenue turned out to be a whole new world.
The voice on the other end, which I recognized immediately, was John Fairchild. I just landed and found out that Calvin Klein is dead. I want you to find out all about it and call me back. I remember vividly when I gained a particularly deep appreciation of that.
Louis bureau, and our editors had learned that a prominent department store executive there was about to jump ship and take a big job in New York. He appeared to be astounded as well as a little irritated.
But he was a good-natured guy, and without confirming, he let us know we had news that was fit to print. It was June and I was wearing a straw hat with a big brim. I wore gold slippers and a bright blue silk shantung dress. When I think of how I walked in there….
There was a male city editor and a few male reporters. But it was divided into departments. The dress and coats and suits reporters were girls and they covered fashion, and the boys covered news.
Even in the art department there were more girls than boys. She had run into [reporter] Paul Hanenberg one morning and asked him if there were any openings at WWD. I was the second dress editor. It was a silky time, all the men in satin Saint Laurent suits, the women fluffed up in Zandra Rhodes improbabilities at night, everyone drunk and stoned and giddy. The boyfriend wanted to move back to Rome, so I got the Rome job.
The office was in the apartment we rented. The oil crisis had just hit, there were riots every evening, great clouds of tear gas rolling down the cobbled streets, and you could only drive your car on alternate days. Paul Getty Junior was kidnapped, and returned minus one ear, the ear having been sent along ahead of time. The mess gave me time to learn Italian from comic books, the communist evening newspaper and movies.
Fashion in Italy at the time was a by-product of tourism: Only Missoni, Krizia and Walter Albini made great-looking ready-to-wear, but Karl Lagerfeld was already designing for Fendi. Rome was the graveyard of the Dolce Vita, with so little energy that you had to take naps just to keep awake.
Designers entered competitions to do military uniforms for creepy Middle Eastern countries; you saw mink coats lined in mink, lodens lined in chinchilla, and the evening gowns were above and beyond bonanza.
Valentino was the star, and his shows were gala events at night, with feral aristocrats of all sexes and a very prim Audrey Hepburn.
It was the time of terrorism: The Red Brigades had everyone terrified. I dined with Gianni Bulgari the night before he was kidnapped. June Weir would let me write about strikes and massacres, but Etta Froio disapproved, and Michael Coady thought I was getting a little overwrought about the Italian political situation.
Telexes came through at Radio Stampa, a central communications office, which was crawling with spies. The operator would call me at the apartment and read me the telex, which always began with my name: Buck.
Or in telex-operator speak, Bologna Udine Como Kursaal. During collection time, I moved into the Hotel De La Ville to have access to telexes and wrote vicious little reviews all alone over my Olivetti at 2 a. I was only Constance C. Spying my notebook as I wrote her comment down, this wickedly astute woman offered to buy my silence with an even better scoop. But what could be better than a retailer publicly berating a disastrous collection?
She told me herself. But back then, this was major stuff. About to step into her limousine — a vision in beige this was post surgery — as paparazzi flashbulbs popped all around her. It could be a fashion story picked up by media all over the world.
She urged me to approach the throne area where Patrick McCarthy, Mr. Fairchild, Michael Coady and Etta Froio sat. Patrick had me tell him everything I knew, I think four times. I wrote it up. John Fairchild, the new publisher of WWD, had decided that there would be no more reviews because, he said, the society ladies had told him that theater was out, and movies were in.
Fairchild, waiting in the lobby, I stepped into the elevator with him, took a deep breath, and pressed the emergency stop button. Then I gave a speech on the importance of reviews in his newspaper. Patricians are that way.
I went to see it that evening, frozen by nerves until I noticed the marquee of one of the pornographic movies on 42nd Street, where the smut was so innocent in those days. Suddenly I found myself opening an envelope with free tickets to see the new musical Oliver!
Two seats in row H, on the aisle. I was sent out to cover their arrival, along with every other known press person in captivity, including the New York Times — which had a sizable budget for this effort.
I had none. Nevertheless, I was expected to file the same reportage as my colleagues. This led me to befriend the Times correspondent Nan Robertson, and convince her into taking me out on their boat to cover my story. Onassis was to attend. At that time, no one was more daunting than Jackie O.
I dutifully followed her around the entire evening, writing down everything she said, every person she talked to. The next morning, Mr. Fairchild danced up to my desk to ask about the party.
What did she have to say? Fairchild seemed horrified. You must always talk to Jackie O. Never come back without having spoken to Jackie. His point has lasted me my entire career, that is, no matter what god it is, you are there to talk to them, bring back quotes, conversation. Fairchild always wanted to be a doctor, or so the story goes, and secretly loved it when an employee developed a medical problem — that way, he could participate in their treatment.
My former boss, Pete Born, told me that after he shattered his hip, Mr. When you think of A. Though the 76ers lost the series , Iverson provided one of the most iconic moments in NBA history, which still lives on in the form of memes to this day.
The infamous step over Tyronn Lue:. Allen Iverson, No. Glasses up to that. Aaron Dodson is a sports and culture writer at The Undefeated. Up Next. Up Next From Culture.
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