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COPYRIGHT 2007 All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of The Condé Nast Publications Inc.
Byline: Amy Fine Collins
Tucked into the Hollywood Hills, off Sunset Boulevard, there is a compact white house, as inconspicuous as it is enigmatic. Except for one tiny paned porthole, it is unpunctured by windows. "To the neighbors this is a mystery house," says James Galanos, its proprietor since 1958. On this particular balmy day, there are a few more external signs of life than usual. The low-slung garage has disgorged an ebony 1973 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. And when the one-story, slate-roof dwelling's door swings open to admit a guest, the interior turns out to be as dark as the exterior is bright. Paneled shutters filter out invading sunshine, and the polished black granite floors shine like a nighttime sky. James Galanos, a wand-thin man attired in a striped shirt and Keds, springs from his perch-a sofa upholstered in triple-weight satin faille-the better to scrutinize the neck of his female visitor.
"We'll wrap them three times," he announces, winding three long strings of heavy jet beads around the woman's throat. He steps back and peers upward through hooded eyes, head cocked slightly, brows arched to a Gothic peak. "Now tuck the top into the pants." He tugs deftly at the oblique plaid chiffon, his signature fabric. "This is from spring 1991. Now we need a wide black leather belt." He disappears into a cupboard concealed in the boiserie to retrieve a contoured waist cincher, stamped galanos on the reverse in gold. Next he fluffs the gossamer trouser legs, finished with his trademark eyelash-wide, hand-rolled, handstitched hems.
"Let's see you walk," he says to the woman.
Satisfied, Galanos announces, "Tonight we'll go to L'Orangerie-the last restaurant in L.A. where you can dress up for dinner." He leans against his baby grand, an instrument he plays by ear. "I see so many unattractive things today. But I can't turn back the clock. Most people get 15 minutes; I had 50 years."
James Galanos's search for what he calls "a certain line" began in Philadelphia on September 20, 1924. The only son of Greek immigrants, Galanos once remarked that as a child he resembled "an asparagus with eyes." Though he believes he "never had looks," he was always certain that he "had style." Starting when Galanos was eight months old, his father, an artist turned restaurateur, moved his family to a series of "minimal places" in southern New Jersey. "Of course, all I wanted was to be a sophisticated city boy. But I was a good guy. I did as I was told." Nobody, however, needed to tell him that his destiny was to design dresses. "I understood that since I was seven."
In 1942, he enrolled in Manhattan's Traphagen School of Fashion, on Broadway. Too impecunious to attend the parties where women wore the kind of gown he fantasized about, Galanos would station himself "behind the barricades" on opening nights and watch the swells arrive. Impatient to "seize my dreams," Galanos quit school after eight months. He accepted a position at the chic East 49th Street emporium of Hattie Carnegie, the incubator of such talents as Jean Louis, Pauline Trigere, Kenneth Battelle, and Norman Norell. But, demoralized by the menial tasks assigned to him, he left to peddle his fashion sketches to upscale dressmakers, "for $2, sometimes $5, apiece."
One day his former Traphagen teacher Elisabeth Rorabach called his attention to a help-wanted ad she had spotted in The New York Times, placed by textile magnate Lawrence Lesavoy. "His beautiful wife, Joan, was hoping to launch a ready-to-wear dress business in California, and they were looking for a designer." The Lesavoys employed him for the princely salary of $75 a week and dispatched him to Los Angeles. Their scheme, however, failed to materialize; the Lesavoys divorced, and Galanos was constrained to find work elsewhere. "Out of pity," Galanos insists, Jean Louis, head costume designer at Columbia Pictures, hired him as a part-time assistant sketch artist.
Seven months later, in 1948, Lawrence Lesavoy agreed to send the floundering 24-year-old to France, at the very moment Parisian couture houses were rebounding from the war. Couturier Robert Piguet absorbed the American into his hive of assistants, among whom were Pierre Balmain, Hubert de Givenchy, and Marc Bohan. But the young novice "got homesick," Galanos says, and in 1951 he decided to take another shot at California.
Again Jean Louis came to the rescue. Recognizing that actual garments might make more of a case for his protege's gifts than mere illustrations of them would, Jean Louis sent Galanos to Madame Marguerite, a custom dressmaker on Robertson Boulevard, to whip up some of his ideas. To finance this modest undertaking, Jean Louis lent the 27-year-old $200-the only outside investment Galanos ever accepted.
Doris Fields, the buyer for Saks's Beverly Hills branch, ordered eight pieces from the fledgling collection. Next came the eponymous specialty shop Amelia Gray, on North Beverly Drive. The first piece for...
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