He is healthy and looks as he enters his late 50s as if he were a decade younger. She must be numbered among Owens's first fashion influences, although the transmission seems to have been indirect.
#Patternmaking for fashion design how to
In Mexico, as a young woman, Connie had worked as a seamstress and learned how to cut patterns. (“If I didn't make her ship them,” he said, “she would carry them in her suitcase.”) Owens's father had met her in Mexico, where he'd taught English for a few years, and they had eventually settled down in Porterville, in California's San Joaquin Valley.
Concepción Owens-Connie-had flown to Paris to visit her son and had airmailed hundreds of them to him before her arrival. Okay, sure, when I'm out in the city, people every so often approach me and say nice, positive things. “Oh, well,” he said, “I guess that's true. “Really? But we'd been on the steps for, like, 30 seconds when those kids came running…” “I don't really have to deal with it,” he said.
How did he feel about the fame thing? Did it bother him that he couldn't go out and walk around like a normal person anymore? His brother-in-law.ĭriving through Paris, crossing bridges, smoothly and quietly making sharp corners on narrow streets. We descended the steps together-he in boots and flowing coat, I in my pants and whatever-and climbed into the car. There would have been something Batman about it even if Owens had not been dressed like an extremely hip androgynous Batman. It had pulled up closer than it seemed like cars could pull up, almost to the foot of the steps. The black car that drives him around was suddenly parked there. The picture would be better, the kids explained, if I were to take it. It was as if he'd just bumped into an old friend. The guy had a French accent but spoke idiomatic English: “Rick, man! Rick! Can we get a picture?” There were a lot of steps, so we watched them running for a while. Two young women and a guy with short dreads. “I want to take that and damage it,” Owens said.Īt that moment, three kids came running up the stairs, straight toward us. Its drapery was almost indifferent, scarf-like. The dress exploded at the neckline into this ruff, which had captivated Owens. A dress made of what appeared to be thousands of folds of white muslin, cinched in so tightly at the waist it appeared, at just that zone of her torso, to have become a corset. He pulled out his iPhone and showed me a portrait of a woman sitting and several close-ups of an extraordinary white garment she was wearing. There had been a special exhibition of paintings made in Paris by Dutch artists. “No,” he said, “but I did see a painting that gave me a thought for where I might go with my next collection.” I tried to make my cheek muscles hold, but my face collapsed into what I knew was a stricken look, the face of someone suddenly sick in the bowels. To tell you the truth, it sort of kills me that you weren't there.” “I had an experience that completely changed everything I thought I knew as a designer. “Did you get to see some good art?” I asked. I explained the whole catastrophe and he laughed. He smiled sweetly, looking, if anything, slightly abashed to have been caught enjoying himself like that, in an unguardedly sunny way. But it seemed he'd forgotten our appointment entirely. I walked up to Owens already apologizing. (“But I need to meet up with a friend inside!” I told the guard. Late enough that the museum guard wouldn't let me in. I should also mention that I'd been late to meet him, there at the Petit Palais, where he was going to show me his favorite paintings. Owens put on his sunglasses and looked out at everything, as if Paris were a farm he was glad he'd been wise enough to purchase. Giant clouds were letting big shafts of light through. It was wintertime, but the day was a little telegram from spring. I should mention it was uncommonly gorgeous in Paris that day. The slanting early-evening sun lit his face. It was Rick Owens, the American-born designer known to his fans as the Lord of Darkness.