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Beat Memories
Memories of a journalist covering fashion in a least fashionable town
She was beautiful in a fierce sort of way. Physically arresting, for sure, aristocratic, elegant, toned, and fit, but most beautiful because of her aura of absolute confidence.
Diane von Furstenberg was/is iconic.
She gave the distinct impression she was as comfortable with royalty as she was with the royal pain in the tush that was the regional journalist eagerly standing by with reporters’ notebook and pen in hand.
We met at the home of a friend of hers who’d recently moved to Portland, Oregon. It was a warm summer evening in August 1997. The back garden was set-up with three or four round tables, each seating ten people. I was thrilled to discover the hosts seated me at DVF table, directly across from the designer. She addressed everyone at the table but because of its size, several smaller conversations soon broke out on either side of her. I sensed DVF wasn’t thrilled about the chatter. She was, afterall, the reason for this party. I was afraid other guests would consider me rude but I asked DVF a question — loudly to be heard above the chitchats — and then all attention was on her.
For the next maybe thirty minutes, she told personal stories about building a business in the era of Studio 54, Andy Warhol, and the burgeoning women’s movement…
