(8 of 9)
For a grand master of surreptitious sophistication who is portrayed in the Italian press as brooding, moody, uncommunicative and withdrawn—a Heathcliff with Magic Markers—Armani sets a fast pace and a high level of good humor and good will with his 26 employees. A trim, quick figure of medium height, with cobalt eyes, he is all compacted energy, like a jack just popping from his box, as he shows up for work around 9. He may begin his twelve-hour day by doing sketches, while his staff sorts out a regimen that, typically, has no rigid schedules or fixed appointments. Buyers who come to the showroom to order a new line are treated, as one of them puts it, "like a guest in Armani's home. Someone offers you a simple cup of coffee. You're not blitzed with champagne, like the other fashion houses. There's no row of booze. It's so understated." Armani may come in to say hello or to work over a fine point. "Almost every buyer is a frustrated designer," he sighs. "They want to change my designs. Again and again, I have to tell them there is room here for only one designer . . . although sometimes I see their point, and we compromise."
Beginning usually with a sketch and a bolt of fabric, Armani will work out each of the 500 pieces he designs for his collections, most of which he will offer to buyers in a choice of three colors or fabric combinations. Occasionally, he will wrangle with Galeotti over the practicality of a design ("He will insist I've gone too far, that something is just not salable"), and often he sounds out staff members, whom he calls "my family." But all the designs, even his commissioned uniforms for the Italian Air Force, are Armani's. Unlike some big-name designers, he has no subordinates producing sketches that go out under his signature.
Armani has a realist's interest in the work of other designers, and a respect for Saint Laurent that approaches reverence. "He has given so much to the world of fashion, done so much to make women more beautiful," Armani says. "Saint Laurent broke with a certain 'chic' look of the past, which had become redundant, to produce something more youthful, more lively, more modern." Armani is also catholic enough to admire the giddiness of Kenzo, the classicism of Blass, the eccentricity of Karl Lagerfeld and the sidelong inspiration of Kamali.
He may respect both the past and the competition, but Armani has little patience with the fussiness and pretension that occur at the higher altitudes of the fashion business. He gave up going to a favorite restaurant because the owner, with Italianate reverence, insisted on calling him maestro, and he treats the fine art of fashion with fitting insouciance. "My ideas may come from unimportant things," he says with a shrug. "From a book, a film, from talking to my staff or from watching how people behave and live. I cannot allow myself the luxury of waiting for 'the moment of inspiration.' I design clothes that can be produced at a certain cost, that can be sold and can be worn. The beginning of a new collection is a drama. But eventually, without being theatrical, without drinking or smoking or listening to background music, I just begin to design on a sheet of white paper."