Luxurious Solitude

Armani and friend

I’m just old enough to remember when Armani was it. The 1980s. A new luxury mall had just opened up in town with boutiques from most of Italy’s heavy-hitters like Versace, Ungaro, and, of course, Armani who was showing women’s shorts that season. All this and an indoor-skating rink too. It was a flop.

Fast forward.

On my way to Milan to interview Armani, of course I packed my one and only Armani item, a black-and-white satin blazer (Black Label, hello), to be worn with black slacks and white shoes. I suppose it was a small mercy that my luggage got lost at the Milan airport otherwise I would have looked like a waiter. The carousel went round-and-round. By the time I slipped into the back seat of the sleek black limo waiting for me and manned by a former Armani model—my personal driver for the week—I was wearing the only clothes I’d have during the whole trip. What’s that saying, ‘hubris, then nemesis’?

Armani was launching a woman’s fragrance, Sensei, with his new business partner, L’Oreal. They pulled out all the stops. Dinner at Nobu, discounted shopping sprees at Armani boutiques, an free night’s stay at the hotel, and a personal driver to get around Milan or anywhere else the mood might strike. (Lake Como, please and thank-you.) The fragrance was a flop.

I was shadowing make-up artist Pat McGrath backstage as she was prepping the models for the fashion show. Armani would appear and disappear, like a cat. Poof! He would bring a model to Pat, request a change here and there, and then, poof, gone.

Ahead of a group interview, his public relations attaché informed us that Armani had a birthday coming up in a few days’ time and he was in an uncharacteristically good mood. He must have been because one of the Italian journalists started her query with, “Mr. Armani, you’ve obviously had plastic surgery…” The PR-woman went limp. “Now, if I had had surgery, would my nose look like this?” Armani said with a smile. Still, it felt like we were on borrowed time and the interview wrapped up soon after.

By now I had been awake for over 48-hours and still in my original duds. After the fashion show, there was a simple buffet luncheon. I thought if I could just eat a few bites I might be able to keep standing for a few more hours. For insurance, I took my plate and leaned against a pillar. I hoped that when I lost consciousness I could simply glide down the pillar like a petal.  My back touched the cool marble. My eyelids closed. The thrum of the room began to fade.

“Bongiorno.” He was standing in front of me. I blinked hard. “Bongiorno,” I replied. Armani immediately switched to French and began to ramble about “Russe” this and “Russe” that. Naturally I assumed he was complimenting me on my red hair. I nodded vigorously and threw in some “Oui!” After a few long minutes, he shuffled off. Dang, if only I had my Armani jacket, that could have done the talking.

So funny to think that this fashion mogul started out as a window dresser but was fired because  his employer thought he was a daydreamer. Armani is one of the shrewdest businessmen on the planet. He owns the buildings that house his boutiques; he has expanded his brand to home decor, cosmetics, luxury hotels, yachts, chocolate, and now that most of it is manufactured in China, his pockets are even more flush. This is one savvy cat.

Armani never looks more miserable than when he’s hobnobbing at the Met Ball—and never happier than at home with his cats, or on his yacht with his cats, or on his island in Pantelleria—with his cats.

You know you’ve made it when you’ve got luxurious solitude. Hold the cats.

Anti-Gravity

Photo courtesy of Yannis.

Oh, how I love the sound The Sunday New York Times makes. That promising thunk as it hits the door early in the morning. This week’s edition features a thought provoking essay by Frank Bruni on a book by Sam Harris. The book in question, Waking Up, is due out next month. In it, Harris poses the question, “Do we need religion to experience spiritual transcendence?” He posits the not unreasonable argument that perhaps spiritual feelings are part of the human condition and religions merely piggy-back on what already exists. The various religions simply provide it with a narrative framework. Hey, wouldn’t it be nice if there were no religion (e.g. no religious wars/dogma/garb/superstitions…)? Fat chance. But I digress.

Our human need to cultivate spiritual experiences is one way we temporarily escape gravity, the weight of quotidian life that both comforts and constricts us. Whether through prayer, mantra, meditation, nature, creative work, art, books, music, gardening, exercise, spa days or shopping expeditions, Neflix, or playing fetch with the dog, we all long to lighten-up and be part of something bigger than ourselves.

Another form of religion is money. Many of us dream of a sudden windfall. Some of us dream of fine jewels, others of luxury cars, the more altruistic think of charities. Whatever path our fantasies take, they all lead to a similar feeling: Taking us away from the daily grind.

Money is one escape route, though it’s not the only, nor the best one. But in purely literal terms, it’s an anti-gravity whiz. With it, we can literally fly to exotic locales at a moment’s notice, or lift any body part unkindly treated by gravity’s work. It unyokes, freeing us to pursue studies, hobbies, retreats, and other heartfelt desires. And, anyone who stands in the way of our dreams can just piss off.

But maybe this craving for money, for the ‘magic number’ that will set us free is really a spiritual craving in disguise? The quest isn’t for money, it’s for transcendence.

Recent trends like the ‘renting economy‘ whereby more and more people are taking a pass on owning things, and, instead, are using social media to pay-as-they-go, is another indicator that people want to lighten-up.

Owning is gravity-making. Renting is anti-gravity. This trend is especially strong among the Millennials, perhaps as a reaction to the materialism of the Boomer generation.

Who knows, maybe lightening up will turn out to be a reliable path toward enlightenment? No need for a horsehair shirt, that’s so 15th century, just rent a Versace gown and Prada clutch as needed. Then money, as darling as it is, will not be the end, but only the means.