Armani and the donkey from Corfu

Those were the days, yes, those were the days, and they – the designers of legend, of the classical era, the unshakeable icons we continue to look upon with nostalgia and reverence – turned even a private moment, a time of total detachment from their profession and creativity, into an expression of their ego and their aesthetic vision: without strategy or calculation – indeed, with a naturalness that was astonishing for them, given that they otherwise weighed up every choice and every message with such care – the images that chronicled their escapades possessed the same powerful communicative impact as one of their dresses, an advertising campaign or a press statement.

Today’s creatives can rely on widely used platforms such as Instagram and other social networks, but judging by their holiday posts – which are, after all, curated and, at times, carefully crafted by their communications teams – they seem incapable of even having a bit of fun: gigantic yachts of cringe-inducing tackiness, parties that one hopes are less cringe-worthy than they appear in photos, uncoordinated dancing at yet another Apulian farmhouse, and crowds of aimless guests who look like a botched episode of a summer reality TV show.

All that remains for us is to take refuge in memories of holidays past, and in those of the masters of style who organised those summer getaways, planned them down to the last detail, and lived them with carefree abandon and high spirits.

Just like the one that inspired, in the early 1970s, the crew that set off from Milan bound for Corfu. At the helm were Giorgio Armani and Gian Paolo Barbieri: for a few weeks, they would not be the high priest of minimalism and rigorous fluidity, nor the bard of the solemn, unapproachable femininity that reigned supreme in the pages of "Vogue", but two young men interested solely in having fun and getting a tan. In their wake, of course, was Sergio Galeotti, Armani’s partner in life and business, who, with his quintessentially Tuscan verve, added no small amount of spice to those sun-drenched days. Amongst others, there was Mrs Toppo of the Gioielli&Fantasia brand, which was all the rage at the time (today, the Coppola and Toppo costume jewellery label is owned by the young Sicilian designer Pietro Paolo Longhitano, who designed the jewellery for the sequel to "The Devil Wears Prada"). It was one long running gag. They would whizz around the island in the designer’s open-top Volkswagen. To anyone who asked, ‘Are you Italians?’, they’d reply, ‘No, we’re queers!’, cheekily. The neighbours at the villa they’d rented in Palaiokastritsa were a group of young Romans who partied all night long. Galeotti and Barbieri went to the trouble of having a row with them – and even exchanged a flurry of punches. Giorgio stayed in bed – and thus unscathed – pretending to be fast asleep. Using Gian Paolo’s dinghy, they set off on a constant search for deserted beaches where they could sunbathe in blissful nudity. In the centre of a tiny island – little more than a rocky outcrop with no beach – stood a scrawny little donkey. Everything in the group’s cool bag is offered to the animal. They decide to rescue it by loading it onto the dinghy. Once ashore, some farmers recognise it and explain that it was their custom to leave them there in the summer, as it was cheaper to keep them that way, and that they would collect it again in September. “Someone will report you for this.” And they, with unfathomable nonchalance: “But we’re friends with Anna Maria of Greece; she’ll help us.” It was true that they had a friend called Anna Maria, but she had nothing to do with the Queen Consort of the Hellenes. As his international success grew, Armani’s holidays certainly became less boisterous but no less iconic. Whether he was in Pantelleria, or on his yacht Mariù – so named in memory of his mother – in Saint-Tropez or at the Forte, he exuded coolness in spades wherever he went: even in the water or out for a stroll, he maintained the same poise he displayed on the catwalk at the end of his fashion shows. Requests for autographs, photos and then selfies, and even the insistence of some mothers that he take their little ones in his arms. All this authenticity did not in the slightest undermine his credibility as a creator of haute couture; on the contrary, it reinforced it and served as a testament to his recognisability and fame: he was still very much himself, even when he was seen whizzing around on a moped with Lauren Hutton or pottering about the markets with Claudia Cardinale.

Gianni Versace always knew how to draw inspiration or a new theme from his passions, his interests and, consequently, his holidays. One need only think of Miami, the city that would prove his undoing and which, on his first visit, seemed so unbearable that he stayed shut away in his hotel; instead, after finding his retreat at the Casuarina, the palm trees typical of that landscape ended up on his printed shirts and, later, on the dress designed by his sister Donatella and worn by Jennifer Lopez, which led to the birth of Google Images. Versace helped to change the face of that place: from being a somewhat unsafe and chaotic spot, more suited to faded couples like the facades of Art Deco houses in candy-coloured hues, it became one of the unmissable stops on the most hedonistic and unbridled tourist circuit: Madonna, supermodels and rock stars didn’t need to be asked twice to spend time in those rooms that Gianni had had refurbished with the frenzied enthusiasm of a Renaissance prince. Undoubtedly, the atmosphere was more exciting and lively than that at Villa Fontanelle, with Lake Como and its tranquillity, its sunshine capable of transforming every view into a late-19th-century watercolour. Elton John and Sting were regulars, mingling with the owner’s staff with ease. But the most eccentric guest of those legendary summers remains Prince. Awaited and welcomed with every honour, he left everyone speechless by shutting himself away in his room like a countess stripped of her rank until the end of the holiday, the shutters tightly shut because, in his words, there was too much sun – one has to be rather imaginative to expect days on end of dark clouds in August in Italy. He certainly wasn’t an intrusive guest, that’s for sure. And the Versaces must have shared Brillat Savarin’s view: inviting someone means taking responsibility for their happiness. But when it comes to golden holidays, the textbook ‘dolce vita’, and fashion designers who have become the stuff of legend, one simply must mention Valentino Garavani. Not so much the Valentino of recent years, who would receive guests with sybaritic flair on his TM Blue One (here too, the name pays homage to his parents, Teresa and Mauro) – friends of the calibre of Lady Diana, and celebrities worthy of the master of the houseboat – but the one who, in the 1970s, electrified Capri as he strolled with Jackie, she smiling, barefoot, in a black T-shirt and white trousers: a queen. The images of the couturier with her or with his friends, in the piazzetta or gathered round lavishly laid tables, looked as though they had been painted by a contemporary Fragonard or Velázquez. The island has always been a magnet for the fashion world. Emilio Pucci literally reigned there, and it was there that he sought inspiration for his textile art: such as when he dived into the depths of the sea to capture shades of blue, azure and sky blue to incorporate into his prints. Rocco Barocco has always divided his time between Capri and Ischia; he, too, was a leading figure of an era that seems like a memory from a glossy magazine when compared to the present day, which seems to have come to a standstill at “Temptation Island”.

“Capri is more closely linked to my youth, whilst Ischia is where I grew up,” says the designer, who was literally ‘discovered’ on the island by a forgotten and inimitable duo, Patrick de Barentzen and Monsieur Gilles, the magical hat-maker, now on display in Rome at the Centrale Montemartini: “Even now, my holidays are more closely linked to Ischia: it’s strange, but as we grow older we tend to return to the things and places that were part of our childhood.” Barocco, let us dream. Take us back to those seasons of grace and stardom, excess and enchantment. “In reality, the legendary summers are those I experienced as a boy, when I was still studying at the Nautical Institute in Procida and earning a bit of pocket money working for a shop in Ischia harbour that sold stretch shantung trousers and shirts, to be worn with shoes made from the same fabric. Angelo Rizzoli, the film producer, had opened the Regina Isabella and was bringing divas and socialites there, transforming the island into a sort of branch of Hollywood: that’s how I met Gina Lollobrigida, Anna Maria Pierangeli and Maria Callas. But the one I’ll always remember is Anna Magnani, who one day gave me a five-lire coin and said, ‘Here, lad, go and buy yourself an ice cream’. It was also during that period that I met a couple who owned a restaurant and a nightclub; I told them about my passion for fashion, and they introduced me to some designer friends of theirs in Rome: they were, in fact, Patrick de Barentzen and Monsieur Gilles, and that’s where my career began, because whilst still a minor I moved to Rome to work with them. Summer is a magical time, when things that happen take on a special, fun quality. Like when, at a party, Laura Antonelli wore one of my dresses made from lots of strands of beads. Whilst dancing, the dress came undone and the beads spilled onto the floor, leaving her almost naked, much to the delight of the guests and the paparazzi. I apologised profusely; I was embarrassed and felt responsible for what had happened, but she didn’t seem the least bit sorry!”

It is uncertain when the tide turned, when fashion holidays became rowdy and more akin to those of columnists and footballers. We might well have caught a whiff of it at the dawn of the new millennium when Naomi Campbell made the headlines – summer is a lean season for those in the media – with her holiday at Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana’s. The scene of the event was Stromboli: the island where three-quarters of the Milanese fashion crowd (though there are also a few from Paris and London) gather in a different setting and dressed differently. Naomi found the island a bit dull – even in the literal sense of the word, given there is no street lighting – and her hosts went to great lengths to lift her spirits. One day, after a lunch with about fifteen people, they decide to put on some music to entertain the guests. But at 3 pm, in certain parts of the country, there is a very strict unwritten rule prohibiting noisy gatherings: ‘It’s not the right time’. The two designers’ neighbour shares this view; she peeks out, flustered, to tell them off. Her name is Clio Bittoni, and she is Giorgio Napolitano’s wife. What in any southern town would have been resolved with a healthy exchange of shouts becomes a matter of state, a diplomatic incident, because D&G claim that the lady – a feisty lawyer who defended the farmers of Acerra against the worst abuses and had a sharp, unrepentant tongue – had not merely called the police, but had used the N-word, preceded by the adjective ‘dirty’, against the supermodel. A tale of denials, of lese majesty, of repeated accusations, of body shaming, of conflicting interviews and press releases: the designers, whilst on holiday, were beginning to be portrayed in less dreamy, less idyllic terms than before, and in keeping with the more chaotic summer news stories, which found their perfect embodiment in Lele Mora’s parties.

Even the photographs spoke for themselves, such as those taken at Roberto Cavalli’s parties in Sardinia – another man who, when he decided to let his hair down, really knew how to have a good time. Up until then, photographs of fashion designers caught sunbathing on an exclusive atoll, boarding their yacht as they left that little restaurant known only to locals, or lounging by their swimming pool, seemed to be bathed in a golden glow that softened the scene and made it a symbol of good taste, relaxation and the art of living. In the fledgling new millennium, however, those images radiated an ambiguous and jarring glow, and carried with them an unbearable clamour – even though they were, after all, stills and not videos with sound. The advent of social media would complete this reversal of expression, leading us to the current scenario in which figures once deemed divine have fallen into the trap of ostentation, of the most garish display of manners and often improbable situations. Intentionally, these are meant to be proud assertions of exclusive luxuries and pleasures reserved for the very few; in reality, however, they betray the nature of eager holidaymakers blinded by a multitude of petty-bourgeois pretensions.