Fashion
Foglio della Moda •
‘Registrando Armani’: the book that was actually missing
One year on from the death of the fashion designer and entrepreneur – the anniversary of which falls tomorrow – Roberta Filippini’s book is being published, having been shelved since 2014 for a variety of reasons. Two months of meetings, confessions and mutual reserve have gone into crafting a portrait spanning from the Fascist era to the present day.
Among the stars of the first Giorgio Armani campaign, created by Silvana Armani and Leo Dell’Orco and photographed by Oliver Hadlee Pearch
Summary of a WhatsApp exchange in mid-August with Roberta Filippini, ANSA’s long-serving fashion editor who retired far too early, following the mention in the July issue of Il Foglio della Moda of the publication of a new biography of Giorgio Armani written by her: Giorgio secondo Armani. Life Beyond Success’, published by Marsilio. From the brief description I received, it seemed to be something quite different, and indeed I was to discover that it was. “Hi Roberta, how are you? Did you feel like writing because you thought the time was right for a new book on Armani?” (subtext: amongst the aphorisms he has written, the photo books, the numerous biographies, and his considerable reticence regarding certain episodes in his life, what new insights might we possibly uncover?). “Thank you, but I’d rather not write a self-review in Il Foglio itself.” Roberta and her husband, Ernesto Auci, the long-standing editor of Il Sole 24 Ore, are devoted supporters of this newspaper, and so they’ve also read the amusing counterpoint to Sigfrido Ranucci’s now-famous self-review, which many of the paper’s columnists have contributed to over the past few weeks. A little bit of fun, though one wouldn’t want to see it applied to oneself. “Listen,” she writes to me, “I’ve published a preface that should explain everything; I’ll send it to you.” The PDF arrives. The foreword does not satisfy a number of curiosities, but it suggests a perspective and reveals something that many of us had always suspected, namely that the valiant Filippini – a reserved lady, even though someone told us about that time she gave Anna Wintour a piece of her mind, in excellent English, when she arrived late for a press conference she herself had organised – is behind many of the books that Mr Armani used to publish periodically about himself. The first lengthy conversations, the heart-to-heart talks, the intimate reflections – later handed over in part, and partially redacted, to others – stemmed from ‘almost two months of conversations’, with no time limits, just the two of them around a tape recorder, in 2014, a few months before the celebrations marking his eightieth birthday and the company’s fortieth anniversary: “Every now and then he’d show me some photos, but one day he brought me all the ones he wanted to include in the book at once, asking me to weave the narrative around them. It was the first real clue as to the ‘plan for the book’: it was to be, above all, a photographic volume.” There are people for whom family photographs printed in hundreds of thousands of copies reveal less about them than a narrative woven from a single thread of thought, and Armani was clearly one of them. “I’d offered him a draft of my written work, and he’d sent a courier to my home to collect it. I’d waited a few days, anxiously, because by then I’d sensed a deep uncertainty on his part. Then he rang me and, without beating about the bush, explained that he didn’t feel up to it: he’d thought about it, but he was Giorgio Armani and still didn’t see the need to lay himself bare. I’d tried to convince him otherwise, with a single argument: at his age, he had nothing to lose, but also nothing to gain by remaining trapped in a myth that was far too glossy. Instead, he could have had the rewarding opportunity to send a message to those young people who cannot find their way and waste years, paralysed by the uncertainty of a shaky start: his story showed how one can start from any situation and, with commitment, achieve fulfilment, if not success. A sort of modern fairy tale, made up of chance, hard work, passion and dedication. I don’t recall whether I suggested a simplified version to him; the fact remains that, albeit in an affectionate manner and with expressions of esteem, the story ended there.” The book on Armani was published, and it is the enormous photographic volume that can still be found in bookshops: at the 2015 launch, at Silos, it took pride of place in the hall. Roberta was present; the customary eulogy was entrusted to someone else, but she did not flinch – not everyone can do that. Seven years later, in 2022, another book arrived at my home as a Christmas present: Per amore. “A biographical account in forty-four pages,” she observes: “They had seemed far too few to me, even though I’d been delighted to find in it some passages from the work published eight years earlier – followed by many more pages devoted to his ‘mottos’ and images from his life. (…) I learnt of his death from a friend, Claudio Velardi, editor of the daily newspaper Il Riformista, who rang me asking for a favour – an article on Armani – and in doing so broke the news to me. Writing about him straight away prevented me from becoming too emotional. Then, for the first time in years, I went in search of that old typescript’. It runs to over three hundred and fifty pages. Every page is fascinating, rich in details and reflections impossible to find elsewhere, offering a portrait of ‘Mr Armani’ – the first anniversary of whose death falls tomorrow – that is, at last, far from predictable, not reduced to soundbites, and reveals the joys, the bitterness, the bullying he suffered as a child – the son of a Fascist-era administrative official imprisoned for six months after the war – his attraction to sensuality rather than sex (which, incidentally, is evident in every one of his suits), and his fluctuating relationship with the press. Roberta Filippini states that the Armani family read every line carefully, holding onto the manuscript for a long time, and that they gave their enthusiastic approval, delighted to discover unknown details about this man – this entrepreneur, brother and uncle – about whom, deep down, we have never really known much, and who always took everyone by surprise with his dazzling witticisms, typical of shy people. Selecting an extract from this book proved to be a challenging task.
“Family circumstances, financial hardship and the suffering of the war and post-war years ‘certainly influenced my character, which was already rather reserved’,” he tells me, reflecting on his disposition. “I have a disillusionment that stems from life in those years, a sense of disappointment at not having truly experienced my youth. Sometimes I realise I use a rather harsh form of irony. It’s not malice, it’s a defence mechanism. It’s a disillusioned outlook which, however, allows me to assess situations quickly and to understand straight away whether a person is genuine or whether they’re putting on a front. Yes, I grew up feeling a bit sad deep down, sensitive and touchy, perhaps because I didn’t have many friends; I was more at ease with myself than with others.” By the time he had made a name for himself, one of their young colleagues, Gini Alhadeff, asked Sergio Galeotti – a partner and friend who passed away in 1985 – why, despite his success, Giorgio often had that sad look about him. The remark struck him so much that he still remembers it: “Today, however, I might reply by saying that I’m shy about my feelings, yet I laugh on the inside and perhaps it doesn’t show. I have a great sense of humour and, deep down, I also make fun of myself. I know myself by now; I know how I react’. I ask him if he has ever undergone psychoanalysis or any form of psychotherapy; he replies that he hasn’t and adds that ‘no one knows oneself better than oneself; I don’t have too many surprises in store for myself’. He also tells me that he often sleeps very little, but ‘in the morning I devote at least half an hour to a scrupulous self-examination. Sometimes that half-asleep state becomes a continuation of my dreams; I carry them on whilst awake, even if they’ve frightened me’. I ask him to tell me about some of them; he says that one of the most frequent is actually quite banal – it’s the one about the fashion show that’s due to start whilst the clothes aren’t there: ‘But it’s not a very original nightmare; I imagine all fashion designers have it!’.
He is also in the habit of analysing his way of expressing himself, which sometimes involves major outbursts and harsh words: “I know my language is often too harsh, very cutting. I know it’s not right, but it stems from the need to give those around me a wake-up call, even those who love me. It’s a way of intervening in their lives; it’s exactly what my father didn’t do – with me, he was quietly respectful, always. Given the results, perhaps he wasn’t wrong; perhaps I am. I realise, for example, that I’ve been an uncle who’s kept a bit of a distance; I haven’t been the ‘uncle’ they could play with. But in my own way, I am a father, and I have loads of children.”
Without my even asking, Armani tells me about the relationship between his parents: “When I think back on them, I can’t say whether they loved each other; they were certainly very close, despite everything.” In those days, it was unthinkable for children to ‘gauge’ the passion and love between their father and mother; marital relationships were a private matter and taken for granted: “There wasn’t much discussion about feelings amongst us; back then, it wasn’t the done thing to talk about such things. But there was a time when my father had a brief fling and my mother vented a little to me, perhaps because I was young and she thought I wouldn’t understand or judge her.”
When he speaks of his mother, Giorgio is both admiring and protective: ‘She was a very charming woman; men were drawn to her and she had a way with women, yet she, too, was a woman of few words. We were a family of modest means, but she always managed to be elegant and never let us look out of place. She was ninety when she died, as quietly as she had lived, without ever compromising our peace of mind.’ As a young woman, Maria Raimondi had lost six family members in the Spanish flu pandemic, but these were not things she liked to tell her children, except to say every now and then: “You don’t know how hard life used to be.” One day, when Armani’s success had brought him financial security – and much more besides – he asked her if she was happy with it, and his mother replied: “Yes, Giorgio, but it’s a bit late.” For him, those words were devastating, and this perhaps also explains his constant regret at having wasted too much time in the uncertainty of his youth, at not having chosen his path sooner.