They were journalists, retailers, advertising executives, publicists, and, of course, the designers who created the clothes that came to define the unfussy ease of American fashion. Many had come of professional age in the fertile period between the World Wars, when, for the first time in history, large numbers of women were able to build careers and lead independent lives. This progress benefited white women, but women of color saw far fewer gains. There were successful Black made-to-order designers working in the United States during this period, like Zelda Wynn Valdes, who created clothes for Harlem's elite, and Ann Lowe, who would go on to make Jacqueline Kennedy's wedding dress. But there were very few women or men of color working in the ready-to-wear industry. Although it was not officially segregated, as the American Armed Forces of the time were, the fashion industry of the 1930s and '40s was almost entirely white. By 1973, when American designers and Parisian couturiers met for the Battle of Versailles, that had begun to change. Despite these gains, there are still very few people of color in leadership positions in fashion.
When Paris fell, the women of Seventh Avenue redoubled their efforts on behalf of American fashion. All the energy and skill that had gone into publicizing the Parisian couturiers was now turned to glamorizing designers who worked much closer to home. Edna Woolman Chase, the editor in chief of Vogue and a lover of haute couture, became a proponent of Seventh Avenue. At Harper's Bazaar, Chase's archrival, Carmel Snow, collaborated with two of the greatest creative talents in the business, Diana Vreeland, who was then her fashion editor, and the photographer Louise Dahl-Wolfe, to create sumptuous, color-saturated images of American clothes in American landscapes. Eleanor Lambert, fashion's first superstar publicist, dreamed up New York Fashion Week, the Coty American Fashion Critics' Awards (which were succeeded by the CFDA Fashion Awards), and the International Best-Dressed List, all of which showcased American design. Lois Long of The New Yorker paid American designers the highest compliment possible for a critic: She held them to the same high standard she had applied to their Parisian counterparts. Virginia Pope, the fashion editor of The New York Times, launched Fashions of the Times, a biannual fashion show-cum-Broadway musical that ran to sold-out crowds until her retirement in 1952, when it was downsized into the paper's fashion magazine.
None of these efforts would have meant anything without the design talent to back up the hype. As it happened, these were boom times for women designers, especially for that most American of genres, casual wear, or what was then known as sportswear. Of the many women who excelled at designing this type of clothing, Claire McCardell was a virtuoso. Fashion editors raved about her unstructured bathing suits, wool jersey leggings, and hooded suits, describing them as "futuristic" and "revolutionary." Dahl-Wolfe, who shot her clothes time and time again and became a close friend, said it was impossible to take a bad picture of a McCardell design. Even today, designers continue to consult her deceptively simple garments for inspiration.
By the time the war ended, "the American Look" was synonymous around the world with the fresh, youthful style associated with designers like McCardell. The American Girl, typified by the model-turned-actress Lauren Bacall, was the French Girl of her day, lauded for her long-legged athleticism, shiny hair, and good grooming. While haute couture would make a resounding comeback in 1947 with Christian Dior's New Look, New York had already staked its claim to be the world's leading producer of stylish and affordable ready-to-wear. The type of clothes that American designers proved to be masters of turned out to be the clothes that everyone, everywhere, wanted: wearable, comfortable, practical yet imaginative. It was, as in the words of Jessica Daves, Chase's successor at Vogue, a "ready-made miracle."
As the war years receded and the inevitability of American dominance in fashion began to seem preordained—manifest destiny in denim and sneakers—the names of the women who worked so hard to put that concept in motion faded. Long, a sparkling prose stylist whose editor credited her with inventing fashion criticism, is forgotten. McCardell, the creator of American sportswear, without whom it's difficult to imagine the careers of Calvin Klein or Donna Karan or Marc Jacobs, is unknown outside the industry. Lambert, whose service to American fashion spanned an action-packed eight decades, has no name recognition. Even Hawes, who was so ahead of her time that she got married in jeans in 1937 and suggested, in 1938, that men might want to try wearing skirts, has disappeared from public view. Although it was Lambert who was known as "the Empress of Seventh Avenue," a moniker that recognized both her outsize contributions to the industry and its mid-century headquarters, the honorific applies to all of these women. When others couldn't see past the safety of the way things had always been done, they had the vision to know where fashion was going.
These women deserve credit for building the billion-dollar industry that employs millions of people around the globe, and which shapes the way every one of us gets dressed each day. Long before second-wave feminism, they insisted on having careers. Some were gigantic talents; many others led poignant personal lives. All shared a common belief: that fashion could be both beautiful and democratic. In their insistence on this truth, the women who lifted American design onto the international stage were revealing their ideals. Their resilience changed how we all think about the clothes we wear. It's time to tell their stories.
