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Garo Sparo (right)
The Observer stood in the middle of a first-floor studio tucked into what may be the last ratty stretch of Avenue B, eyes closed and arms held aloft, and ducked into a leather chrysalis.
We were being fitted for a “man-corset,” an anachronistic emblem of female oppression that once gripped only courtly ladies but now in New York can outfit any gender.
Our shit was about to get tight.
For lovers of corsetry, this small atelier is a sort of mecca: Amanda Lepore and Daphne Guinness are among the regular devotees. The exact address of the place is unlisted, but it isn’t to hard to find, as the window is washed in silver glitter. This is the domain of Garo Sparo.
Hadn’t you heard? The corset is back in style. Alexander McQueen’s medieval-themed masterpieces drew record numbers to the Met, the blogs are crawling with “steam punks,” and Spanx and competing shapewear have us locked in their formfitting grip. In short, corsets are having a moment, and soon Mr. Sparo will be having one too. On Sept. 9, the Sundance Channel will premiere Unleashed by Garo, a couture-centric reality show that may turn the city’s go-to corsetier into a star. “This is where it all happens!” Mr. Sparo exclaimed, gesturing around the studio-cum-funhouse littered with gem-studded statues, enormous books of Victorian palacewear and newspaper clippings of women and men he had dressed.
The corset king glided though the room in tan sandals, his facial hair groomed into sideburns, all the while fondling a red string. At tables lined against the art-spangled walls young assistants cut fabric, or sat at sewing machines running garments under the needles. Mannequins in corsets peered out over us, and other examples of the designer’s rib-rattling pièce-de-résistance hung innocuously on racks. Brass band music played on a stereo, and Noah Klein, Mr. Sparo’s studio manager and on-screen sidekick, twirled his pencil-thin mustache in time with the tuba.
It’s no surprise the scene appealed to television producers.
“It looks beautiful on camera,” said Sarah Barnett, who runs Sundance Channel’s day-to-day as its executive vice president. “It’s this colorful treasure trove, an Aladdin’s cave of dream-making.”
The studio’s been in the neighborhood since the mid-’90s—when the area was a good deal seedier—but Mr. Sparo’s been designing since long before that. The corsetier grew up on Long Island, the son of immigrant parents, with four brothers and a house that never lacked a place to sew.
“I was the only child allowed in the sewing room, because it was my passion,” he said. “I was the only one who cared about clothes, etc. I started sewing at a very young age—5, 6 years old. It’s in my family. They are immigrants to this country, they worked in factories. They did lace-making, hand-beading, all sorts of things.”
He moved down south for college, where he parlayed his involvement in the “rinky-dink” fashion scene at the University of North Carolina at Greensboro into a sponsorship from Absolut to design high-end looks for a charity benefit they were putting on in New York. That was 1995. Mr. Sparo got involved in the club world, spending long glorious nights at Limelight, Jackie 60 and Click+Drag.
“It was the budding rave scene, and what was really big then were hats: mad hatter hats, jughead hats, crowns,” he said. “So I would start wearing them to clubs, and then people would start wanting them. The clubs would let them put a little shop in there. And then I started making the clothes.”
The attention led to expansion in 33 cities and eventually boutiques on Avenue B and St. Marks Place. Mr. Sparo weathered 9/11 by branching into bridal wear—“People weren’t buying clothes, but they were still getting married!”—and once the market came back, he began attracting high-profile clients. Amanda Lepore gets all her corsetry from Garo, and Ms. Guinness named him one of her favorite designers, alongside Alexander McQueen and Gareth Pugh. Mr. Sparo refers to the beer heiress and mistress to Bernard Henri-Levy as “my muse of the moment.”
(A representative for Ms. Guinness informed us that the muse would not be able to respond to our request for comment.)
We asked about Mr. Sparo’s experience with perhaps fashion’s ultimate muse, Lady Gaga.
“I designed a dress for one of her music videos,” one of Mr. Sparo’s baby-faced assistants sighed. His hair was cut into a hacked-at Mohawk, and his T-shirt bore the anarchist circle-A symbol. “She returned it totally destroyed. And she didn’t pay for it.”
Despite that experience, Mr. Sparo said he considered the pop superstar an inspiration, along with Yoko Ono. He also has a wish list of those he’d like to dress, which includes Grace Jones, Kate Pierson of the B-52’s and Nicki Minaj.
If Unleashed by Garo proves to be a hit, those icons may be stomping down to Alphabet City any day. The show came about after an assistant became convinced that the combination of manic energy, fierce devotion to clients and mastery of corset-making would be irresistible on TV. Ms. Barnett agreed, calling the show a “special creative twist on fashion programming.”
The clips from the first few episodes, viewable online, are promising. Mr. Sparo has charisma in spades, not to mention the catchiness of that name. Amid a seeming glut of makeover reality shows, a refined specialist like Mr. Sparo may just manage to stand out. Sample episode title: “Can I Pull You a Little Tighter?”
Which brings us back to the designer’s original challenge—he had a male corset, and he wanted to get us into it.
“Just duck right in here,” Mr. Sparo said, holding up a black harness.
“You’re not really doing this correctly unless you break a rib, right?” we asked as the corset slid onto our torso.
“No, these corsets are comfortable!” Mr. Sparo said, lacing up the bottom rungs with a sudden tug. “In fact, when you take out the mutilation, the corset is empowering to women. It gives them more confidence.”
At the moment, we were confident that our abdomen was about to collapse, that the saddle-thick hide of the corset would wedge further into us with each fastening of the shoelacelike web on the back. Still, Mr. Sparo kept ratcheting up the snugness.
“You want it tighter?” he asked.
“Um, sure,” we responded.
He yanked the cord and the leather dug deeper.
“Tighter?”
“Sure.”
Yank!
“Tighter again?”
“Sure!” We exhaled.
Yaaaank!
And then, with the corset fully strapped on, we approached the studio’s giant mirror. Look at that—we couldn’t really move, but damn if we didn’t look a good five pounds slimmer!
“You see,” Mr. Sparo said, in a thrilling voice befitting a TV star. “The corset will never go out of style.”
Last week, Observer writer Michael Miller covered the launch of art website Paddle 8. The site recently "opened" its virtual exhibition "Wit," curated by art guy, style guy, and all-around man-about-town Glenn O'Brien. Everything is for sale, and Mr. O'Brien has cleverly included a photograph by brilliant artist Marilyn Minter of the back of fashion designer Tom Ford's neck.
There are many reasons to test a website's functionality, some more fun and interesting than others. Let us suggest that you use the opportunity of this particular photograph of Ms. Minter's to try out Paddle 8's impressive zoom function -- just click on the image, then hit "zoom" -- which will allow you to explore each individual bead of sweat clinging to Mr. Ford's hair, just above the collar of his suit jacket.
As we all know, art is subjective. So, whether you find the above exercise merely interesting, kind of titillating, or, well, a little gross, depends entirely on your personal aesthetic. It's all in the eye, as they say, of the beholder.
What will they say of you now, Trouble!
Dead upon your gilded pillow
The millions they did double
But this Maltese they could not save.
So go then, Trouble, to the Elysian doggy fields,
Where bones are thrown,
(The Queen of Mean awaits you there alone.)
And only the little people pay taxes,
And it’s always the Eighties.
Your mausoleum will be steam-cleaned once a year,
So you can make your boo-boos there.
The grandchildren they will come, to sign the book
And hate you.
You rode on private jets,
Billed to the business.
When she phoned from the bath,
You jumped at her wrath.
A replacement Harry you could never be,
But at least you were cute.
The death threats have ended now; find peace loyal friend!
If they trouble you, Trouble, you can fire them.
“I don’t believe Mrs. Helmsley is charged in the indictment with being a bitch,”
a lawyer once said.
But you, Trouble, were a good one.
Fifty percent more than are in Los Angeles, in fact. The Center for an Urban Future has a new report out that shows New York as the nation's busiest hub for what the report calls "design industries." That includes architects as well as fashion and interior designers.
Here's some stats, followed by, of course, some concerns regarding where all these designers are going to live and work, and show their wares.
But!
The report points out that while the Bloomberg administration has admirably launched several new initiatives to support the city’s fashion industry, the city’s economic development agencies have not devoted any meaningful attention to other design industries and the city has also done little to promote the city’s designers. The report shows that other major design centers like London and Milan go to much greater lengths to brand their products at both local and foreign trade shows. Indeed, the vast majority of the designers we interviewed thought New York was far too complacent about its status as a design hub.
tacitelli@observer.com :: Follow me on Twitter
Stella McCartney, the fashion and accessories retailer (and, incidentally, the daughter of some guy named Paul) has signed on to open a new store in the heart of Soho.
The 10-year, 5,200-square-foot lease at 112 Greene Street encompasses the ground floor and lower level, said brokers for Cushman & Wakefield who represented the building’s landlord in the transaction. The store, which was first reported last week in Women’s Wear Daily, will open this fall.
Cushman & Wakefield’s Andrew Kahn and Jonathan Scibilia represented the landlord, a limited liability corporation called 112 Greene Street Partners. Joel Isaacs of Isaacs & Company represented Stella McCartney.
“The ownership is thrilled to welcome Stella McCartney to one of the best retail positions for a fashion brand in SoHo,” said Mr. Kahn, a Cushman senior broker, in a statement. “This block of Greene Street represents one of the strongest retail segments in SoHo with brands that include Ralph Lauren, Apple, Louis Vuitton, Etro and John Varvatos.”
jsederstrom@observer.com
Why not? (Getty Images)
Dana Karwas had two images mind as she set about planning her 30th birthday party. It was to be the first grand celebration of her life. One image was the scene at the end of Fellini’s 8½, when a small brass band does a brief march on an Italian beach. Another was a persistent daydream about holding her friends hostage.
“I really wanted to kidnap some people and take them out to Coney Island,” she said.
So she did. On her birthday, a group of 15 people met in downtown Manhattan. At 8:45 p.m., three black cars showed up. Everybody was blindfolded, handed a bag containing a musical instrument and some drink, and then shoved into a car.
“The cars were instructed to zoom as a procession towards Coney Island,” said Ms. Karwas.
The blindfolds came off when they arrived. The late-October night was chilly—a wind blew and a slight rain had started to fall. The group was instructed to play their instruments, march along the beach and recreate the ocean-side scene that Ms. Karwas, who grew up in Missouri, had long dreamed about.
“It made me so happy, I think I cried,” she remembered.
They marched down the beach to Tatiana’s Russian restaurant, where, said Ms. Karwas, a table laden with “trays and pyramids of food” awaited them. They ate. After a performance that Ms. Karwas describes as a sort of Russian Cirque du Soleil—techno, trapeze artists, contortionists, neon lights—the evening evolved into an all-out dance party.
“And that’s when it kind of felt like a wedding,” she said.
As more people hit 30 unmarried and without children—without any real emblem of their now undeniable adulthood—the 30th birthday party has become an increasingly elaborate affair. For some, it becomes a sort of second bar (or bat) mitzvah—a full-on party with the celebrants focused wholly on the honored guest, and an atavistic return to the unencumbered joy of childhood parties. For others, the 30th is a pre-emptive declaration of elderly gravitas, where accomplishments and experiences thus far are elevated to epic proportions by a youth-obsessed culture. The 21st birthday is an amateurish bacchanal, a mere permission slip, usually memorable for the next morning’s ailments. The 40th is so far off as to be unimaginable. The 30th is where the real party is.
As a result, there’s been a proliferation of a different kind of save-the-date, like the email we received last year, subject heading: “new year’s birthday / get your face melted.”
“I am turning 30 in December,” the email read. December, at the time, was seven months away. “I know it’s a big commitment to trek out of the country for a 5-7 day party,” it continued, “but shit, when have we been known not to throw the parties that melt your face off.” More such emails followed.
“I am turning 30 in August (!), and I’m planning a birthday dinner at a restaurant in Carroll Gardens,” said another. “Let me know if you’re around, and if so, I’ll send you an invitation (yes, I printed invitations because I’m obsessed with my birthday).”
When the paper version arrived, it was lovely, like a wedding invitation, with an embossed green bicycle and elegant font on creamy paper. The card was as much a special occasion as the party, and we were reluctant to even throw it away. We sent our reply, put on a nice dress and were treated to a lavish dinner in a very nice restaurant that felt, well, like a wedding reception without the drunken uncles.
The Observer’s solicitation for more stories of extravagant 30th birthday parties at first yielded little.
“For mine I went to Grand Sichuan,” wrote one 30-something. “I await your call.”
“A huge storm hit just before my backyard bbq and power was out for a week,” wrote another. “Not extravagant.”
“I ate a piece of steak in Nairobi by myself,” said a third.
But soon we were inundated. Those celebrating the end of their 20’s rented houses in Costa Rica; they rented bars in Manhattan; they rented restaurants in Brooklyn. They rented party buses, in which they put 50 of their best friends and took them to Medieval Times in New Jersey. (“They all got crowns and big goblets of wine and beer and swords,” said the birthday boy’s wife. “It helps make a somewhat depressing age somewhat more manageable.”) The invitations were exuberant: “Think the Oscars … think of a Vegas night club, Kentucky Derby, or P. Diddy’s Hampton White Party,” said one invitation, for a party at a hotel in California.
In some cases, the planning was underway more than a year in advance. We called a young woman who was planning a birthday for her husband in August 2012 (she asked that her name not be used, as she wants to surprise him).
“So the tentative plan is that I would start contacting his out-of-town friends maybe six months in advance,” she outlined. “I would have everyone fly in, then rent a party bus, and it would basically be a treasure hunt from his parents’ house in New Jersey into Manhattan.
“We’ll probably rent out a restaurant for all those people,” she continued, “and then the next day fly to Vegas and then—this is a little over the top—but then we would go to a beach resort in Mexico to calm down.”
“Like a honeymoon for your birthday party?” we asked.
“That’s the vision,” she said. “If I’m going to take some days off work I might as well take a vacation.” Even married 30-year-olds were treating the birthday like a nuptials redux.
She said the birthday party would be “a different scale” than the couple’s wedding. They had 180 people there, and she expects maybe 50 people for the first phase of the birthday party. She said that she had asked her parents back in Minnesota how they had celebrated their 30th birthdays. Neither one remembered.
“A party bus makes sense; 30 is not old,” said one New York woman who works at a Manhattan private school and did not want her name used, saying she was embarrassed about her party. “My mom was like, ‘Your 30th birthday party is coming up, maybe we should have a nice party—you’ll never get married, so this is an excuse for a party.’” Instead of a party bus, her parents rented out a wine bar on the Upper West Side.
“My whole thing was that I wasn’t married and my younger sister’s married,” she said glumly. “There was just this overkill, in my mind, of ‘We’re throwing a party for you because you’re not married.’” Her parents came to the party, of course.
“I was dating this asshole but we’d only been dating for a month, and having him at the birthday put all this pressure on the relationship,” she said. “We had really good food. I didn’t eat any of it.”
Of the people The Observer interviewed, few wanted their names used, saying that they did not want to seem self-obsessed or made fun of for exaggerating something that wasn’t really that big a deal—even though most of them had in fact made a big deal out of it.
“The whole thing was tongue and cheek in a way, a touch of irony there to laugh at ourselves for having a 30th birthday party. We were playing up the cheesiness of Miami, with a stretch limo picking us up at the airport,” insisted a friend who did not want his name used because he was embarrassed by the excess of it.
He said that he remembered when his dad had turned 30—or maybe it was 35. “I remember a birthday my mom threw for my dad,” he said. “They had a really tight-knit group of friends and they had a cool adult party.”
Ms. Karwas, for her part, said that there was a way in which 30 felt like a “phantom turning point.”
“I think when I was 31 I freaked out and bought a bunch of face cream—I think that was my cultural reaction to whatever 30 is,” she said. “I believe 30 is a decade where big things happen to people, big career things, big family things.”
In the meantime: “Hey, I have no kids. I don’t have a mortgage, whoo!” she said. “Let’s celebrate!”
ewitt@observer.com
The Observer celebrated its second issue of NYO Magazine, featuring candy entrepreneur Dylan Lauren on the cover.