We were standing at the top of a church tower. My father had brought me
to this spot in a small Italian town not far
from our home in Rome. I
wondered why.
“Look down, Elsa,” Father said. I gathered all my courage and looked
down. I saw the square in the center of the village. And I saw the
crisscross of twisting, turning streets leading to the square.
“See, my dear,” Father said gently. “There is more than one way to the
square. Life is like that. If you can\''t get to the place where you
want to go by one road, try another.”
Now I understood why I was there. Earlier that day I had begged my
mother to do something about the awful lunches that were served at
school. But she refused because she could not believe the lunches were
as bad as I said.
When I turned to Father for help, he would not interfere. Instead, he
brought me to this high tower to give me a lesson. By the time we
reached home, I had a plan.
At school the next day, I secretly poured my luncheon soup into a
bottle and brought it home. Then I talked the cook into serving it to
Mother at dinner. The plan worked perfectly. She swallowed one spoonful
and sputtered, “The cook must have gone mad!” Quickly I told what I had
done, and Mother stated firmly that she would take up the matter of
lunches at school the next day!
In the years that followed I often remembered the lesson Father taught
me. I knew where I wanted to go in life. I wanted to be a
fashion designer. And on the way to my first small success I found the road
blocked. What could I do? Accept the roadblock5 and fail？Or use
imagination and wits to find another road to my goal？
I had come to Paris, the center of the world of fashion, with my
sketches6. But none of the famous fashion designers seemed interested
in buying them. Then one day I met a friend who was wearing a very
beautiful
sweater. It was plain in color, but it had a lovely and
unusual stitch.
“Did you knit that sweater?” I asked her.
“No,” she answered. “It was done by a woman here in Paris.”
“What an interesting stitch!” I continued.
My friend had an explanation. “The woman her name is Mrs. Vidian—told
me she learned the stitch in Armenia, her native country.”
Suddenly I pictured a daring design knitted into such a sweater. Then
an even more daring idea came to me. Why not open my own house of
fashion? Why not design, make and sell clothes from the house of
Schiaparelli! I would do it, and I would begin with a sweater.
I drew a bold black and white butterfly pattern and took it to Mrs.
Vidian. She knitted it into a sweater. The result, I thought, was
wonderful. Then came the test. I wore the sweater to a luncheon which
people in the fashion business would attend. To my great pleasure, the
sweater was noticed. In fact, the representative of a large New York
store wanted 40 sweaters to be ready in two weeks. I accepted the order
and walked out on a cloud of happiness.
My cloud disappeared suddenly, however, when I stood in front of Mrs.
Vidian. “But it took me almost a week to knit that one sweater,” she
said. “Forty sweaters in two weeks? It is not possible!”
I was crushed to be so close to success and then to be blocked! Sadly I
walked away. All at once I stopped short. There must be another way.
This stitch did take special skill. But surely there must be other
Armenian women in Paris who knew how to do it.
I went back to Mrs. Vidian and explained my plan. She really didn\''t think it would work, but she agreed to help.
We were like detectives, Mrs. Vidian and I. We put ourselves on the
trail11 of any Armenians who lived in Paris. One friend led us to
another. At last we tracked down women, each of whom could knit the
special stitch. Two weeks later the sweaters were finished. And the
first shipment from the new house of Schiaparelli was on its way to the
United States!
From that day a steady stream of clothes and perfumes12 ed from the
house of Schiaparelli. I found the world of fashion gay13 and exciting,
full of challenge and adventure. I shall never forget one showing which
was really a challenge. Once again Father\''s advice helped me. I was
busy getting ready to show my winter fashions. Then just 13 days before
the presentation the sewing girls were called out on strike. I found
myself left with one tailor and woman who was in charge of the sewing
room! I was as gloomy14 as my models and salesgirls. “We\''ll never make
it,”one of them cried.
Here, I thought, is the test of all tests for Father\''s advice. Where
is the way out this time?