I didn't think for a moment that anything I wore to Ikram, one of the most prestigious boutiques in the country, would ever be considered chic by anyone who knows anything about what chic actually is. So I went for a look that I hoped appeared, at least, as if it was not trying too hard, a look suitable for midwinter in Chicago, where Ikram is located: a knee-length black skirt, suede black boots, a delicate black and beige top and a short, thick, green cardigan. It was an ensemble meant to announce its own modest aspirations. In retrospect, I wish I'd worn a black cardigan instead of the green one, but in the eyes of Ikram Goldman, the owner of the store, the details wouldn't have mattered anyway, since the very premise of my message, to her, would be considered absurd: for Ikram, the whole point of clothing is to broadcast something bold.
In reporting my article on Ikram for this weekend's Money Issue, my primary objective was to write about Goldman's power in the world of fashion and retail, but there, in her store, amid the exquisite patterns and materials, I couldn't help myself; I had to know how she would dress me, if she could. Goldman is famous for not just choosing well, but dressing her clients imaginatively, persuasively, beautifully. To be in Goldman's store and not ask her what to wear would be like meeting with the Dalai Lama and not trying to get some tips on enlightenment. So I did.
"Get naked," she told me, which I also did, for the most part, all the while wondering if I had officially crossed some bright-line rule of journalism. (Margaret Sullivan, feel free to weigh in.)
To start, she put me in a crisp white collared shirt, the kind that buttons down the front. I was unimpressed. She whisked back a moment later with a voluminous black taffeta dress by Lanvin; on my body, it was somewhat shapeless, with the exception of huge, puffy arms. Still not impressed. Then she came back with a thick, heavy and detailed belt — a statement belt, they call it. Suddenly I had a waist. I appeared as thin as I ever have in a piece of clothing, so small — and yet incredibly powerful. I looked adult. I looked like someone people would work for, and take orders from; I looked every bit of my 42 years, and yet like someone to whom the years had granted confidence and style. Goldman added a complicated white necklace, whose details peaked out from the top of the shirt. I would register as someone of means; most dresses at Ikram start at about $1,000. The person in that dress was someone I would be curious to meet and also someone of whom I might be slightly afraid. If I wore it to the office, I wondered, how would people react?
I never could wear it to my office, I quickly decided; it would be so out of the ordinary as to appear costume-y. I would have to slowly work my way up to such a style, gradually growing into a new wardrobe, the way women gradually grow out of a bad haircut and into a better one.
Goldman smiled at my image in the mirror encouragingly and explained all that to me. I saw that she was not just dressing me in an outfit I might consider chic, or flattering; she was trying to show me her greatest ambition for her who I could be, or maybe should work harder to become. I wondered if she was right.
I admired the outfit, and then suddenly, in a rush, could not wait to take it off. My image in the mirror was so unfamiliar as to be discomfiting, like hearing your voice distorted on tape. At the same time, I shuddered at the thought of putting back on that green cardigan, which now revealed itself to be impossibly tatty hanging on the rack in the dressing room beside the other, obviously luxurious garments she had pulled.
In a moment, she had me in a beautifully tailored, sleeveless black Narciso Rodriguez dress. The dress was like a distilled, idealized, impeccable version of what I usually wear — simple styles that, if they were of slightly better quality, could probably be described as classic. I felt younger, more stylish, more elegant, more trim — it would be a dress to buy, if I were ever to spend that kind of money on a single piece of apparel. I'm still thinking about both dresses, but when I recall the first one, there's a lot more to think about. That is what Goldman gives to the women she dresses, and the people who look at them — not just something beautiful, but something to think about.
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