When in Rome
When I was 21 I fell madly in love with a man 36 years older than me. He was a Roman prince, infamous for his decadent ways and legendary good looks and charm. I agree, it sounds awful. But Dado Ruspoli was incredibly nice: kind, noticing, loving, generous and funny. We were introduced by the long departed genius art dealer Robert Fraser. Robert had gathered together a lunch party of mostly young women to entertain and distract Dado, who was unusually in London to sell a few last heirlooms. By some incredible fluke I was seated next to him. We made some polite conversation during lunch and when I left I felt a little deflated at the lack of spark, but when I got home Robert called me to say Dado had asked for my number. I remember that moment was as though a volcano erupted in my heart.
Six months later I had moved to Rome and enrolled in the Academia di Moda to study fashion. Or to try to. Rome is one of those places where nothing happens. It is designed for pleasure: promenades, lunch in the Villa Borghese gardens, afternoon naps; dinner, always out. Against this tide of centuries of dawdling, I was desperate to get things done. I spent a lot of time sitting in a shoe maker’s cubby hole, watching him and learning about leather, and whether it was worth making a buttonhole on a shoe actually open. I learned a lot from Dado too. He had some amazing clothes from 70’s YSL Rive Gauche that no longer fitted him, which he gave to me to wear. A yellow satin shirt, the perfect shade that might have been worn by a soigne Maître in a Paris nightclub. I wore that with a rust coloured satin double breasted jacket with huge lapels. I still have those pieces. My son Jimmy sometimes wears the jacket. Dado had beautiful handmade dress shirts in the sheerest voile from Battistoni, which I also made off with. I did replicate a version of this shirt in pale blue and pink in my collections – called the Dado shirt. I left the Academia and spent a year in a school for seamstresses. This was much more interesting and I learned about the difference between iron on fusing and hand stitched horsehair interlining. I learned to speak perfect Italian including the Hail Mary and a prayer to the Mother of Sewing, which we recited every morning. Madre del Cucito, Pregate per noi.
Six months later I had moved to Rome and enrolled in the Academia di Moda to study fashion. Or to try to. Rome is one of those places where nothing happens. It is designed for pleasure: promenades, lunch in the Villa Borghese gardens, afternoon naps; dinner, always out. Against this tide of centuries of dawdling, I was desperate to get things done. I spent a lot of time sitting in a shoe maker’s cubby hole, watching him and learning about leather, and whether it was worth making a buttonhole on a shoe actually open. I learned a lot from Dado too. He had some amazing clothes from 70’s YSL Rive Gauche that no longer fitted him, which he gave to me to wear. A yellow satin shirt, the perfect shade that might have been worn by a soigne Maître in a Paris nightclub. I wore that with a rust coloured satin double breasted jacket with huge lapels. I still have those pieces. My son Jimmy sometimes wears the jacket. Dado had beautiful handmade dress shirts in the sheerest voile from Battistoni, which I also made off with. I did replicate a version of this shirt in pale blue and pink in my collections – called the Dado shirt. I left the Academia and spent a year in a school for seamstresses. This was much more interesting and I learned about the difference between iron on fusing and hand stitched horsehair interlining. I learned to speak perfect Italian including the Hail Mary and a prayer to the Mother of Sewing, which we recited every morning. Madre del Cucito, Pregate per noi.
