It's in the way you wear it
There is an elitist group of fashion designers whose names have become, quite unwittingly, modes of description in the articulation of style trends: blasts of colour and froth are seen as 'very Lacroix', anything cool and composed is 'so Armani', sexy and skinny jersey dresses are immediately branded as 'very Gucci'.
And when fashion editors and stylists come across clothes that are chaste to the point of austerity, untainted by colour or, horrors, embroidery, they instinctively describe these as 'very Jil Sander'.
The German designer admits she is tired of having her work pigeon-holed as 'purist', even though that is exactly what it is. That, and 'unpretentious' (despite the high luxury factor - figure on spending at least $10,000 on a suit). These are not clothes for consumers who insist on flash-and-dash, nor for those who insist on insignias, visible logos nor a discernible 'signature'.
Indeed, in Sander's elusive existentialist universe, these clothes just, well, exist.
'I don't really like the minimalist label,' says Sander. 'My clothes are plain and strong, yes, but they have to have a real inherent value. And they are pure, but the point is how strong and distinctive the wearer can be.' Our interview takes place the day after Sander's menswear spring 1999 menswear show in Milan. In reverence of Sander's obsession with all things simple, I had changed from rose-printed chiffon - much more Lacroix than Sander - into frosted-blue linen.
This is the measure of trepidation that the designer inspires: her conversation, which sometimes meanders into vaguely angst-ridden realms, is habitually definite and terse; she spins no hype, intimate as she is with her Zen-Purity-Minimalism philosophy. After all, here is a woman who pioneered the deconstructionist movement when it was little more than a seedling of an idea in a fringe Japanese designer's mind.
And she demands everything from what she describes as the 'small, intensive team' of helpers, who only gain entry to her sleek and modern world by being sleek and modern themselves; on the day of our interview she was in a functional khaki pantsuit with grey cashmere sweater (both her own), her face barren of make-up, a man's chunky watch her sole accessory. Around her in her Milan showroom were staff dressed in a sea of neutrals, a monotony of utilitarian shades and simplicity of form.
That day she wanted to talk about her menswear line; it is four seasons old (it was started last year), and in fashion-speak has become 'a big thing'.
'I had a handsome, beautiful vision for men, where they should still feel the specialness of the fabric, the perfect workmanship,' she says. 'And I never thought it would grow this fast.' The collection is, in fashion terms, a definite look. (At the Prada catwalk show later that day, one male fashion executive immediately pinpoints another's suit as from Jil Sander.) 'It's in the cut of the lapel,' he pronounces smugly. (Although it's also in the handmade button holes that only the wearer knows are there.) For men next spring, there are also zipped shirts with raglan sleeves, or shirt-jackets worn loose and without lining, or cashmere sweaters underpinned with airy-light cotton. These are the details only a real Sander cognoscenti can spot, in a luxury that is all in the wearing.
Sander puts a historical spin on the evolution of her collection: the 1980s, she says, was all about 'big muscled bodies and flamboyance'.
'Today, people are more human, more slender, more private. I like to think I have pioneered a particular look for men, like I did for women. My clothes are for men who are individualists.' So she applies a light and deft hand to suits that are 50 per cent lighter than conventional men's tailoring, something she accomplishes through fabric innovation and such hard-to-achieve stylistic endeavours as perfection of proportion, structure, texture.
'I once had to explain to a salesgirl at the Joyce boutique in Hong Kong [which retails the men's and women's Jil Sander collections locally] why a shirt could cost US$200 [about HK$1,550]. It's because sea island cotton can be as expensive as silk. I don't believe in gimmicks, and I don't believe that anything should be cheap.' Sander confesses to having intellectualised fashion to such an extent that her clothes are architectural and fundamentally complex: they are in a niche bracket, for people who 'really appreciate and observe every detail'.
She is, however, hoping that this bracket will expand. 'I wish to say to people 'come to this club'. I know my clothes are very specialised - either you like it or you don't. And for those who don't,' she says defiantly, 'I say that's their problem.' But as she's discovered, people do like it.
Sander is a copyist's dream, her seemingly simple clothes seemingly simple to imitate. But, with her usual intellectual flourish, she responds with 'you can't copy an original thought'.
'You have to have the love, the passion. If people want to copy, fine. But I'll always stay one step ahead.'
