Purple Magazine
— The Magic Issue #42 F/W 2024
fashion and superstitions
Domenico Gnoli, Armchair no. 2, 1967, acrylic and sand on canvas, copyright adagp, Paris, 2024, courtesy of the Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum, Madrid
Domenico Gnoli, Robe Verte, 1967, private collection, copyright adagp, Paris, 2024, courtesy of luxembourg + co., photo Richard Ivey
essay
by ALEXANDRE SAMSON
artwork by DOMENICO GNOLI
Fashion curator and historian Alexandre Samson heads the haute couture and contemporary creation departments at the Musée de la Mode de la Ville de Paris, Palais Galliera.
Nowadays, fashion operates as a globalized system, often associated with overproduction and immense profits. Recent awareness of its environmental and social abuses has eroded its once deeply human essence. Yet, fashion stands out from other industries by the magic that surrounds some of its practices. Since the inception of haute couture in the mid-19th century, traditions, rituals, beliefs, and superstitions have woven their way into its fabric, imbuing it with an aura of mystique.
As early as 1894, ethnologists noted that seamstresses had “a number of unique superstitions or beliefs related to their trade,” as Paul Sébillot wrote in Légendes et Curiosités des Métiers (Legends and Curiosities of the Trades).
These superstitions primarily manifest within the couture workshop, focusing on seamstresses’ tools. For instance, a knot in the measuring tape heralds impending work, while a pair of scissors falling to the floor is considered an ill omen; if they land point-first, it foretells imminent death. Interpretations can be intricate. In Chanel’s ateliers, a pinprick serves as a portent, with the injured finger and hand indicating different omens. The right hand symbolizes work, while the left signifies the heart: the thumb suggests joy; the index finger, boredom; the middle finger, impending love. The ring finger foretells a new venture, and the pinky signals departure or change. A fabric stained with blood from a pinprick is considered lucky, especially on a future wedding gown. This superstition came under scrutiny in the 1980s because of the devastating impact of the AIDS epidemic on fashion workers. An overturned pin box forewarns discord in the workshop. Some seamstresses mastered this art; Mireille, for example, was renowned in Yves Saint Laurent’s ateliers for divining the future from spilled pins, akin to others reading tea leaves.
Exploring the origins of fashion superstitions also involves tracing the history of the rural flight amid industrialization. Thanks to ethnographic journals, some superstitions documented in Haute-Bretagne in 1888 were echoed in Paris a decade later. Among them, the most famous is the tradition of a seamstress’s hair intentionally placed within the hem of a wedding dress, believed to hasten her own impending marriage (the longer the hair, the greater the chance of it happening).
The color green is shunned in all workshops. It is believed that working on a green garment brings bad luck, to the extent that some workers have never handled one in their entire career. It is also banned in certain design studios. In the mid-1980s, in Claude Montana’s studio, a newly arrived German assistant in Paris learned this the hard way. His first task was to buy a teapot for the designer. With the best of intentions, he went to Mariage Frères and ordered the finest model in the store. Upon returning to the studio, the director took the package from his hands, opened it, screamed, and threw the teapot, which shattered against the wall into a hundred green shards. The aversion to green is also found in the theater, indicating the likely transfer of seamstresses between stage workshops and couture workshops. Molière is said to have died in a green costume, hence its ominous nature. Arsenic, a fixing element in green dye, certainly contributed to its lethal reputation. But this chromatic phobia seems primarily cultural. In Italy, it is violet, the color of mourning, that is avoided.
Beliefs and rituals in fashion are all about transmission. What was initially thought of as a gag often transforms into a ritual. Upon joining Balenciaga, Jacline Boscher was given a four-inch plush frog nicknamed Mitterrand (after the former French president). “It all started as a joke,” recalls Anaïs Lalu, a designer at the haute couture studio who took over from Jacline in 2013. “During fittings, while waiting for the collections to wrap up, the workshops had fun creating an outfit for Mitterrand, an exact replica of one of the looks from the show. This pastime evolved into a genuine ritual, even after Jacline retired. For years now, Mitterrand has exclusively worn couture and now owns around 20 different outfits. We even send out special Outlook Mitterrand fitting invitations.” Anaïs gradually witnessed the emergence of a strange phenomenon around the plush toy. Indeed, it can only be dressed in a reproduction of a completely finished model intended for the runway. “The curse struck in 2023,” Anaïs says. “We were working on a gown adorned with pink Swarovski crystals in a spiral pattern. But we finished Mitterrand’s outfit before completing the real one. The curse fell upon us: two hours before the show, the gown was still unfinished. I won’t dare risk it again.”
The superstitious nature of workshops sometimes infects the entire couture house. At Yves Saint Laurent, in the press office, people would hang a pair of scissors on a door handle when they had misplaced an item. Between the two World Wars, the Hermès boutique carried the day’s earnings in a small worn leather pouch. Considered a talisman, it was never to be repaired, lest it bring bad luck.
Some top couturiers are avid believers. “I’m very superstitious,” confessed Yves Saint Laurent to the magazine Egoïste in 1987, listing his fetishes. Among them was his dog Moujik: if the dog sat on a dress, it would be a success. At the end of his life, he carried three items in his pocket: a small French bulldog (an effigy of Moujik), a green semiprecious stone cross, and a miraculous medal of the Virgin Mary from the Parisian convent of the Sisters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul, given to him by his mother. Each couturier has their own lucky charm. Christian Dior carried an entire bunch of charms in his pocket. Alber Elbaz always had a miniature Torah in each of his bags. Today, Jeanne Friot always has her pendulum in her pocket, and Olivier Theyskens never goes out without his lucky penny. Moreover, a majority confesses to touching wood when necessary.
In addition to warding off bad luck, many couturiers also seek to influence the course of the future. Christian Dior was open about his recurring appointments with Madame Delahaye, his fortune teller. Christian Lacroix regularly consults his mage and Alexandre Mattiussi his psychic, whom he sometimes brings to Paris for fashion shows. Paco Rabanne himself made predictions, with varying degrees of success, the most famous being the fall of the Mir space station on Paris on August 11, 1999, during a solar eclipse.
In a fashion house, references to astrology abound. At Lanvin, if the photocopier breaks down or invitations for the fashion show need to be redone, there’s no need to panic: it’s because Mercury is in retrograde. Astrology also serves as an unexpected resource during recruitment. Guy Bourdin, for instance, refused to hire Paolo Roversi as an assistant because his sign was Libra, while Patrizio Bertelli, head of Prada, has a reputation for never surrounding himself with collaborators who are Pisces.
Belief in numerology is equally widespread. Nine is Martin Margiela’s lucky number, corresponding to his birthdate and the name of his first company, Neuf SARL. For Raf Simons, it’s four. Gabrielle Chanel preferred the number five, while Christian Lacroix swears by three. Riccardo Tisci adores 17, whereas Gianfranco Ferré banned it from his shows, replacing it with 16bis, much like Christian Dior and Chanel long avoided 13 and 69. (Research is ongoing to explain the aversion to the latter number.) At Lanvin, Alber Elbaz arranged his seating according to the symbolic number of the person sitting in the front row. Suzy Menkes, the senior reporter for the International Herald Tribune, always had seat number three, for creativity, and Anna Wintour had seat number eight, symbolizing power.
“We know it’s all in good fun,” comments Anaïs Lalu. “It’s endearing… These jokes bring people together, adding tenderness and innocence to an industry often lacking in these qualities.” However, this wasn’t always the case.
In the 1980s, even designers who were perceived as competitors maintained unexpected bonds of camaraderie. Karl Lagerfeld and Sonia Rykiel shared a ritual before each show. They made sure to inquire about each other’s show venue. Before Sonia Rykiel’s show began, Lagerfeld would have a huge bouquet of red roses delivered to her. In return, she always called him just before his show, repeating the same phrase: “Karl? C’est Sonia. Merde.” (“Karl? It’s Sonia. Break a leg.”)
In a system where success often hinges on being in tune with the times, “superstition is a serious game,” notes Nathalie Rykiel, “a way to stack the odds in one’s favor. It only conveys positivity.” Numerous articles in the press report that Louis Vuitton wouldn’t dare hold an outdoor fashion show without enlisting the help of a Brazilian family of shamans, the Scritori, who would be flown in to ward off rain. The brand, a flagship of the world’s most powerful financial group, fears a phenomenon as natural as rainfall. By choosing to resort to magic, the house aligns itself with an ancient and irrational human habit, which, while attesting to its extravagance, also highlights humanity’s vulnerability to its environment.
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