Showing a Split Personality . . . Max to the Mainstream . . . Restarting at the (Knit) Top
During the late ‘70s and ‘80s, it seemed as if some of the big names in L.A.’s young fashion community could do no wrong. Then the bubble burst: The economy went sour, department stores thinned out because of leveraged buyouts and consolidations. Burnout, divorce, bankruptcy and billowing overheads followed. A couple of firms have refocused their businesses. Others have been reborn from the ashes.
Double Time
Michele Lamy recalls the rough spots with a c’est la vie kind of resignation. This year, her company, Too Soon to Know, which--at its peak--did $10 million in sales a year, filed Chapter 11, and Lamy continues to pay off creditors. She has also been burdened with personal problems, including a divorce. Lamy’s Traction Avenue store in the Beverly Center was sold last year. “Plus,” she says, “the recession didn’t help.”
But the diminutive 45-year-old designer, with her tattooed fingers, Berber heritage and throaty, Gallic-accented voice, was not about to give up. The quirky, creative designs that have become Lamy’s trademark are still available to the artsy, adventurous and slightly eccentric women who are her best customers--but under different circumstances.
Today, Lamy has two backers and two new lines, Cafe Society and Shi Shi, and she is free from the minutiae of the business.
“I didn’t like the details,” she says. “I don’t want to deal with the banks. But that’s what running a business is all about. You have to care if a fabric is 50 cents more than another fabric.”
Now, she designs and makes samples, leaving the manufacturing to others who understand her style. Lamy’s lush, tapestry-printed knitwear is called Cafe Society and is made by her former fabric supplier. The knit separates, about $50 each, are available at Nordstrom.
Her Shi Shi line features Carnaby-Street-meets-Sgt.-Pepper maxi coats, short shorts and bell-bottoms in denim, and shaped linen jackets over gauze pants. Shi Shi is headed by the husband of her former assistant designer. The denims, $80 to $142, will be available later this month at the South Coast Plaza branch of Barneys New York.
While the new production arrangement suits Lamy, she jokes about fumbling with two sets of everything. “It’s like the story of the woman with two husbands. She has two sets of dishes, two sets of everything,” she says with a laugh.
Partners Again
Loren Judd and Bob Heller started their company, Judd Heller, two years ago with a very specific product: expensive knit tops that slide under business suits.
“Women’s knits,” says Bob Heller, 50. No men’s, no wovens, no wild colors.
“It’s a simple product, but they nailed it,” says Madeleine Gallay, owner of the boutique with the same name on Sunset Plaza. “The tops are sexy and perfect.”
The tanks, T-shirts and crews, made in France, Italy and Switzerland, come in flat knit or ribbed versions in a variety of sleeve lengths and necklines.
Retailers, including Gallay and Fred Hayman Beverly Hills, say the tops sell well to the suit-wearing customer who sees them as the middle ground between a conventional T-shirt and a designer blouse and who likes the sleek look of the knits with jeans or leggings.
In rayon, they range from $150 to $400. Cotton T-shirts are about $90. Cashmeres go up to $735.
Next spring, the pair will ship several new items: palazzo pants, mid-calf skirts, culottes and two versions of a simple dress selling for up to $300.
The partners have a history as friends and business associates. They started the company Tea Shirts in 1970 with their then-wives, and it reached a top sales of $5 million a year. Later, in 1981, Judd briefly went into business with Heller’s ex-wife, Nancy Heller, at the start of her enormous knitwear business.
Judd, 46, then went into retail as one of the owners of Fred Segal Melrose. Bob Heller, meanwhile, did consulting for local fashion firms.
Heller and Judd, partners again after 15 years, are enjoying the thrill of something new, even though they financed the business with their own money and have humble offices in the back of a house. “That’s how we know how to start a business,” says Heller.
Max Minimizes
Leon Max rode a crest of popularity in the ‘80s. At its peak, his sprawling empire hit $50 million in sales and had six divisions. “At one point, we felt we could go into any area and get part of the market,” he says.
But he misjudged the market, making forays into such areas as men’s and children’s clothing, and the golden goose turned into a runaway train. Max also fell into the trap of “believing his own PR” and spent millions on ego-stroking image advertising, industry observers say.
Meanwhile, department stores--which represented 70% of Max’s sales--were either going under or slashing their budgets.
Max knew he needed to pull in the reins, and today his sales volume is about half what it used to be.
“No one downsizes by choice,” he says, “but sensible business people do it in response to the market. People took it as a sign of weakness, but it was smart to adjust to the economic climate. We adjusted by doing private label, selling only to department store’s best branches and starting our own stores.”
Max, 38, says his seven Max Studio stores, including a sleek, futuristic-looking shop in the Beverly Center, are profitable.
He says he also had to address the changing contemporary market. Once a stronghold of young, innovative designers using creative fabrics, Max says it’s now dominated by those dealing in inexpensive, highly decorated rayons.
“I had the choice of going more mainstream--which meant making clothes that fit larger bodies, were more garish in color and could not have interesting construction--or downscaling and putting out things I liked.”
He chose the latter, cutting his overhead and axing the men’s and children’s divisions, Max Studio Basics and Leon Max. The Max Studio label remains, and is largely aimed at working women in their 30s and 40s.
“Leon’s product has gotten much better,” says buying consultant Sandy Richman. “He’s definitely making a comeback.”
Max, a native of Russia who bicycles to his Glendale office from his Los Feliz bungalow, has always been known as a fashion minimalist, and his designs haven’t changed dramatically.
His work includes many variations on the soft suit--a slouchy jacket with skirt or fluid pants, a prominent look in many spring collections. He also offers separates, lean column dresses and jumpsuits. Colors are generally soft neutrals, and fabrics include rayon and linen. Prices run $80 for blouses, less than $100 for pants and $200 for jackets.
Back to Design
Christine Albers changed her business to stave off burnout. The German-born designer had been running her own show for 15 years and wore all the hats, from creator to businesswoman. But when things began to get overwhelming, she made a decision.
“One does the business or one does the design,” she says. “For me, it was becoming less and less design and more and more doing business.” So last year, Albers, 52, sold her business to the Taiwan-based Bao Chunt Textile Corp. (BCTC), an apparel company that, up to that point, had specialized in budget-conscious private label clothing. BCTC now owns the Albers name and the designer is paid a salary and royalties.
Outwardly, the Christine Albers label’s the same, and Albers still designs sportswear separates that often feature ethnic prints and details.
But elsewhere the business has changed. The line moved from young designer to more conservative bridge departments, which means her prices, and customers, have moved closer to mainstream. She also switched into more reasonably priced cottons and silks, including crinkled and crushed fabrics and mud cloth, a delicate, hand-painted, sand-washed fabric that resembles the fabric originally worn by Chinese silk farmers.
Saks Fifth Avenue and I. Magnin carry the line, but the jury’s still out on Albers’ adjustment to a more moderate look. “She hasn’t found her customer,” said one local industry analyst.
Company executives estimate Albers’ first year sales at about $6 million, or roughly double her peak volume on her own.
For Albers, the major adjustment to the new arrangement was learning to function with a few more layers of command. “I can’t make instant decisions. I can’t order a zipper without filling out a requisition form.” But she’s not complaining, because she’s also gained freedom and time to focus on design.
“It’s nice to not worry about your paycheck or paying the bills,” she says. “The change gives me energy.”
