I.M.: Isaac Mizrahi creates a complete outfit out of a collection of spicy accessories
12 Mar 2019.

by Drew Rowsome -

In the midst of his delightful autobiography I.M., author Isaac Mizrahi casually states that all that one needs to learn about fashion can be gleaned from D.V., Diana Vreeland's autobiography. Though Mizrahi never quite achieves, or descends to, the wacky wtf brilliance of Vreeland's demented opus, it is not for lack of intent. 

I.M. begins with Mizrahi explaining the original impetus for the book and how he, much as he explains his process of designing, trimmed and cut and rearranged for "shape." As he gives a list and brief discussion of the "tiny things, the day-to-day history of my own private life," that he edited out of I.M., the reader is both relieved and disappointed. I.M. is going to be an actual autobiography with a coherent story and a certain degree of honesty. The surprise is that it is such an enjoyable one.

Introductions dispensed with, Mizrahi flashes back to the pivotal moment when his mother was coerced into buying him a Barbie. From there the intersection of his artistic impulses - the vivid passages on his puppet theatre extravaganzas are as magnificent as the glittery productions must have been - and his sexuality. It is there that I.M. is the most powerful, recounting the life of a gay Syrian Jew with a weight problem, driven to create beauty and become a star, and, not insignificantly, desperate to be loved. 

It is a coming out story on two levels. The subtext of Mizrahi's sexuality is never far from the surface and is often the dominant thread. Mizrahi was one of the first well-known designers to come out and he paid a price for it. He also lived through the AIDS crisis, Studio 54, and being born into a tight-knit religious community. It was not an easy process and he though he minimizes that throughout I.M. it just makes his bravery even more noteworthy. Those passages, right up to his current dilemma in regards to his sisters and their children, are tremendously affecting, moving and important.

Mizrahi's artistic coming out made him a celebrity designer, with the accent on celebrity. As such he has a position to maintain, a fan base to feed, and little need for discretion, there are few secrets that haven't already been aired. The passages detailing his rise to fame and notoriety are giddy fun, reflecting the heady artsy atmosphere of the '80s when anything was possible and too much of everything was not enough. There is gossip, Mizrahi moved in the New York demi-monde A-list, but the most intriguing passages detail Mizrahi's attempts at actual friendships, where they went right and where they went wrong.

Some of those are expected - Sandra Bernhard, Madonna, designers like Calvin Klein and Perry Ellis - but the portraits are precise and revealing, even if more revealing of Mazrahi than the subjects. Others are more nuanced and fascinating. The artistic ferment in New York City at that time also included great gay artists like Stephen Sondheim and Mark Morris. Mazrahi's relationships with them are much meatier reading than one would expect from a celebrity autobiography. Yet the overarching relationship is with Mizrahi's mother, a monstre sacré who is less a supporting player than a rival starring diva throughout I.M.

Mizrahi is, of course, an unreliable narrator and details get glossed over or just left out, and all events are framed from his point of view in hindsight. It's his autobiography and it is his right, especially when it reads so smoothly and is so entertaining. Even for this reader who has little interest in fashion or the business of fashion, the tales of Mizrahi's rise and fall and rise and fall, from his own couture label to Chanel to Target and now Xcel Brands, is fascinating and clearly recounted. And his memory of what people were wearing is phenomenal, with descriptions of fabrics, cuts and colours that achieve a bizarre and hilarious level of OCD camp. 

Mizrahi has been seeing therapists for most of his life so he has a real knack for being revelatory while withholding crucial information. His attempts to describe his insomnia, depression, the art of cabaret as personal expression, and the difficulty of establishing a relationship with the man who is now his husband, are the weakest parts of the book. Perhaps because they superficially appear to be the deepest. Mizrahi's demons are no match for his joie de vivre, at least in the way he writes. He is now more known as a television personality than he ever was as a designer or the cabaret performer he now is. We never get to know the real Isaac Mizrahi - even Mizrahi admits that that is still a work in progress - but it is impossible not to be absorbed in this fabulous monologue that almost feels like conversation.

I'm sure that Mizrahi will be teasing the highlights on the epic promotional press tour he has planned. but I'm also sure that those will be different for everyone who reads I.M. - it is a complete outfit rather than a collection of spicy item accessories. I've already mentioned the puppet shows but Mick Jagger, Sarah Jessica Parker, auditioning and being in the film Fame, Janet Jackson, Jack Nicholson, the making of Unzipped, Liza Minnelli, Liza Minelli's wedding, and Audrey Hepburn must be added to the list of vignettes that do Diana Vreeland proud. Mizrahi claims at the end of the book to have revealed his true self, both in the pages and onstage. That is an impossible task but the Isaac Mizrahi we meet is a flawed and fabulous man whom it is sheer pleasure to encounter.