Miuccia Prada has become the most-watched designer working in fashion today.

In 1913, her grandfather Mario opened Fratelli Prada, a leather goods store in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, where he made suitcases and trunks for the Italian royals.

Mrs. Prada herself is a walking contradiction — a Communist-turned-luxury goods purveyor; a feminist-turned-fashion designer; a mime-turned-corporate mouthpiece.

Prada started with bags, designing women's clothes in 1988, her secondary line Miu Miu in 1993, menswear in 1994 and Prada Sport in 1997. She will launch her first fragrance this fall.

The notion of a Prada epicenter began in New York, when Koolhaas designed a similarly bold space on the site of the former Guggenheim Museum in SoHo.

The EpiCenter couldn't just be a nice display for objects and clothes, but make a statement about architecture, a place for special events, and to address the problem of a company becoming big and wanting to stay small and sophisticated.

Mrs. Prada's epicenter shakes up L.A.

The fashion designer hopes her new "epicenter" store opening Friday on Rodeo Drive will help her get to know the city better.

Los Angeles Times
By Booth Moore
Times Staff Writer
July 14, 2004

It's hard to believe it was only nine years ago when Uma Thurman floated into the Oscars in that ethereal lavender gown, the moment that bought Prada to the public consciousness in a way only the red carpet can. Since then, Miuccia Prada has become the most-watched designer working in fashion today. The nylon status backpack, the bowling bag, the luxe fur-trimmed parka, the postcard-print circle skirt and the jeweled moccasin are just a few of the trends she has created over the years. And unlike many of her contemporaries, she did it without the design legacy of a historical clothing house to inspire her.

Los Angeles knows Prada. But she does not know Los Angeles so well, apart from stopping here with her family on California vacations, during which they've toured the state's natural parks and cruised Highway 1. But her new "epicenter" store opening Friday on Rodeo Drive is designed to change all that.

She hopes the space will provide an opportunity for her to get to know the city better, and for the city to get to know itself. That is the concept of an "epicenter," she says. It's a place from which ideas can spread — ideas not only about fashion but about architecture, art and philosophy too. Designed by Rem Koolhaas and Ole Scheeren, the store is, of course, filled with the latest Prada must-haves. But it will also be a forum for public events such as tonight's VIP dinner and a platform for artists (computer screens hidden between the racks of clothing are one form of display for images and words).

In town this week from Milan, Prada appears atop the store's dramatic dark wood staircase and navigates her way down between the pairs of lust-worthy crystal-studded stilettos clustered on the steps. In her 50s, the designer has a handsome face, a mothering quality and a real-woman figure. She is dressed in a creamy beige leather skirt dotted with nickel-size mirrors, a gray short-sleeve sweater, sparkly black slides with bows on top and a green feather headband, just a typical workday outfit in the Prada universe. On her earlobes is some serious ice — dangling diamond vines.

As she sits down amid more sparkle, emanating from the jeweled clasps of impossibly decadent crocodile purses arranged next to red train cases and fur pillows, it's evident that Mrs. Prada, as she is known to her employees, is going to be difficult to reach. She is friendly but guarded, and seems to resist answering certain questions because her complicated opinions would be too difficult to express in English, and they wouldn't lend themselves to sound bites.

The notion of a Prada epicenter began in New York, when Koolhaas designed a similarly bold space on the site of the former Guggenheim Museum in SoHo. The significance of the location created pressure to do something interesting. "It couldn't just be a nice display for objects and clothes but not make any statement about architecture," she says. "It had to be a place for special events, and to address the problem of a company becoming big and wanting to stay small and sophisticated — all the contradictions that come with wanting to grow."

That store opened in December 2001, helping to rekindle life downtown post-Sept. 11. "Everyone thought we were crazy. The mayor came to the opening because it was a big effort and a big risk, a risk that has paid off." Another epicenter, designed by the Tate Modern's Swiss architects, Herzog & de Meuron, opened in Tokyo's Aoyama district in June 2003.

The epicenters are antithetical to the 1990s idea that a successful luxury brand must have identical stores around the globe. "That kind of flat identity was wrong," the designer says. Consumers crave new experiences when they travel, she explains, and the epicenters carry special, individualized merchandise. "Even though they are big stores, they work like little boutiques. I don't have to go through the bureaucracy. If I have something in mind, I just do it and send it. It's naive and a lot of fun. And quite often, things in these stores end up later in my collections."

Contradictions are at the core of all of Prada's creative activities, and she relishes talking about them. "One thing is not true without the opposite," she says. "Luxury is only luxury when it's in direct opposite to a lack of sophistication." There are also many contradictions in what women want to wear. "You want to be beautiful, but you also want to be clever; you want to be practical, but you also want to be free. To explore these complications is not only what I like, it's what I think because I see so many contradictions in reality. It is the problem of surviving in this complicated world."

Contradictions are inherent in Prada's intensely coveted, pretty-ugly designs: a status bag made of industrial nylon; a feminine pleated skirt worn with mannish oxford shoes; coats with Old World, couture-like embellishment that are screen-printed with futuristic, computer-generated landscapes.

The nylon backpack with the silver triangle trademark, her first big success, came out of the idea that something could be both practical and sophisticated. "I come from a background of leather, and I thought it was really boring and old. I like industrial things, and I found a very special fabric that was both technological and beautiful," she says. "It took six or seven years to convince anyone to work with it because they couldn't stitch it, but then the workmanship turned out to be very good. The nylon bags were more expensive than the leather bags. That was the beginning of what was interesting for me."

The postcard print circle skirts in this year's spring collection, which have spawned a thousand imitations, were not about a 1950s revival. Instead, the collection was designed around the notion of tourism and a mix of different cultures. Tie-dye sweaters, wood bead necklaces and colorful huaraches were thrown together with skirts, shirts and scarves in painterly prints of Rome and Venice. "I wanted to be true to my origins, working with different ethnic things but done for European people."

For fall, she updated the tourist skirts with moody, computer-generated landscapes influenced by both the 19th century German Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich and video games. The collection, one of her best, also featured coats and Cossack hats that brought to mind Russian army uniforms, except that Prada's also dripped with the chunky crystals of a Romanov empress.

Heart-, skull- and rose-shaped leather charms fastened to belts and bags started with the designer's observation that women like to play with things — their keys or their jewelry, perhaps. "They reproduced very well," she says, fingering the silver robot charms on a black crocodile purse beside her.

Designer's dimensions

Prada herself is a walking contradiction — a Communist-turned-luxury goods purveyor; a feminist-turned-fashion designer; a mime-turned-corporate mouthpiece.

In 1913, her grandfather Mario opened Fratelli Prada, a leather goods store in the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II in Milan, where he made suitcases and trunks for the Italian royals. (The original store is now the Prada flagship.) Miuccia Prada comes from a strict Catholic family and recalls her childhood as boring.

She detested the conservative pleated navy skirts and white shirts that her mother made her wear. Though now, looking back, she says, "I like those things." They undoubtedly have contributed to her aesthetic, which can lean toward utilitarian, playing on the idea of uniforms, which fascinate her in their ability to disguise one's identity.

In the 1960s, she rebelled by buying vintage clothes — ethnic and futuristic styles as well as designs by Yves Saint Laurent. She won't offer any specifics about her favorite pieces but estimates she bought something from every time period. Unlike many of today's designers, she doesn't seek out inspiration at vintage stores, however. "Vintage doesn't interest me anymore," she says. "I think it was a big part of my work, but that we have moved forward."

During her time at the University of Milan, where she received a doctorate of political science, she joined the Communist Party. She was also a dedicated feminist. Still, she refused to don the 1960s activist uniform. Blue jeans have never been part of Prada's sartorial repertoire. Although she insists that her political convictions haven't cooled, she won't elaborate, except to say that she believes feminism is something that needs to be reconsidered and that she hopes to have a panel discussion on the subject at the Fondazione Prada, established in Milan in 1995 as a cultural center for art exhibitions and other activities. When pressed for comment on the Iraq war — a lightning rod in Italy, where the prime minister supported the cause — she demurs, saying, "I don't like to comment on these kinds of things. It's not my role."

After her schooling, she decided to train to become a mime at Milan's Piccolo Teatro. But her parents did not approve of her career choice, and eventually they persuaded her to take over her grandfather's store. In 1978, she met Patrizio Bertelli, who owned a leather factory in Tuscany, and they connected immediately. She gave him exclusive rights to produce Prada leather goods. In 1987, they were married. They have two teenage sons and share a love of modern art. Their collection is one of the most important in Italy, and in the past they have landed on Art Forum's list of the world's top 100 collectors. The Fondazione has hosted exhibitions by Dan Flavin, Anish Kapoor, Sam Taylor-Wood and Louise Bourgeois, and financed a film by Milanese artist Francesco Vezzoli.

Prada and Bertelli, now her chief executive, have a notoriously tempestuous relationship, but she gives him credit for her success. "In a completely different way, we arrive at the same conclusion. Sometimes if I have the general idea, I don't care about the rest. But he cares about the details. I would never do anything without him." He is the one who always pushes her beyond her comfort level. At first, she just wanted to do bags, but Bertelli persuaded her to design women's clothes in 1988, her secondary line Miu Miu in 1993, menswear in 1994 and Prada Sport in 1997. She will launch her first fragrance this fall.

She hasn't considered trying her hand at the lower end of the fashion market, as many designers have done, following Isaac Mizrahi's lead at Target. (Most recently, Chanel's Karl Lagerfeld announced that he is collaborating with the cheap chic retailer H&M.) "Copies, they are another way of being accessible," she says. "Of course, it upsets you initially, but it's a sign that what you are doing makes sense to people. That's important to me, because fashion should help people, not add extra problems."

The privately held Prada Group, which also includes Helmut Lang and Jil Sander, has had problems of its own, suffering slumps after Sept. 11 and the SARS outbreak in Asia and racking up $1 billion plus in debt. But the last few women's collections have been blockbusters, and sales are up. On the topic of a future public stock offering, she says diplomatically, "Who knows? If and when we think it would be a good moment, maybe."

Last month, Prada's career was recognized with a special award from the Council of Fashion Designers of America. In the past, she has been famously ambivalent about her role in the industry, quoted as saying that her line of work is "silly." She avoids the limelight, only peeking out briefly to wave at the end of her runway shows, in stark contrast to many designers' gratuitous, drawn-out bows.

But lately she has had a change of heart. (She says it was a result of listening to people she respects — thinkers and artists, not magazine editors.) "I'm starting to understand that fashion is important," she says. "Making dresses for three sophisticated people doesn't interest me. But I discovered that maybe my work is not stupid, because to make things that make sense to other people shows that you have this antenna to read the present time. What you want and like is also what other people want and like."

Mrs. Prada's epicenter shakes up L.A.
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