Mother Superior

Diane Von Furstenberg

A red crocodile Hermes bag swings into the burgundy limousine. Diane Von Furstenberg follows. We have twenty-four minutes to get from the Hotel Carlyle—where she resides now that her son, Alexandre (sixteen), and daughter, Tatiana (fifteen), are away at boarding school—to a SoHo studio for a photo shoot with Bert Stem. The woman New Yorkers always call the best mother of her generation is chewing a wad of her kids' favorite bubble gum. She immediately discounts her expertise in the mother business.

"I don't know if I'm the good mother people say I am. I try, but how can you ever tell? It's difficult with your children; it's difficult with your parents. You love them, you miss them, there are so many things you want to tell them, but you can't say it.

"I write to my children at least three times a week. Sounds incredible? But I do. Little notes, little pictures, little tear sheets. And I tell them—do the other mothers write so much?" She laughs, and then remembers: "When they were very little I was so afraid I'd die and not leave any input of mine. I hope I have taught them values—be independent, be generous, have an open mind. I tell them and I tell them, but you don't know. . . Except one day I heard Alexandre talking to the dog. He was telling him all the things I'd been saying."

But she isn't certain. "I'd love to be a grandmother. Then you can spoil the grandchildren and not feel guilty. Being strict is a nightmare. Grandparents can compensate for all the mistakes they made with their children."

At the studio, assistants swarm around the woman whose business earns about $150 million a year. "Listen," she says, "the whole world may think you're great, but your children will think you're stupid. It's very good, very humbling."

William Norwich