Rifat Madness

LIZ JOBEY

The Princess of Wales wears him. Madonna wears him. All the smart young women who want simple wearable clothes with an outrageous touch of the ethnic wear Rifat Ozbek. LIZ JOBEY reports on Britain's Turkish-born designer of the year

It's rare for a designer to affect, with a little cosmetic art, a striking resemblance to Diana Vreeland. But that is how Rifat Ozbek debuted in the British press in 1983. The likeness, in a Tatler spoof styled by Michael Roberts and photographed by David Bailey, was horrifying. And Mrs. Vreeland was delighted.

It is also rare for any designer to dress both Madonna and the Princess of Wales, but Ozbek did it with a moire suit-of-lights—Madonna's in black, with an embroidered Virgin on the back panel; the Princess's in the original aquamarine with gold moon and stars, but no tiara.

At a time when English fashion has gone a bit flat—"I miss the punks," said Bemadine Morris of The New York Times—Rifat Ozbek has managed to retain a sense of humor about clothes while selling more and more of them around the world. In 1984 he showed his first collection—twenty styles, five fabrics—in his parents' grand Cadogan Square apartment. Ninety percent of his orders went to America.

His second ("Beat") collection was based on French fifties B-movie stars—berets, matelot sweaters, peel-off eyeliner, and Gauloises papier mai's—and started the press recognition that has resulted in his winning the latest Dotty, Britain's fashion Oscar. Wearing casual clothes and muddy loafers, Ozbek received the Designer of the Year award at 10 Downing Street. "Would you like to say anything?" asked Mrs. Thatcher. "I'd just like to thank them all and leave," murmured Ozbek. "He'd like to thank you all," boomed the prime minister, adding quietly, "When are you going to design some nice men's shoes?"

Ozbek's personal mixture of the retiring and the outrageous comes over in his clothes: simple with a touch of the exotic. "They make rock wives into ladies," enthused Madeleine Gallay, who sells Ozbek in Los Angeles. "And real ladies, well, they give them a touch of glamour." Tina Chow, one of his close friends, says they appeal to "women who are young, or trying to stay young. His clothes aren't necessarily serious, and at this time don't we need a bit of lightheartedness?"

Fun crops up a lot in the Ozbek story. At seventeen he went from Istanbul to Liverpool to study architecture. For the son of a wealthy old Turkish family, swapping a luxurious house overlooking the Bosporus for the looming Victorian architecture and murky river Mersey must have been a shock, but he loved it. After two years he abandoned architecture and entered fashion school in London in 1973 dressed as a "Glam-Rock Hippie." Dressing up is still a favorite trick, an indulgence to amuse his friends. "He does the best impersonation of me I've ever seen in my life," insisted Marie Helvin, the former Mrs. David Bailey. "And he's well known for doing the trio—me, Jerry Hall, and Tina Chow."

"He's my moviegoing companion," shoe designer Manolo Blahnik said. "He puts first his friends. It's like his clothes—he has a human touch." This humanity shows its public face in Ozbek's involvement with the AIDS Crisis Trust, set up by Marguerite Littman, the Louisiana-born wife of a London lawyer. "We were having lunch—Marguerite, Tina Chow, and me—and we had all lost people and nothing was being done in England," explained Ozbek. "You needed someone. . . . Judy Peabody was doing it in New York, so Marguerite was the ideal person."

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Their first major event, an auction at Christie's, raised £250,000 for Britain's first AIDS center. Yves Saint Laurent donated an £8,000 dress, Cartier a ring. Boy George bought the Givenchy hat. Lord Snowdon and David Bailey took anyone's portrait for £250. Ozbek gave a dress.

Philanthropy, he says, puts fashion in perspective, and perhaps that is the key to his success. His clothes are worn around the world by celebrities, yes: Cher in a black suit from his Mexican collection; other things for Daryl Hannah, Whitney Houston, Sade, Michelle Pfeiffer, Sandra Bernhard, Linda Gray. Women wear his clothes because they have a comfortable kind of glamour. It comes from the cut— simple sheaths and shifts and suits—and controlled touches of glitter which reveal his origins but never descend into cheap ethnicity.

To qualify for permanent residency in Britain, he did a three-year stint at Monsoon, a middle-market chain of boutiques selling clothes with an Eastern bent, interrupted by the obligatory three months in the Turkish army. And it was at a party in Istanbul in 1984 that Ozbek met Abbass Gokal, an executive of Gulf shipping, who offered him £60,000 and loan security at the bank to bring out a collection under his own name. Never deluded about his own lack of business acumen, Ozbek immediately handed over the administration to two friends, Cindy White, who manages the London office, and Robert Forrest, the all-important marketing manager based in New York, who brought the American buyers to that first collection. The clothes are now manufactured in Italy—his relationship with Lock's, the royal embroiderers responsible for the Madonna/Princess of Wales jacket, is suspended. Bergdorf Goodman, which bought during the rage for Young British Designers in '84 and '85 and then stopped, saw the latest collection and is ordering again.

The longevity of his designs is proved by the way they reappear. "I went to a party at the Guildhall," said Marie Helvin, "and I wore my Rifat jacket from ages ago. And the Princess of Wales wore hers, in red. I rang up Jerry the other night and she said, 'Which Rifat are you wearing?' "

Rifat shrugs and says he doesn't do what he calls "major evening." The people who buy his clothes are the same the world over. "The girls who buy my clothes buy equal designers from other cities. 'Gaultier, maybe, and Alai'a. They do sexy clothes. They respect the female form. Women don't want to look ugly, or vulgar." It's a quiet chic, embodied by Lucy Ferry (wife of Bryan), by Tina Chow, by Nell Campbell.

Reminded of the possible trappings of international designerdom, he ups his chin in acknowledgment. "The thing is, I'm not like that. It's fabulous to have a yacht, a plane, everything those designers in America have. But you have to be a different person. I'll never have those things or"—with a gurgle of laughter—"you know, a tower."

He's not planning on couture, either. "I don't want caprices. I design it, the people who like it can buy it. I don't want to do with special fittings and small talk and hello-darling-you-look-fabulous-today. And I don't do wedding dresses, because I don't believe in marriage, full stop. So no wedding dresses from the House of Ozbek."