André Leon Talley: Style Is Forever,” a new exhibition at the SCAD Museum of Art in Savannah (August 15 through January 11) and the SCAD FASH Museum of Fashion + Film in Atlanta (October 15 through March 1), tells the singular story of a man who grew up in the racist Old South and came to conquer the world of fashion—and it tells that story through clothes.

Long before André came into my life, he’d already led a fascinating, complicated, and mercurial one himself. He was a distant, almost mythic figure to me—a curious mixture of bravado (even braggadocio), glamour, kindness, and faith. I learned later that he was brought up in Durham, North Carolina, mostly by his grandmother Bennie Frances Davis, who worked as a cleaning lady at Duke University for 50 years. Her clothes, if few, were immaculate—for her, being well-dressed was both a compliment to other people and a service to oneself—and she was adored by her grandson.

André had been an exemplary student at Brown University, after which he moved to New York City and began an apprenticeship at The Costume Institute of The Metropolitan Museum under the redoubtable Diana Vreeland in 1974. And though André absolutely savored New York, he had no money, so he picked up incredible pieces at thrift stores, including the long military coat that he wore constantly—including to the party that The Met held at the end of the official gala, where he joined all the other kids who wanted to see what the guests were wearing as they raced through the Great Hall to their waiting limousines.

He also found a pith helmet, army shirts (always laundered and starched), a safari jacket, and Bermuda shorts, and with these he cut a distinctive, often eccentric, figure.

FAST FRIENDS
Talley and Linda Evangelista backstage at the Chanel couture show in 1992. Photo by Roxanne Lowit.

Vreeland—who later said of André, “He was the only person who knew more about fashion than I do”—introduced him to Andy Warhol, who gave him his first job, manning the switchboards at his Interview magazine. In May 1976, Sal Traina captured him at Calvin Klein’s apartment wearing an outfit I love—a tiny bit daring, very old-school spick-and-span: André is lounging on Calvin’s racy leather bed in almost knee-length white shorts and a starched striped shirt with a white collar (flourished with a narrow ribbon tie pulled into an Edwardian bow), a boldly bandaged straw hat, and thigh-high socks and lace-up shoes that made his exceedingly long legs longer still.

From the heady years of Manhattan, he spirited away to Paris to become a fashion editor for WWD in those even more rip-roaring years of the late ’70s. He was then a wispy figure who, at six feet six, dominated every room, wearing bowed patent evening shoes with his evening suits (often double-breasted), a long ribbon of satin tied into a bow at the neck, and a polka-dot cravat in his breast pocket. Whether he was escorting the tall Iman or the more petite Cher, he was the beacon in the crowd, as well as the protector, and the amuser.