Gucci E-Book

Patrizia Gucci

• Herausgeber: Ali Ribelli Edizioni
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

From the founding of the company by her great-grandfather Guccio to the love story of her parents Paolo and Yvonne, through to the many years working in Florence and abroad, Patrizia Gucci retraces the steps of the success of one of the greatest dynasties of Italian entrepreneurship. Personal memories are interwoven with the story behind the creation of models that would go on to become objects idolised all over the world. There is no lack of painful moments, such as the tragic death of her cousin Maurizio, and finally the conflicts that would lead to the sale of the family business. For the first time, a Gucci personally tells the true story of the family that gave birth to one of the most internationally-known Italian brands, synonymous with timeless elegance. And, along the way, also clears up a few things ...  

Leseprobe

Gucci. A successful dynasty as recounted by a real Gucci

by Patrizia Gucci

All photographs published in this book come from Patrizia Gucci’s private collection. The publisher remains available for any iconographic sources not identified.

Publishing director: Jason R. Forbus

Graphic design and layout by Sara Calmosi

ISBN 978-88-3346-907-2

Published by Ali Ribelli Edizioni, Gaeta 2021©

Series – Memoir

www.aliribelli.com – [email protected]

Italian edition published by Mondadori Libri S.p.a., Milano

Any reproduction of this book is strictly forbidden, even partially, with means of any kind, without the clear authorisation of the Editor.

Gucci

A successful dynastyas recounted by a real Gucci

Patrizia Gucci

AliRibelli

To my family.

Contents

Is it real Gucci?

Foreword

My father Paolo

My parents get married

My childhood in Florence

Our house on via della Camilluccia in Rome

Via delle Caldaie

I wanted to be an archaeologist

Three very lively boys

It all started at the Savoy Hotel

Passion and poise

New York, New York!

Working in the family business

Casellina

A difficult time

Remembering Maurizio

The past as a backdrop to the present

To sum up

Photos

Is it real Gucci?

From the beginning of time, any brand that has reached the pinnacle of fame has had to endure the impact of counterfeit products. It has had to protect and defend itself from forgeries. And just as a product can be a fake, so too can a story – especially if linked to such a highly-renowned name and brand.

When I decided to write these lines, the story of Gucci – as the dynasty that gave rise to a fashion brand with an international calibre – was once again on everyone’s lips. The reason was the filming taking place in Italy (whilst the country was still in full lockdown due to the pandemic caused by Covid-19) of Ridley Scott’s film, House of Gucci. Starring Lady Gaga, Adam Driver, Al Pacino and many others, it was obviously all over social media – proving to be a great distraction in what was still such a dramatic period in the history of our country, to be able to focus on the lights of such glamorous and must-discussed chatter, that extended from the Aosta Valley to Lake Como, from Milan to Rome.

But let us take a step back.

It was May 2003. My sister Elisabetta and I received a call from our father’s brother, Uncle Roberto. He invited us to meet Giannina Facio, wife of Sir Ridley Scott, who had contacted him by telephone. Intrigued by the offer and by the fame of the well-known director, we decided to join in on the meeting at our uncle’s country house, in the hills of Florence, where Giannina Facio and her assistant had come to visit. We were seated in gorgeous armchairs in the garden that was in full bloom and, as we sipped tea served with traditional English biscuits, our conversation began.

Giannina Facio informed us that her husband intended to make a film about the Gucci family. Although the most significant event in the history of the dynasty, and which had long attracted media attention, was the 1995 murder of Maurizio Gucci, the film was supposed to focus on my grandfather Aldo and my father Paolo, certainly the most interesting characters in the family history. The aim of the meeting was not only to inform us about the project but also to gain our consent.

Our surprise only added to the gratification that a director as famous as Ridley Scott was interested in the history of Gucci and that he was asking for permission, basically our consent, to tell the story of the family. We were truly convinced that a marvellous film would be made and, in the wake of such enthusiasm, we all had dinner together that evening at Villa San Michele in Fiesole, all in an extremely relaxed and almost friendly atmosphere.

Shortly thereafter, we received an elegant letter from an English screenwriter, an extremely polite note reassuring us about the veracity of the narrative and the utmost respect with which all would be handled.

However, after the meeting and the letter, we heard nothing more.

Several years passed without receiving any further news about the project. Despite our requests, Giannina Facio has never provided any updates.

On occasion, we have heard of certain announcements that Ridley Scott has made to the media but nothing really ever came of it. For the sake of scruple, we even contacted the production company, which informed us that the project had been put on hold.

Then in December 2020, the media suddenly started reporting that Ridley Scott was about to make a film about the murder of Maurizio Gucci.

As more information came to light, an increasing number of details emerged, confirming that the film would not only focus on the terrible case of Maurizio’s murder but would also focus – just like in the distant original project – on a good number of the most authoritative members of the family: my grandfather Aldo, my uncle Rodolfo (Maurizio’s father) and my father Paolo.

I immediately sought to determine which sources were reliable in seeking out details and points of reference. I came to discover that Ridley Scott’s production would be entirely based on The House of Gucci, a book published in 2000 by an English journalist – Sara Gay Forden – that had never been authorised by our family.

I was stunned. No-one has ever contacted me or my sister, nor any other family members, let alone have we ever heard from Giannina Facio again, in contrast to the assurances given during the meeting at my Uncle Roberto’s home.

Continuing my research, I realised with the utmost distress that much of what is contained in the book by Sara Gay Forden is inaccurate and numerous falsehoods are reported.

The journalist, for example, defines my beloved Nanna Olwen as “a servant”, which was absolutely not the case since, before marrying Aldo Gucci, she was the lady-in-waiting for the Queen of Romania, before travelling to Florence in the 1920s and residing at Villa Sparta in Fiesole. It was on the occasion of a visit to the Gucci store (which had opened on Via del Parione in 1923, as per the documentation filed in the Historical Archives of the Chamber of Commerce), when in the company of the queen, that Olwen met my grandfather. They later married in Wales in 1927 and never divorced.

That’s not all. My great-grandfather Guccio, as the founder of the Gucci business, is defined in the book as “a poor dishwasher” when in reality, my ancestor had left for London and was employed as a lift boy at the Hotel Savoy, at that time being the only hotel in Europe with such modernism. It was certainly not a job for just anyone.

In outlining the profile of Guccio Gucci, Gay Forden’s book describes him as a ‘connoisseur’ of leather and its processing, when he had actually entrusted skilled craftsmen capable of transforming his brilliant ideas and intuitions into products intended to become items of excellence.

According to what Gay Forden wrote, “Cuoio grasso soon became a Gucci trademark”. Yet also this is not true. My grandfather went to Scotland with my father to see the most qualified leather supplier. Together, they selected a specific quality of leather, making it an indispensable material in the production of bags and suitcases, also due to its distinctive and unique fragrance. It was then that the famous brindle was also created, which later went on to become an essential feature in Gucci productions.

Furthermore, according to that written in the book, Guccio is said to have made his children promise that control of the company would never end up in the hands of a woman. This is yet another falsehood, given that Grimalda – the eldest child and only daughter – was employed by the company for many years, leaving only once she had reached retirement age to go off and enjoy a more peaceful life.

The English writer then tells of never-ending quarrels between my grandfather Aldo and my father Paolo and talks of great offenses being committed against him with Aldo supposedly even calling Paolo an “idiota”. In reality, they both had the same strong and dominant character, thus there was – quite understandably – no lack of disagreements between them. Still, Aldo never questioned the genius creativity of his son – to the contrary, he recognised and appreciated it.

One truly serious inaccuracy attributes a “second marriage” to my father, who only ever married my mother, Yvonne. The woman who is passed off as his second wife was only and solely a friend. Finally, the English journalist writes that, “Paolo left Florence for New York in 1978 and was ousted from any operational role in the company by 1982”.

Again, this is untrue. Paolo actually opened his own atelier in 1978 to create Gucci products, with the aim of demonstrating to the other members of the family that he was the real creative mind in the family. He had designed a beautiful scarf inspired by Pompeii under the Gucci brand yet created by his designer Roberto Meciani. This scarf was then sent to New York to be part of an exhibition on Guccio Gucci. This move was judged as a blatant act of rivalry but that was not the case. The situation dragged on for some time, with Rodolfo continuing to complain until my exasperated father put an end to it by creating his own brand.

In 1988, my father won a lawsuit he had filed in the US against Maurizio, demonstrating that he was the only true designer of the company.

At that point, he was able to his creations: “Paolo, designed by Paolo Gucci”.

I’ll stop here, with just one brief and final thing to consider.

In today’s world, where information travels at an impressive speed, bouncing from the media to social media and vice versa, it is not always easy to go back to the primary source and verify the details. Like weeds, fake news is difficult to eradicate.

This is all the more reason why, when approaching a story – particularly if it belongs to the family and involves many people and their most intimate and personal experiences – attention, research, measure, respect and a love for the truth are all required.

Especially if you want to make a show out of it.

Foreword

My name is Patrizia Gucci. The company bearing my surname was created in Florence by my great grandfather, Guccio, at the beginning of 1900s when it was just a small workshop.

Today, the company is a multinational but that Gucci has nothing to do with us. The last time I entered a Gucci shop, nobody even recognised me and a wound in my heart opened once again.

This is why I want to tell my story, to bear witness to the history of my family.

But let me start first of all with another loss.

My father Paolo

The memory of my father waving goodbye to me at London Airport is still engraved in my mind.

It was autumn 1995. After my father’s last visit to our home in Florence, I was returning after having accompanied him back to England, where he lived. I watched his hand move as if he wanted to brush away the life that was slipping away from him – the life he would no longer live. For he died two weeks later.

How many times have I recalled that gesture that pains me so deeply to this day? It was the beginning and perhaps the end of a very long chain of events and inner searching, evidence of an intense relationship between a father and his daughter.

A few days earlier, my father had come to Florence from Sussex, where he was living with a new female companion. He had come to see my mother, Yvonne, just three months after his last visit. Though separated, they often met up and called each other. During the last telephone call, my mother had detected a strange tone in his voice. I, too, was shocked when I first saw him – he had lost a lot of weight and was quite pale.

My mother immediately gathered a team of doctors and made appointments for tests at the hospital. That night, Paolo slept alongside her and, holding her hand, confessed that she was the only woman he had ever really loved. The diagnosis given by the doctors was alarming: Hepatitis C, last stage. The only cure was a transplant that would have to be done in England, at King’s Hospital, the best in the field. However, the danger was that he might suffer kidney failure after surgery.

My father did not appear particularly alarmed when he heard the news. He had been suffering from liver problems for some time, even though he played them down. The day before leaving for England, he left some shirts to be laundered with my mother, saying he would collect them on his next visit. He hugged me tightly, as he had never done before, and even complimented me, saying how elegant I was – also something that had never happened before. It was most unusual behaviour for him.

The following day, he and I drove to the Florence airport. We were flying together to London then I would fly straight back to Italy. I helped him pack his suitcase then we tended to the waxbills, tropical red and orange birds that he was temporarily keeping in my mother’s garden. My father had always had a great passion for animals and, true to his grand ways, he had just bought fifty of these passerines. He wanted to take the whole lot back with him to England but I managed to convince him to take only two, which we placed in a shoebox with holes in the lid.

Sensing he was truly unwell, I could barely hold back my tears. Yet, nothing seemed to suggest that deep inside he knew his time was drawing near. It was clear to me that he had accepted his fate. I later came to know that his doctors had given him a device that he was to have on him at all times, as it which alert him with a beep when an organ became available for a transplant. Yet, he cast the device aside, not wanting the operation out of fear that he would have to spend the rest of his life as an invalid.

Faced with losing him, I realised how much I loved him but also how much he had caused me to suffer. Although we had always had a complicated relationship, I felt I wanted to help him and ease his suffering now that we were spending our last moments together. But I didn’t know how.

We left my mother’s house on the hill of Poggio Imperiale, where my parents had lived together so many years and which now brought back a wave of memories.

Built in the 1960s, the house had been painstakingly designed, with large fireplaces and English-style windows looking out onto the garden. The top floor consisted of an attic and a large terrace, where my sister and I had spent much of our time – so much so that it had gradually become our special realm. It had a park that had been designed by a famous Florentine landscapist, who had a knack for making the most sophisticated garden look natural. There were sycamores, Tuscan pines, red hibiscus and iris of all colours, including the very rare black variety.

Our journey to London was not easy. We needed a wheelchair to take my father up to the plane. I walked beside him carrying his grey raincoat over my left arm, holding the shoebox with the birds in my right, making sure it would not be spotted. I made light conversation with my father but kept a watchful eye on the customs officials, fearing they would notice my compromising baggage.

In those moments, I mentally pictured the entire course of our life together: the pleasant times and the disappointments, the reprimands and the praise. It hurt me deeply to see him so tired and resigned to his fate.

For many years, since the early 1980s, my father had chosen to live in his beloved England, where he devoted himself to breeding the horses he most adored – Arabians. In Rusper, Sussex, he searched for and found a large estate with a manor house that he restored with style and elegance. On the property, he built a magnificent stable for his horses. Music was always played in the stable, as he was convinced that it cheered up the animals. Each horse had its own blanket with its name and “Stable PG” embroidered on it. The saddles too were original creations, with the dominant colours always being red and black.

Although he was now living in England, my father often came to Florence for business and also to get back in touch with his Italian side, which deep down he missed. He longed for Tuscan food and so off we would go to Trattoria Omero – a must whenever he would visit. There we would gorge on typical Tuscan fare: pappardelle with hare sauce, penne strascicate or fried rabbit with courgette. It was always lovely to have lunch with him – finally, he would devote some time to me. Not to mention, he had those funny Anglo-Tuscan ways that so amused me. Even his way of dressing was totally original. I remember him wearing a yellow tie with an emerald green jacket, colours only he could wear.