№ 5 a full-length, one-woman play by William Allen

94 North Main Street Homer, NY 13077 607-316-7831 [email protected] © 2004 William Allen

SCENE 1

(The lights rise on Coco Chanel's apartment on the Rue Cambon, Paris. There is a small, elegant sofa, a gilded chair, a dress form, and Coromandel screens as a backdrop. The screens cover a treasure trove of props that Coco drags out and uses onstage. There is a coffee table with plenty of illustrated fashion books. She is sitting at a piano ready to play. Coco is wearing an original pair of Chanel lounging pajamas, a string of pearls, and a pair of scissors around her neck. All of the illustrations mentioned in the script, those mentioned in books and the painting by Picasso, should be reproduced in the audience's program, albeit in miniature. And the program should be in the form of an invitation.)

COCO (singing and playing the piano) I've lost my poor Coco./Coco, my lovable dog,/Lost him close to the Trocadero./He's far away, if he's still running./I admit my biggest regret is that the more my man cheated on me, the more Coco remained faithful./You didn't happen to see my Coco?/Coco near the Trocadero./Co at the Tro/Co at the Tro/Coco at the Trocadero./Who has seen Coco?/Oh, Coco,/Who has seen Coco?

(She rises from the piano)

COCO (continuing) Ah, you didn't know I could sing. You do think I can sing, don't you? Well, the patrons of La Rotonde thought so. They loved my singing, and if they didn't, what did they know? They were drunk and in love. So they called me Coco. And the name stuck.

(She crosses DS.)

COCO (continuing) And I like it. It's more playful than Gabrielle. It has more je ne sais pas than...

(She says the name while striking a dramatic pose.)

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 2 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed.

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 3 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed.

COCO (continuing) Gabrielle Chanel. So I started as a chanteuse. I would sing, and they would drink, and I sounded better and better as the night went on. They were all soldiers at the barracks out to make a night of it, and they thought I was their little mascot-- their little Coco. And before you say anything or even think anything, I've heard the rumors, so don't think I'm ignoring them. You can believe what you want, and I'm not here to explode you bubble--is that the expression?--well, whatever it is, I am not here to do that; but does it really matter whether or not I was illegitimate, or whether or not I was an orphan, or if I had brothers and sisters? I am a self-made woman, and I'll not let anyone else claim responsibility for my success. No one.

(She reaches for a tray with a silver setting.)

COCO (continuing) Would you like tea or coffee? I would offer you something stronger, but I want your mind to be sharp when you're taking notes. If you're going to write an article about Chanel, you want to be sharp. You know that as a rule I don't grant interviews. You can't trust writers, present company excluded of course. The last time I gave an interview was the day that pigs did indeed fly.

(Coco laughs. The imaginary interviewer does not.)

COCO (continuing) That was a joke. Not much of a sense of humor, eh? Then let's get down to business, shall we? I thought that instead of your asking me a lot of silly questions, I would just talk and you would just write. Kind of a one-way street, but it will save the time of my denying vicious rumors, becoming upset with you, and throwing you out the door like a common hack. I'm not sure what it is you are writing about--is it my life story; is it the House of Chanel?; or do you want the whole legacy--from beginning to end? It doesn't matter, does it? I'll just babble and you tell me when you need to go to the bathroom.

(She studies her interviewer with some consternation. At this moment an audience member has become the interviewer. Coco approaches.)

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COCO (continuing) Will you stand up? I want to see something. Just stand up. Do you mind if I pick? (kneeling and examining a seam) Pret a port has come a long way, but can they spare the fabric? These seams should be serged and lapped. They look as if they've been glued. No offense. (as if the interviewer has said thank you) Your welcome. But what I wanted to point out is this.

(She indicates one of the following characteristics: chains, anything that's quilted, anything that's masculine such as pants and pockets, tweed, anything that's beige or black or two-toned, an open collar, a tie.)

COCO (continuing) Where do you think this comes from? Chanel. Where do you think this open neck comes from? Chanel. Where do you think these pockets come from? Chanel. The only reason you're comfortable is Chanel. You can thank me later. Now sit back down and start taking notes. Why should only men be comfortable? That's what I said to myself when I started wearing men's clothes. Why should only they have a pocket for their keys? I borrowed Etienne's jackets, his pants, his ties, even his boots. That's Etienne Balsan, you know. We had the same sized feet. We were riding horses, for God's sake. I wasn't going to pretend to be the Lady of Shallot while we were trampling through the woods on a sweaty horse. Men's clothes are real. Even those ridiculous Jodhpurs are real. Fashion is not fashion unless it's real. If it stays on the runway, or in the closet, it isn't worth its weight in ostrich feathers. I did away with those, too. Ostrich feathers don't do you much good when sailing on a friend's yacht in a twenty-knot breeze. But if fashion is not practical, it should stay on the runway. You want to see what I mean? You look at what men have designed. Yves St. Laurent, Pierre Cardin--their gender prohibits them from making an intelligent decision designing clothes for women. There is something about having a penis that clouds their thinking. And why is that? It's because they don't have to wear them. They prance around in comfortable men's clothing while their models hobble along in some medieval torture device. Now, I want you to see this.

(She crosses to the coffee table and grabs a large book. She opens it for the writer's inspection.

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She sees a picture of some far out, impossible to wear, haute couture design.)

COCO (continuing) This is what I'm talking about. Can you tell that a man designed this? Is this something you would wear to the beach or at the race track, or is it something you would wear on the moon? I've seen people in traction who were more comfortable.

(Showing another picture of a haute couture showing much skin and a miniskirt.)

COCO (continuing) And what about this creation? The mini-mini skirt. This would be fine on a cold day in January, wouldn't it. Men don't know women. They are only interested in painting a picture; in making a statement; in making themselves famous. Now look at this.

(She grabs another book from the table-- a book of Chanel illustrations. They look at another picture--one of Chanel's creations--a smart suit of beige and black.)

COCO (continuing) See any similarities? Of course you don't. At least I hope not. Smart--practical--doesn't look as if it came off a space ship. These are the shapes and styles at the Rue Cambon--the House of Chanel, and I'm damned proud of it. Are you offended if I say damned? Well, you'd better get used to it. It's going to be a long interview. So it started with this-- (picking up a hat from behind the screens) a simple boater. And my love affair with Etienne Balsan--rich and smart. My favorite kind of man. This is one of those rumors that I will substantiate. We were lovers, but I don't think there was much of a mystery. I was a kept woman. As I look back upon it, it was the right thing to do. I certainly had no qualms about living at Royallieu with Etienne and his horsey friends, and I had hardly any money. I call it a love affair, but it didn't last long enough for that. It was rather a like affair, and I was young and gullible, and he was happy and rich. But it all started with the

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 8 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed. boater. Would you like to try one on? Here we go.

(She approaches another audience member as if she were the interviewer.)

COCO (continuing) Let's put this on and see how it looks. It obviously needs a little pruning.

(She places the boater on the audience member's head and starts cutting off the pieces that are decorating it.)

COCO (continuing) Simplify, simplify. Cut a little here and a little there. You don't need all of this foo-foo. That's much better. (She lifts the volunteer from her chair) Now, imagine yourself on a yacht or at the race track. Nod to the elite. Go ahead. Hello, Madame SanSui. How lovely to see you finally getting some fresh air into those tired, old lungs. (to the interviewer) Now talk about them behind their backs. Oh, you don't know her? She was Etienne's grande horizontale before I came along. Actually it was before, during, and after I came along. Oh, she was a regular Claudine in her youth, but now look at her. Soon, she'll need a crane to lift those breasts. What? Who is Etienne? I'm surprised you don't know him. He and I were an item, you know. Etienne and I would go for a morning ride and the grande horizontale, there, would stay behind and quietly entertain the rest of his horsie friends. She would laugh and they would laugh, and she would make a joke about herself, and they would laugh even harder. She would snort, the horses would snort, and they all would laugh hysterically. And all the time they were thinking about those horses and how much money they had spent on them. (sitting the audience member down) Horses, too, were Etienne's life. I always thought that if I had a mane and a bridle in my mouth, he would have proposed. Of course I would have refused, but it's the gesture that counts. He was idle--they all were idle--living the life of the privileged few. And I went right along with them--for awhile, but I could take only so much rest and relaxation. I was bored. I needed to work. I needed to be productive. I come from the working class. This is another misconception, and I've never discussed it with any other writer, but you've been so well- behaved, that I think I'll give you an exclusive. I was not born rich. No.

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 9 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed. And I didn't have blue blood running through my veins, and I think this is why I had such a difficult time adjusting to idleness. I mean how late can one sleep? How many parties can one attend? I had to do something. I found I had a knack for designing. And the rest is history.

(She rises and crosses to a dress form.)

COCO (continuing) Have you ever seen a couturiere at work? Of course you have, but you haven't seen the way I work--I drape. No muslin--no drawing. So I take a mannikin-- usually I'll hire a girl to stand for hours on end, and I won't hire just anyone. No, no. I'll look for someone who has the brains of an ice cube. She would be used to the boredom. So I'll start with the fabric--yards and yards of some simple jersey, what they used to use for underwear, and I'll begin to drape. Oh, that was a radical idea--using jersey. People thought I was crazy, but during the War--the First War, it was practically the only fabric I could find.

(She pulls out a bolt of black fabric. The subsequent fittings should be done with the full knowledge of what the dress will look like when it's done. It will become the "little black dress." The actress playing Coco must learn how to cut and pin. She drapes and pins as she says her lines.)

COCO (continuing) I've always held to the idea that clothing is an expression. I know that it's become a cliche, but it's true. You express yourself by the clothes you wear, and my personal expression is complex--ironic when you look at my designs, they seem so simple. (indicating her mannikin.) What do you think so far? Well, I've just started. You can't expect a Chanel in thirty seconds. My credo is simplicity--elegance through simplicity-- less is more. I started with sports clothes during the war. No one else dared do it. They were taking the war so seriously, that I thought they needed a diversion. Take for instance the game of golf. Wait one second till I find.... Here it is.

(She stops draping and grabs a five iron from behind a screen.)

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COCO (continuing) I keep this around for the occasional cat burglar. So when you swing a golf club... (She demonstrates.) you must be able to swing the club and not tear the arm off your jacket, and you must be able to spread your feet without ripping a seam. When I was young, a lady could do neither unless she wanted to look as if she had stomach cramps.

(Coco demonstrates a constipated golf swing--feet close together and no rotation of the body or extension of the arm.)

COCO (continuing) You see what I mean? Have you ever swung a golf club? Here. Try it.

(She once more goes to the audience and grabs a hesitant volunteer.)

COCO (continuing) Just try it. It's not going to bite you. Hold it with both hands and try to swing.

(She may have to coax the participant.)

COCO (continuing) There! You did it! That's because I allowed you to do it. Your swing still needs a little work, but the pants and the collar--Chanel. The lack of a corset-- Chanel. The invention of the bra--don't blame that on me. I was all for freedom of movement--not lifting and separating. Take another swing.

(She does so, and Coco stops her on her backswing.)

COCO (continuing) Stop right here. Hold that position. You see how the clothes don't hold to the follow through. By the way your weight should be on your left foot. Like this. Do it. Chanel couture will do that. They will hold their shape. This is why I started with sports clothes. People wanted to play. You can drop your arms now. Let's try a chip shot.

(She drops a golf ball to the floor.)

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COCO (continuing) Just use a short swing--just enough to get the ball rolling, as they say. Keep your eye on the ball. Don't look up. No matter where you think the ball is going, don't look up. Now swing ever so lightly.

(The volunteer hopefully taps the ball. It may go nowhere, it may go into the audience's feet, or it may roll under the furniture.)

COCO (continuing) You really have never played this game, have you? Enough golf practice for now. Get back to your notes. Go on. But you see what I mean? Sports clothes are the real test for a designer. I can't imagine what those male designers would come up with for a game of golf--probably a corset, a bra, and some tin foil.

(Returning to her mannikin)

COCO (continuing) Obviously, this won't be for sporting events, unless you consider seduction a sport. (continuing to drape) Seduction, seduction. You know I never was counted as beautiful--not even very pretty, but I certainly could seduce. Now I can be coy and tell you that I had no idea what men saw in me, but I had a secret weapon. I didn't give a damn. I still don't give a damn. Even with Boy Capel, when it came down to him or work, it would always be the latter. There is work--then there is love; that leaves time for nothing else. When he married--he married that Wyndham woman--even then I chose to work. Without my work I am lost. For instance I just love draping this fabric--feeling it in my hands as we are talking. Muslin never flows the way a jersey would, especially when you cut it on the bias. They didn't think jersey was an appropriate fabric for a woman, but once you feel it, tug on it, drape it, you see what I mean. Jersey has a hand, as they say.

(She studies the imaginary writer.)

COCO (continuing) You're looking at the pearls aren't you. They're not real. You see, this is another way I freed your generation.

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You can wear the fakes and it's all right. Ostentatiousness is not becoming. Showing everyone what you have and what they don't is a little like driving a Rolls Royce to a family picnic. They don't need to see that. And this is coming from a millionaire who owns a Rolls Royce. Less is more. Unless they're fake, and then more is more.

(Pause)

COCO (continuing) You haven't touched your tea. And you haven't asked a single question, so I congratulate you for that. I know what you're thinking, after hearing of my affairs, you think I was promiscuous. Perhaps, but I wasn't a Bohemian. I suppose it's relative, but compared to Picasso, Cocteau, or Stravinsky, I was an angel among heathens. So don't think that I was a Claudine. At least I didn't see it that way at the time. But now.... And those artists, my God, what they wouldn't do for a laugh. They had absolutely no inhibitions. Let me see if I can find....

(She pulls out another book from the coffee table. It is a book on Picasso, and she finds his painting of two full- figured, bare-breasted women in tunics running along the shore.)

COCO (continuing) Can you guess who painted this? Pablo. Can you tell he was a Bohemian? And the man had a sense of humor. Picasso, Cocteau, Stravinsky--we were all friends, but they were wild. I mostly watched. And which did I have the affair with? That is another mystery. Well, you know it couldn't have been Cocteau. He claimed to be sexually ambiguous, but all of his lovers were men. And they all were opium addicts. Sex and opium and in between drug rehabilitations, he would write a play. At one time it was tres chic to love Cocteau, but today his plays have lost their luster. Such it is with theater of the angry and the addicted. Was it Picasso? Perhaps, but the reason I wanted to show you this painting is the female figure. This may have been Picasso's little joke, but I was deadly serious about the war on flab. Lady, if you are going to wear a Chanel, you have to stop eating the chocolate truffles. I know that it's an obsession, but you can't move if you're fat, and a Chanel is meant to move--to flow with the body. And I mean even five pounds overweight.

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I told this to Gloria Swanson, you know. She had come to Paris--I put off going to Hollywood as long as I could--she wanted to be dressed by Chanel. The studio paid for everything. Now Miss Swanson had been to Paris for a fitting, but now, months later, apparently she had been on a strict diet of chocolates and illicit love affairs. She was, in a word, firm. "Gloria," I said. "Listen to me. I couldn't squeeze you into this dress with a crowbar. You're going to have to lose at least five pounds." "No," she said. "I can't lose five pounds." "Stop eating the chocolates," I said. "I'm not eating chocolates," she said. "Besides, I couldn't lose the weight even if I tried." "Why not?" I asked. "Health reasons," she replied, which sounded suspiciously like a bald-faced lie. The next time I saw her, she showed up still looking like Picasso's beachcombers, but she had with her some elastic bands she had picked up at the doctor's office. "You're still too heavy," I said. "I can't lose the weight. I tried and I can't. But my doctor said to try these elastic bands." I looked at them and shuddered. "We'll sew them into a pair of panties, and I'll look just like Gloria Swanson again." I knew enough not to press my luck and argue with a Hollywood legend. I relented; I sewed the elastic into the panties. You could have saddled an elephant with that thing, but she did it. She looked like Gloria Swanson once again. She was right after all. Later I found out the reason she couldn't lose the five pounds--she was pregnant. She was aboard some playboy's yacht and apparently the tide came in a little too soon. She was pregnant. In my day, there were ways of taking care of the problem, but apparently Miss Swanson would have no part of it. You have a look on your face. What is it? You're still wondering aren't you--Cocteau, Picasso, or Stravinsky--which one did she have an affair with? It couldn't have been Picasso. He scared me too much. He would watch me like a hawk from the minute I entered a room. He was always ready to swoop down and dig his talons into me. That leaves only one. You've heard me sing. Who do you think helped train this golden voice? It was Igor Stravinsky. Of course he was married--weren't they all? Strangely enough, he was married and he proposed to me at the same time. That is certainly putting the ass before the cart. But he was a desparate--a lonely man. He claimed he was in love, but he couldn't have been. A man who is continually depressed is too self-centered to love another. Not that I didn't care for him--I did, but marry him-- no. Sleep with him--yes. He proposed and I turned

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 14 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed. COCO (continuing) him down. Soon afterwards, I was told he was after me--to kill me. He wanted to kill me because I turned him down. A man who is that depressed is too weak to kill anyone--anyone but himself. I was only slightly afraid. Enemies were nothing new to me. Still, through it all, I miss him. Yes, I do. But this was after Etienne and after Boy Capel, and I'm probably jumping ahead of myself. Did I tell you that I met Boy through Etienne? Yes, right after I declared my boredom to Etienne. I told him I needed something to do. I had to produce something. Living idly did not suit my constitution. I love money, but more than that, I love working for it. Etienne couldn't understand that. He had never met a woman who worked. He thought it was a quaint idea, but utterly absurd. Then Boy arrived at Royallieu. I knew the instant I saw him, that we would be together. You see, there was one important difference between Boy and Etienne. He worked for a living. He was rich, but he worked. He loved to work. So, he took my side. He thought it was a wonderful idea that I start a shop--a millenary shop in Paris. I demanded it be Paris. No other city would do. And he convinced Etienne to let me use his apartment--for free. Boy could talk. Boy could persuade. Boy could do anything.

(She is still working on the dress form.)

COCO (continuing) You see, this is where a hemline should be. When I see a mature woman in a short skirt, I want to say my God, woman, know your limitations. The miniskirt is for teenagers. When your legs and breasts go south, don't advertise it--rescue your dignity. Anyway, as you can tell, I detest the mini. Even the teenagers who wear them look like prostitots. I know, I know, you think I'm a hypocrite because I was the one who raised hemlines, but this is as far as they should go. Fashion is the art of covering and exposing--not exposing everything. I've always thought that when an erogenous zone is covered it makes it even more alluring. It just depends upon which erogenous zone happens to be popular at the time. If it's the breasts that men are craving, then cover them completely. If it's the rear, do not accentuate it. Something covered is something mysterious. It's the unknown. If you are wearing a skirt up to your crotch, well, then little is left to the imagination.

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 15 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed.

(indicating the dress form) Does it look any better now? I hope you don't think I'm ignoring you when I do this. I just have to keep my hands busy. And then I see these girls walking around in platform heels. My God, you could have a diving contest off those things. Is that what women really want to wear, or did some man create those to punish women? Look at my feet.

(We see a Chanel creation for the feet-- a two-toned slipper.)

COCO (continuing) Yes, they are bedroom slippers, but you can actually wear these for a day without damaging your arches, and they're elegant. Isn't that a strange word coming from someone of such a humble background? The daughter of an itinerant born in a train compartment. But I think elegance can coexist with practical--and that's the secret of Chanel. There! The cat is out of the bag! I've told you everything. The interview is over! I'm just kidding.

(She looks at the audience as if there is no response.)

COCO (continuing) Don't see the humor in that either? I can have Francois fix us something to eat if you're hungry. You aren't bored are you? I know I can go on and on about myself. I've never been the shy type.

(We have a moment of silence as she works on the dress form.)

COCO (continuing) You know this is therapeutic for me. The quiet, the fabric, the creation. You see, occasionally I become sad. I wouldn't call it depression, but instead an extended period of sadness. Once I thought I needed a psychiatrist when Boy...well once, and I ended up seeing one--just once, but he asked too many questions and he wouldn't let me get a word in edgewise with all of that talking about my childhood--when I would much rather talk about the present. Now you're wondering what it was that sent me into this period of extended sadness. You are a writer, and a writer's curiosity is piqued by conflict. It had to do with Boy.

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 16 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed. As you have probably deduced, I was in love with Boy--even after he married that Wyndham woman. He married her for economic reasons, but he loved me. And I wasn't some jealous, lovesick schoolgirl pining away for the man who left her. In fact, he never did leave me, even after he was married. He would drive to Paris whenever he could sneak away, ostensibly on business, and we would continue where we left off. But the last time I saw him, he arrived with a proclamation. He would divorce her and marry me. He meant it. This wasn't some wishful dream on my part. You know me. I am hardly the kind to live on a hope. He really wanted to marry me. You women who are married--are you married? Do not take it lightly. It is a gift even if he's not everything you thought he would be. It's a gift. Boy kissed me and drove off toward Cannes to ask her for a divorce. It was a convertible. New and shiny. I went to bed and I slept the sleep of the victorious. Then the doorbell rang after midnight. Joseph, my man at the time, woke me and told me the news. He and I drove to where it happened. Everyone knows this part of the story--so many rumors. We went to where the accident happened. I got out of the car and walked to where the ground was turned up and the bushes were crushed. It was there that he died--Boy Capel. I fell to my knees as if I were overacting a scene from one of Cocteau's Greek tragedies. And I wept like some child. A momentary lapse of decorum. I vowed I would never let that happen again. I miss him--Boy Capel. My Boy.

(Indicating the dress on the mannikin.)

COCO (continuing) What do you think now? You will notice it is in black. After Boy died, I had everything--my furniture, my curtains, my clothes--all in black. I admit it was an overly theatrical gesture. But it was also an epiphany. From my grief came a style that would last to the present day. I suppose I wanted every woman to share my grief, so I made it fashionable. You would see Jackie Kennedy wearing the little black dress. Grace Kelley wearing the little black dress. Rita Hayworth--everybody was wearing it. They were all in mourning for my Boy Capel, whether they knew it or not. Have you noticed the predominance of black in today's fashions? Chanel. It wasn't any of those damned male designers. They stole it from me. Black. Maybe it was a bit overdone. I'm a little embarrassed about it now that I remember.

This perusal script is for reading purposes only. 17 No performance or photocopy rights are conveyed. It was the saddest time of my life. But I gave the world black, and then I gave it something else. Did you look at the invitation I sent you? I mean did you really examine it? Well, go ahead. What do you notice? Put it to your nose. What do you smell?

(The audience's programs should be sprayed with Chanel Number 5 by taking handfuls of programs and spraying the top edges.)

COCO (continuing) I used to do this with my clients. I would spray the dressing rooms with it. They would ask, "What is that incredible scent?" What scent?' I would say. I was coy. "That lovely smell." "Oh, that!" I would act surprised. I found that if you are going to succeed with the socially elite, you must let them think that they are part of the creative process. "I must have a bottle!" "I don't think I even have one to give you." I had at least fifty in the back. "Let me see if my perfumer can mix up a bottle just for you." Right. You and everyone else who walks through the door. You see, up until number five, a lady's perfume was based soley on a floral scent. Eau de lilacs, eau de roses, daisies, daffodils. They all smelled like a damned whorehouse to me. I went to a man named Beaux, and I said I wanted something anti- floral. I didn't want my clients smelling like tarts. So he mixed eight different concoctions all having at least sixty ingredients, some with more, and here's the truly novel part of it--the ingredients, except for the jasmine, were entirely synthetic. He said the jasmine was very expensive, and I said "Good! I want it to be the world's most expensive perfume." Beaux narrowed it down to eight different samples and he set them all in a row. I smelled them all, and they all were delicious, but only one smelled the way a woman should. I had never been able to stand the smell of a woman, not until then. When I came to the fifth sample, I knew it immediately. Number 5. Some people think I named it after my lucky number. Well, of course it's my lucky number. The damned stuff has made me rich. But it was the fifth sample I smelled, and that's the truth. Take another whiff of your invitation. Isn't that how a woman should smell? Yes, I made money from Chanel Number 5, but of course I should have made much more. Would you care to sample some new Chanel scents that I am of creating?

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Thank you for reading this free excerpt from:

NO. 5

by William Allen

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